Victory and Honor

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Stand at ease, the both of you,” Boltitz ordered. “This is Egon. He was Admiral Canaris’s chief of the boat when the admiral commanded U-201 in the First World War.”

  “And what are they doing here?” Frade asked.

  Boltitz looked at them and asked, “Well?”

  “Herr Kapitän,” Egon said, “we have been keeping an eye on the house for Frau Admiral Canaris since the SS took the admiral away.”

  “And the Frau Admiral?” Boltitz asked softly.

  “The last word we have is that she is with friends in Westertede,” Max answered. “The Nazis took their house in Westertede, too. You have heard what they did to the admiral?”

  Boltitz nodded. “How come they didn’t take you, too?” he asked.

  “Every good chief petty officer knows when to be stupid, Herr Kapitän,” Egon said. “We told the SS we had heard nothing, seen nothing, knew nothing. After we had told them that fifty times, they put us in the Volkssturm.”

  “The what?” Frade asked as Dunwiddie opened his mouth to ask the same question.

  “As the Russians approached Berlin, every German male from sixteen years old who was not already in uniform was pressed into the Volkssturm,” Max said.

  “There were boys as young as twelve,” Egon said. “And men even older than Max and me.”

  “And?” Boltitz asked. “When the Soviets came?”

  “We deserted,” Egon said. “We took three of the younger boys with us, and hid in the ruins of my apartment building until we heard the Americans had come. Then we came here to look after the house for the Frau Admiral.”

  “And where are you living now?” Boltitz asked.

  “In a ruin off Onkel-Tom Strasse.”

  “What happened to the boys?” Frade asked.

  “One of them managed to get home. His mother was still alive. The two other boys are waiting for us to return. Herr Dunwiddie said he would give us some rations. . . .”

  “How did you learn what happened to the admiral?” Boltitz asked.

  “Herr Kapitän,” Max said. “Egon and I served the admiral for most of our lives. We know how to find things out.”

  “We—the U.S. Army—have buried Admiral Canaris with the honors appropriate to a senior officer,” Mattingly announced from behind Frade.

  Frade was a little startled; he hadn’t heard him walk up.

  “That is good to hear, Herr Oberst,” Max said. “The admiral did not deserve what the SS did to him.”

  “I missed the first part of this,” Mattingly said, and looked at the elderly Germans. “How is it that you’re in the kitchen making coffee and you’re cutting the grass in the garden?”

  Dunwiddie answered: “They came to me, Colonel, and said they used to work here.” He pointed to each and added, “Max and Egon offered to make themselves useful if we fed them.”

  Karl put in: “They did more than simply work for Admiral Canaris. They served under him.”

  As he finished giving the details of that, von Wachtstein and Peralta walked into the kitchen.

  “I knew I smelled coffee,” Peralta said.

  “This is Captain Peralta,” Boltitz said. “He is an Argentine pilot.”

  Egon and Max acknowledged Peralta with a nod.

  “And this is the Graf von Wachtstein,” Boltitz said.

  Max and Egon snapped to attention.

  “Herr Graf,” they said in unison.

  “You have heard what happened to Generalleutnant von Wachtstein, presumably,” Mattingly said.

  They nodded.

  “I heard you say before that both of you know ‘how to find things out,’” Mattingly said.

  Neither Max nor Egon said anything, but both nodded and looked at him curiously.

  “Would you be willing to find some things out for us?” Mattingly went on.

  Both looked uncomfortable.

  “Would you be willing to help us,” Mattingly pursued, “by suggesting to whom Boltitz should talk to find out about the submarines that are supposed to be taking high-ranking Nazis to South America?”

  “You remember General Gehlen, of course, Max? Egon?” Boltitz said.

  “The last time we saw your father, Herr Graf,” Egon said softly, “was in this house. There was a small dinner. Your father, Fregattenkapitän von und zu Wachting, and Oberst Gehlen of Abwehr Ost. The gentlemen were joined after dinner by SS-Brigadeführer Ritter von Deitzberg, Himmler’s adjutant. With the exception of von Deitzberg, all distinguished German officers. Fregattenkapitän von und zu Wachting was tortured and then hung by the SS and then left to rot beside the admiral. I don’t know where Oberst Gehlen met his fate. I can only hope it was quicker. . . .”

  “General Gehlen,” von Wachtstein said, “I am happy to tell you, is alive and well. We had dinner with him last night. SS-Brigadeführer von Deitzberg was sent to hell by one of General Gehlen’s officers, Oberstleutnant Niedermeyer . . .”

  “The admiral liked Oberstleutnant Niedermeyer,” Max said.

  “. . . who blew von Deitzberg’s brains all over the men’s room of the Hotel Edelweiss in Barlioche, Argentina. The police found his body in the urinal.”

  Boltitz began: “Graf von Wachtstein and I, and General Gehlen, are now working with Colonel Mattingly—”

  “Herr Kapitän,” Egon interrupted him. “If you and I could somehow get to Bremen and talk to some of our old U-boot comrades, I think we could learn from them anything they know.”

  “Bingo!” Clete said.

  “Thank you, Egon,” Boltitz said.

  Clete added, “Now, can I have some of that coffee before it gets cold?”

  “I’d forgotten why I came down here,” Mattingly said, “but now remember. Stein needs electrical power to get the Collins up and running. What’s the status of the generator, Tiny?”

  “Generators, plural, two of them, are on the way. I guess my guys waited to pick up what was going to fall off the Constellation.”

  “What’s going to fall off the Constellation?” Frade and Peralta asked together.

  “We’re not talking about that,” Mattingly said.

  Tiny Dunwiddie said, “What I’m wondering is what we do with the boys.”

  “What?” Mattingly asked.

  Dunwiddie related the story, then said, “When I had a chance to tell you about Max and Egon, Colonel, I was going to ask if it would be all right if the boys stayed with them on the third floor until we figure out what to do with them.”

  “Where are your people going to stay?” Mattingly asked.

  “I requisitioned the house next door,” Tiny said. “That’s why we need two generators, so they can have juice, too.”

  “Okay,” Mattingly said after a moment. “That’ll work.” He turned to Max. “Do you think you could find us a housekeeper? Maybe two? Cook, wash, clean, make beds, et cetera? Both ugly and over fifty?”

  Max nodded. “There are tens of thousands of women in Berlin—some young and quite beautiful—who will jump at the chance to work—or do anything else—for food and to be safe from the Russians.”

  “Get us a couple of the old and ugly ones,” Mattingly ordered. “See if you can do that when you go pick up the kids. Tiny, send Max in one of the M-8s.” He paused. “I don’t know how we’ll handle two kids around here. How old did you say they were?”

  “One is fifteen, the other fourteen,” Max said. “Just before we deserted, the fourteen-year-old, Heinrich, took out a Russian T-34 with a Panzerfaust—”

  “With a what?” Frade asked.

  “Handheld rocket,” Tiny furnished.

  “This fourteen-year-old kid killed a Russian tank?” Frade asked incredulously.

  Egon nodded. “And then Heinrich cried, Herr Oberst, and wet his pants, and that’s when Max and I decided it was time to desert and try to keep Heinrich and Gerhard alive.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Frade said, and then asked, “I don’t suppose there’s anything to drink around here, is there?”

  “P
atience is a virtue, Colonel Frade,” Mattingly said. “Try to remember that all things come to he who waits.”

  [THREE]

  The first M-8 armored car that Frade had ever seen was when they had landed at Tempelhof. Curious, and wanting a better look at one, he and von Wachtstein followed Tiny Dunwiddie out to the street. Tiny was taking Max out to get him a ride to fetch Heinrich, the fourteen-year-old who had killed a T-34, his fifteen-year-old pal Gerhard, and two old and ugly women.

  The M-8 had six wheels, like the standard six-by-six Army truck, and it looked like someone had set the turret of a tank down on top of the truck.

  The Second Armored Division troopers were happy to show off their vehicle to the three men in the officer equivalent civilian employee uniforms.

  “How about taking me along when you go get these people?” von Wachtstein said.

  “Hell, we’ll both go,” Frade said.

  “There won’t be room,” von Wachtstein said. “Why don’t you wait until we come back?”

  Frade was about to argue but then saw a three-quarter-ton truck coming down Roonstrasse. It had two of Tiny’s men in it. Lieutenant Colonel Archer W. Dooley Jr., USAAF, sat beside the driver.

  Frade looked at von Wachtstein and said, “Remember, Hansel, Mattingly said ‘old and ugly.’ You’re now a married man.”

  Von Wachtstein gave him the finger. The M-8 started to move.

  When the three-quarter pulled to the curb, Frade saw what had fallen off the Constellation. In addition to the generators, the truck carried one of the insulated containers holding fifty kilograms of chilled Argentine steak, another insulated container labeled VEGETABLES AND ORANGES, and two wooden cases on which was painted BODEGA DON GUILLERMO MENDOZA CABERNET SAUVIGNON 1944.

  “You could have waited for me, hotshot,” Dooley said as he climbed out of the truck. “Until I saw Tiny’s guys, I was standing on the tarmac with my thumb up my ass.”

  “Be careful with the wine, Sergeant,” Frade ordered. “It’s nectar of the gods.”

  [FOUR]

  Tiny’s men quickly got one of the generators up and running. Lightbulbs glowed and then came to full brightness. The refrigerator came to life with a screech and several loud thumps.

  “Now that we have juice,” Mattingly said as he walked out of the kitchen, “Stein will have the Collins up and running, and I will be able to tell David Bruce that we done good.” He paused and added, “Don’t drink all the wine before I get back.”

  Tiny pulled the cork from a bottle of the Cabernet with what looked like the corkscrew accessory on a Boy Scout knife. Clete put his hand out and after a moment Tiny took his meaning. He laid a knife with the Boy Scout insignia on it.

  “‘Be Prepared’!” Tiny said. “You never heard that, Colonel?”

  “You’re speaking to Eagle Scout Clete Frade, Troop 36, Midland, Texas,” he said with a knowing grin, then flashed the Scout sign with his right hand.

  Frade’s grin faded quickly when von Wachtstein walked into the kitchen followed by Max, who had his hands on the shoulders of two gaunt, pale-faced boys wearing tattered, ill-fitting remnants of German army uniforms.

  Jesus H. Christ!

  The little one has to be Heinrich.

  The one who killed a T-34 with a Panzerfaust, then pissed his pants.

  “Hello,” Frade said. “You’re Heinrich, right?”

  The boy came to attention.

  “The war is over, Heinrich,” Frade said. “You don’t have to do that anymore.”

  Max walked to a corner of the kitchen and picked up two waxpaper-wrapped cartons labeled C-RATION.

  “With your permission, Herr Dunwiddie?”

  “You don’t have to ask, for Christ’s sake,” Tiny snapped.

  He pulled chairs out from the kitchen table and motioned for the boys to sit in them. When they had done so, he used his Boy Scout knife to open the C-rations.

  He took a Bar, Chocolate, Single, Hershey’s, from each and tore the corners off and handed them to the boys.

  “It’s all right,” Max said in German. “It’s chocolate.”

  Both boys took a small bite, then smiled shyly.

  “Is that the best we can do for them, C-rations?” Frade asked. He realized his voice sounded strange.

  “In just a minute, Colonel, I’m going to open that”—he pointed to one of the insulated containers that had fallen off the Constellation—“and see if I can find them an orange.”

  “They’re also going to need a bath and some clothes,” Frade said. “What can we do about that?”

  “Now that we have electricity, Herr Oberst,” Egon said, “there will be hot water in half an hour.”

  “And can we buy them something to wear? Have we got any German money?”

  “German money is useless, Colonel,” Tiny said. “So, for that matter, is American. But I think Max can get them some clothing by trading a couple of C-rations and packs of Lucky Strikes. I also have Nescafé.”

  He pulled open a kitchen cabinet door. The cabinet was stuffed with cartons of cigarettes and Nescafé.

  “Like I said, Colonel—‘Be Prepared.’”

  He walked back to the table, where he showed the boys how to open small, olive-drab tin cans labeled STEW, BEEF, W/POTATOES.

  Clete saw that tears were running down Heinrich’s and Gerhard’s cheeks.

  Frade took a swallow of the Don Guillermo Cabernet Sauvignon 1944. It didn’t taste as good as he expected it to.

  Then he looked at Lieutenant Colonel Archer W. Dooley Jr. and saw that tears were running down his cheeks, too. Suboficial Mayor Enrico Rodríguez, Retired, wasn’t crying, but he looked as if he was about to.

  “You going to drink all that wine by yourself, hotshot, or do I get some?” Dooley asked.

  Mattingly came into the kitchen.

  “Pay attention,” he said. “There is a message from the Supreme Commander. Quote. Pass to all OSS and Air Forces personnel involved. Well done. Eisenhower. General of the Army. Close quote.”

  “You’re welcome, Ike,” Frade said. “We’re always happy to do what we can.”

  “The significant part of the Supreme Commander’s message, Colonel Frade, is that Ike is grateful to the OSS. That just may buy us some time.”

  “Point taken,” Frade said.

  “And then, when David Bruce had finished delivering Ike’s thank-you, he dropped the other shoe. ‘Get the Argentine diplomats and their airplane out of Berlin as soon as possible.’ He was more than a little disappointed that we couldn’t leave this afternoon. But first thing in the morning . . .”

  [FIVE]

  357 Roonstrasse, Zehlendorf Berlin, Germany 0715 21 May 1945

  Breakfast was prepared by the two women Max had brought to the house late the previous afternoon, when he returned from his bartering expedition to get the boys clothing.

  The women were neither old nor ugly.

  Clete saw that their eyes, however, were empty. They were sexless.

  Neuter, Clete thought. Zombies in skirts.

  It was hard to guess even how old they were. Somewhere, Clete gauged, between his own age and fifty.

  Both wore wedding rings, but Clete suspected their husbands were no longer part of their lives.

  Frade, when able to do so quietly, gave in to the temptation to ask Egon if he thought they had been raped.

  “They told me, with great hesitation,” Egon reported, “that the Asiatics had Giesela for most of a week. And Inge for four days. That meant Giesela had been repeatedly raped for most of a week, but Inge for ‘only’ four days.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!”

  “It happened all over, Herr Oberst,” Egon said. “Women. Young girls. Grandmothers. Boys. It would have happened to Gerhard and Heinrich, too. Except that when the Asiatics finished with boys from the Volkssturm, they killed them. That’s why Max and I took Heinrich and Gerhard with us.”

  Von Wachtstein came into the kitchen. His officer equivalent civilian employee unifor
m had been replaced by clothing that looked only a little cleaner and less tattered than what the boys had been wearing.

  Frade knew immediately what that meant, but had a hard time accepting the reality of it.

  Shit!

  “Have a nice flight, Clete,” von Wachtstein said. “I’ll see you when you come back with the money.”

  “Didn’t you hear what Gehlen said, you goddamn fool? The Russians are going to crucify you upside down, because you’ll be easier to skin that way.”

  “That presumes the Russians catch me. I’m going to try very hard to see that doesn’t happen.”

  “Well, you’re not going, so get rid of those clothes and put on your uniform. We’re about to leave for Tempelhof.”

  As if to make the point that it was time to go to the airport, Peralta came into the kitchen, followed by Stein, Mattingly, and Boltitz.

  Mattingly’s, Boltitz’s, and Stein’s faces showed that they also knew the meaning of the clothing and didn’t like it either.

  Peralta’s face showed complete disbelief.

  “Hansel,” Frade went on, “you’re going back with us if I have to have Tiny and his guys tie you up and throw you on the airplane.”

  “You could of course do that, Clete. But all that would do is delay my departure for Pomerania and increase the chances I’ll be caught by the Russians.”

  “You’re out of your fucking mind!” Clete said.

  “It is my duty to our people.”

  “What about your duty to your wife and child? Don’t try to feed me that noblesse oblige bullshit. I don’t buy it, Herr Graf! It’s a crock of shit!”

  “I’m sorry you don’t understand, Cletus. It is a matter of honor.”

  “Where’s the honor in getting skinned like a fucking Christmas turkey?”

  That’s stuffed like a turkey, jackass!

  “You know how much of the von Wachtstein assets are in Argentina, Cletus. How could I live with myself in Argentina if I didn’t use them to help what are now my people?”