Dragon Harvest

by Upton Sinclair

  This would suit the P.A.’s purpose well enough, and he wasn’t concerned to find the proprietor. He went up the wide stairway quietly, something made easy by heavy carpets. At the premier étage he flashed his torch again and went to the nearest door, tried it, and when it opened, went in and flashed again; there was a sitting-room in perfect order, except that the glass of the windows was scattered over the carpeted floor and the cold night wind was blowing in. Lanny judged that there would be a bedroom and bath attached, and so there was. No person in sight, and he wanted none. There was a key in the door, and he locked himself in.

  He was so tired that he could hardly keep away from the bed; but he had fixed in his mind for the past week exactly what he meant to do, and he did it half automatically. He undressed in the bathroom, taking the precaution to keep his wet shoes on because of the glass. No water came from the spigots, but he poured part of his gallon into the basin, wet a towel and rubbed himself clean all over; it can be done with very little water, if you work hard. He unrolled his precious bundle and put on his clean underclothes, his dry socks and new shoes. Then he poured out more water and shaved himself carefully, using the precious torch for the finishing touches.

  He put on his clean shirt, and tied his tie in the dark and inspected it in the light. He combed his wavy brown hair, and was surprised to note that some of it looked gray at the roots. Had Dunkirk done that? He put on his trousers, and made sure they had not got too badly wrinkled in their sea journey. He put on his coat and his gray Homburg hat, and there he was, a perfect gentleman, ready for the best society. The bedroom closet had a pierglass mirror, and he flashed his torch and inspected himself. A gentleman has to be exactly right, or he might as well not be at all.

  He took his ruined clothes and hung them in the closet, which was full of elegant ladies’ costumes. He folded the sheet of oilcloth and tossed it onto the closet shelf. He took a good drink of water, and then tossed the empty can out of the window. No doubt it made a racket, but it was inaudible amid the sounds of war, which appeared to be coming nearer every minute. In the inside pocket of Lanny’s new gray suit he put his billfold, his passport book, and a few letters from American millionaires—one of them Edsel Ford—having to do with the procuring of old masters. With these he was prepared to face the Wehrmacht.

  He groped his way downstairs again. He didn’t want to face the Wehrmacht in the dark, nor while it was fighting. What he wanted was to sleep, and he wanted that the worst way in the world. He had seen so many shells and bombs exploding that he had become rather indifferent; he would take his chances and hope that none had his name on it. He went into the drawing-room with the overstuffed furniture, but no glass in the windows. Things were exploding outside, and by their light he observed a couch with plenty of cushions. He went to one of the portieres, stood on a chair and slipped the rod out of its holder, then slipped the rings off the rod and carried the portiere to the couch. He lay down on his back, so as not to wrinkle his clothing too much. He pulled the portiere over him, and in half a minute was lost to the world and all its evil doings.

  II

  When he opened his eyes again it was broad daylight, and the sun was streaming in at the smashed windows. Lanny’s first sensation was of bewilderment; there was something wrong with the world—it had become silent! No more ear-splitting explosions, no monstrous banging of Chicago pianos, not even the whirring of machine-gun fire. A moment’s thought, and he realized that this was the condition he desired; the British rearguard has been taken away by the navy, and the Germans, no doubt, would be coming in on their heels. It was the moment to move into action.

  He got up and inspected himself in a mirror. There were wrinkles in his clothes, but not too serious; he passed a small pocket comb through his hair, then put on his hat. He didn’t want any conversation with people in this place, so he stepped quickly to the front door and went out, closing it behind him. Alongside the door was a brass plate reading “Pension Albertine.” He kissed it good-by in his thoughts, and set out along the debris-littered street. Not far ahead was the sight he expected—half a dozen green-clad Nazi soldiers, advancing slowly, guns in hand and ready for action.

  It is like dealing with dogs—the first essential is not to show fear. Lanny continued his strolling pace, and when the men were near he extended his right hand and arm. “Heil Hitler!” To return the salute was obligatory, and it made them friends for the moment. Lanny did not wait to be questioned, but said: “Bitte, wo ist die Kommanditur?”

  “Weiss nicht, Herr.” Common soldiers in the midst of battle do not possess such information; they know only their immediate tasks. Lanny asked where he could find their superior officer, and they reported he was back there somewhere. Lanny strolled on.

  He repeated this performance with two more groups. A Feldwebel directed him to a Leutnant, and to this latter he explained: “Ich bin ein amerikanischer Kunstsachverständiger, Freund der Regierung.” He wouldn’t claim too much in dealing with a subordinate. “I have some information, and request that you will kindly have someone escort me to your nearest command post.”

  A despatch bearer chanced to arrive, on a motorcycle with a side car, and Lanny was invited to become a passenger. As he took his seat, he recalled that the Gefreiter, Adolf Hitler, had driven just such a machine as this, and had seen the fighting here at Dunkirk in the last war. Lanny rode through the advancing German army, tanks and trucks and battle-worn men, grimy, stubble-bearded, a few of them bloodstained. They had been fighting for nearly a month, and walked without heeding anything about them, almost as if they were asleep. Alongside the roads was all the wreckage of war, exactly as on the beaches. The British had held this ground for the past week; their dead men had been buried, but not their dead horses. Lanny decided that it was pleasanter to do one’s fighting on the sea, where corpses disappeared, at least for a while.

  III

  They stopped at a group of tents, with telephone wires running to them and staff cars parked near by. Obviously, this was what the visitor had asked for; and presently he found himself seated on a camp chair, in front of a shaven-headed and bespectacled young staff officer. Lanny introduced himself, and added: “I am an old friend of General Emil Meissner, and have been told that he is somewhere on this front. I have some information which I know would be of importance to him, and I would appreciate it if you would communicate with him and let him know that I am here.”

  “That would be somewhat difficult, Herr Budd,” was the reply. “General Meissner’s command is on this front, but I don’t know his position, and I should have to explain matters to the Korps Hauptquartier. May I ask if your information is of a military nature?”

  “Not military, but political, Herr Hauptmann. I ask for General Meissner because he knows me intimately, and will credit a story which a stranger like yourself might find difficulty in accepting.”

  “I can see that you are a gentleman, Herr Budd,” said the officer; “also that you are familiar with our country and our language. Can you not trust me so far as to tell me a little about yourself? We are in the midst of a hard campaign, and our means of communication are overtaxed, also our time.”

  So Lanny explained the circumstance that he had been a friend of General Meissner’s brother, the Komponist Kurt Meissner, since boyhood, and had assisted Kurt in his work for the Reichswehr in Paris both after the last war and before the present one. Also he was a friend of Heinrich Jung, of the Hitlerjugend. “Judging from your age, Herr Hauptmann, you may have belonged to that organization, and may know Heinrich. He was a friend of the Führer’s and visited him when he was a prisoner in the fortress of Landsberg; so it happened that I was taken very early to hear the Führer speak and later to call on him in Berlin.”

  “Oh!—so you know the Führer personally?”

  “I have been his guest a number of times. I was at the Berghof for a week or two just before the Polish campaign began. If you know any member of the Führer’s staff or his household, th
ey will confirm my statements. I am a friend also of Herr Reichsminister Hess and was his guest at the last Parteitag—that was the year before last, as you know. Any of the persons I have named will tell you that the Führer always receives me when I call.”

  “Then your information is really for the Führer—is that what I am to understand?”

  “Ganz richtig, Herr Hauptmann. The Führer requested me to interview certain persons in Paris and London, and to give them certain messages; this I have done, and have returned at considerable risk, as you can guess. I assure you that the matter is of importance, and if you will convey the name of Lanny Budd to the Führer or to anyone on his staff, you will find that you have not wasted your time.”

  “Your story is most interesting, Herr Budd. Would you mind letting me see your passport and other papers?”

  Lanny emptied his pocket promptly. “You will understand that, coming from England, I carry no German credentials. I wish you to know that I am not a paid agent, but a friend of National Socialism. What I am doing has been at the Führer’s request, and as a personal favor.”

  The captain studied the passport with its unmistakable photograph of a handsome gentleman with a fashionable small mustache. “Am I at liberty to look at these letters, Herr Budd?”

  “Freilich, Herr Hauptmann. They have to do with my profession of art expert, and will not tell you very much. I have disposed of a number of valuable paintings for Reichsmarschall Göring, and have purchased some which the Führer has at the Berghof. If you are familiar with his home, or with Karinhall, Marshal Göring’s estate, and will ask me questions about them, I will quickly be able to satisfy you that I have been there.”

  “Leider, mein Herr, I have never moved in those exalted circles. But your story impresses me, and I will ask my chief’s permission to send the necessary message to the Oberfeldkommando.”

  IV

  Lanny’s story was accepted provisionally, and they invited him to lunch with the staff. Folding tables were put together in the open, and a palatable hot meal was served to a dozen officers, from the divisional commander down to humble lieutenants. This was the Wehrmacht, the regular army, all absolutely correct, formal, severe; they used the military salute, not the Nazi Heil. Were they play-acting, in front of a foreigner? Lanny couldn’t be sure, but he observed that from the highest to the lowest they revealed none of the exultation which must have been in their hearts. No, no, this was just routine, this had been rehearsed for years, every detail had been planned, and everybody behaved as if these were field maneuvers and not the conquest of Western Europe. They talked freely about the progress of the offensive, and Lanny could understand the reason. If he, the foreigner, was what he claimed, he had a right to know, and if he wasn’t what he claimed, he would be shot, so it wouldn’t matter.

  The substance of what he heard was: “Heute geht es wetter nach Paris.” Not: “Today we begin a great offensive,” or anything involving doubt or difficulty, but “Today we are setting out for Paris.” The clean-up of Flanders had been completed, and fresh armies were striking straight westward on a front of a hundred and fifty kilometers. The Führer had that day issued a proclamation which had been read to the troops, and Lanny was permitted to read it in mimeographed form. The Führer thanked his soldiers for winning “the greatest battle in the world’s history,” and he went on: “Today another great battle begins.… This fight for freedom and the existence of our people will be continued until the enemy rulers in London and Paris are annihilated.” He went on to order the church bells to be rung for three days and flags to be flown for eight days all over Germany.

  The attack had started at dawn that morning, with the customary immense barrage of artillery. Now the guns sounded distant, and when Lanny commented upon the fact the officers smiled and told him that that represented the day’s advances; this divisional headquarters would strike its tents in the latter part of the afternoon and follow. “The longer we wait, the farther we can go,” said Leutnant Bedow from East Prussia, sandy-haired, with a tiny little spike mustaches and pincenez. He brought the visitor a copy of that morning’s Kölnische Zeitung, a priceless possession, since Lanny had been out of touch with the world for a week. A Nazi paper, like all the others, but the communiqués of the High Command would probably be correct.

  He took a folding chair out into the pleasant June sunshine and read the High Command’s summary of the battle of Flanders, just completed by the taking of Dunkirk. It was “the greatest battle of destruction of all time.” With total casualties of about sixty thousand the Germans had taken one million, two hundred thousand prisoners, including Belgians and Dutch. A considerable navy had been destroyed, including five cruisers sunk and ten damaged. Lanny hadn’t seen any cruiser sunk and he decided right there that the Nazis had taken charge of the Wehrmacht’s publicity department.

  There was all the customary hate-stuff, including exultation over the first bombing of Paris which had taken place a couple of days previously. Italy was on the point of entering the war, mobs in Milan and Rome were clamoring for it, and Göring and Hess had gone there to arrange co-operation. Also, according to the Nazis, the British were planning to torpedo the American liners which were taking Americans home, and then blame the act on the Germans. Since it was obvious that the Germans couldn’t know this if it were true, Lanny wondered if they were preparing to torpedo the liners themselves and blame it on the British. They had already done that in the case of the Athenia, at the very outbreak of the war, when twenty-five Americans had lost their lives.

  V

  By mid-afternoon Lanny had arrived at page eight of the Zeitung; the advertisements were revealing of what the Germans wanted and what they were supposed to be thinking. But he didn’t finish; for here came the Hauptmann, beaming with amiability, pleased to inform Herr Budd that his story had been verified. A great honor, indeed, to shake the hand of an intimate friend of the Führer; also, Lanny could guess, for the Hauptmann to have his judgment confirmed against the judgment of some other members of the staff who had refused to believe that the Führer ever had or would have an American friend. Anyhow, it was settled. “Ein grosses Vergnügen, Herr Budd. Sie fahren sofort nach des Führers Feldquartier.”

  Funny thing, to have no luggage to pack, and not a thing to do but return the newspaper to the Leutnant, and shake hands with half a dozen officers who took time to think about him. Bowing and heel-clicking, he stepped into an open staff car; a military chauffeur and a guard with a submachine gun in front, and Lanny in the back seat in solemn state. “Gute Fahrt, Herr Budd. We will see you in Paris in one week, or two at the most.” So sure they were, having planned every detail!

  The course lay southward and to the east, since a one-and-only Führer would never be permitted too close to the battle line. Lanny knew this border country, and if he had any doubts where he was, there were road signs at every crossing; the Belgians and French had had no chance to destroy them, and the Germans found them useful. On every side was the wreckage of war; not much destruction of houses, for the battle had passed too swiftly; but the ditches and roadsides were piled with wrecked vehicles of every sort. The French had been using horse artillery, and had been bombed on the roads; dead horses lay beside the guns, and lime had been poured over them, but this had little effect upon the awful stench. Repair crews swarmed over the damaged vehicles, setting them right side up and working on them day and night. German planes hovered in the sky; but nowhere on this trip did Lanny catch sight of a French or British plane, or of any air fighting.

  All the roads leading west were filled with traffic bound for the front; a seemingly endless procession of guns, half-tracks, field kitchens and supply trucks. Great six-inch guns hauled by caterpillar tractors going forty miles an hour, and followed by trucks loaded with shells, and crews to serve them, and men with machine guns and light mortars to defend them—all rushing into France, appearing suddenly where nobody expected them, and firing under the direction of spotting planes! Lanny
doubted very much if the French had provided anything like that, and the French were all alone now! He had read in the Kölnische Zeitung that General Weygand had been put in command of the grande armée, and the line they had set up along the Somme was called the Weygand line. Lanny recalled this dapper, wizened old gentleman whom he had met socially; he was one of the most ardent appeasers, and only three years ago the Cagoulards had chosen him as one of a committee of five who were to govern their counter-revolutionary France.

  Lanny’s route lay crosswise to that massive stream, and if he had been an ordinary civilian he would have had a difficult time. But the chauffeur would go forward and show a document with which he had been provided, and its effect would be magical; other traffic on the cross road would be got out of the way, and the rolling army would be flagged to a halt, just long enough for the staff car to shoot across. Lanny knew better than to ask any questions, but he could safely reckon his southerly direction as a conclusive proof that the Führer was going to take Paris before he tried London. That would have been an interesting item of information to persons in both cities, but they would probably know it before Lanny could get it to them.

  VI

  The Führer’s field headquarters were in a special train which had been built and equipped for this purpose. It had been halted on a spur track in a pleasant spot in thick woodlands, where the Führer would be safe from attack by airplanes, and where, incidentally, he could enjoy his favorite pleasure of pacing up and down in solitude and contemplating his destiny. Wherever a halt was made, guards were at once thrown round the place; the staff car, coming in by an inconspicuous dirt road, was halted, and its pass examined. There was a field telephone to the train, and inquiry was made; Lanny was asked to produce his passport, and his features were compared with the photograph therein. “Alles in Ordnung,” and they were to proceed.