THE FALLEN EAGLES
Geoffrey Davison
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
ALSO BY GEOFFREY DAVISON
CHAPTER 1
Major John Edward Houston, of the U.S. Army War Crimes Organisation, leaned back in his swivel chair, and looked pensively at the two thick, blue folders lying on his desk. On one of them was written the word ‘Reinhard’, on the other ‘Lucciano’. Two words, two folders, but the contents represented over three years of patient investigation.
They were thick folders, each one tied with a piece of white tape. Alongside them lay two official stamping pads and it was the Major’s task to decide which of the stamps he used. One closed the cases, the other left them open for further investigation. It was a decision the Major had made many times before, but on this occasion he held back.
The timing of the two reports could not have been more appropriate. December 20th 1947, was for Major Houston his last day at his post in Vienna. His last day on official army duty. The following morning he was flying States wise. He was going home, finished with the army. But the Lucciano investigation had been one of his first cases.
Following in the wake of the U.S. 4th Army in Italy in 1944, his task had been to assemble information of war crimes for subsequent investigation. On September 11th 1944, a unit of the U.S. 5th Corps had come across the Villa Lucciano. The following day Major Houston had been called in. Now, over three years later, the full facts of the case lay before him.
The Major swung around in his chair and looked out over the rooftops of Vienna. In civilian life he had been a good defence lawyer. The army had made him into a prosecutor of war criminals, not a role that he had cherished, but one which he had tried to do fairly and justly.
He was not a bigoted man, nor was he quick to condemn. He did not hate his enemies. He saw good and bad in all people. He was a patient, conscientious man, with a tenacious, enquiring mind. He was a man with a curiosity, and a genuine interest in the affairs of his fellow men, and he was a sensitive man.
It was these latter qualities of character that made him hold back. There were many side issues in the two cases which lay before him. Issues of personal conflict, of strong emotions, of tragedy. Major Houston wanted to know all about them, to study them, to reflect upon them, because in so doing he felt he might know more about the people who were once his enemies, and because deep inside of him he also felt a measure of guilt.
It was he who had unleashed the demon in the darkness of a man’s lost memory and in so doing had started a chain of events which had finished up on his desk. He wanted to dwell on all these things before he passed judgement.
As he turned his attention back to the folders, Captain Yates, his assistant, entered the room. The Major refrained from opening the folders and watched the Captain walk over to his desk.
The Captain was a younger man than the Major and differed from him in many ways. Unlike the Major, he was a soldier first and a lawyer second, and it showed. He was a lawyer with the approach of a method actor. He hated the criminals he prosecuted and everything associated with them. He gave no quarter and had no time for the fringe emotions which interested the Major. But strangely enough the two men had worked well together. They differed and disagreed, but they respected each other.
‘All packed up, John?’ Captain Yates asked.
‘Almost,’ Major Houston replied. ‘Just going through these two cases.’ He pointed to the two dossiers on his desk.
‘That’s what I’ve come about,’ Captain Yates said. ‘The old man wants me to take a look see.’
The Major nodded his head approvingly. After the following day it would be up to Yates to tie up any loose ends.
‘Made a decision yet?’ Captain Yates asked.
‘No,’ Major Houston replied seriously. ‘Not yet.’
‘Well, I’ll wait until you are finished.’
‘That’s all right,’ the Major smiled. ‘Help yourself.’ He pushed the two folders over to where the Captain was standing.
‘Interesting cases,’ he added. ‘The Lucciano one, I mean. I remember you once asking the question, whether any of them ever had a conscience about what took place. Well, that man Leeburg whom we questioned certainly did. If you read all the details you will find it rather illuminating.’
‘No thanks,’ Captain Yates replied evenly. ‘I’ll just take the summaries.’ He untied the folders and extracted a typed report from each of them. ‘I’ll study these in my room,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘No hurry,’ Major Houston said and watched him leave the room. It didn’t surprise him that Yates had taken only the summarized reports. In fact, he would have been very surprised if the Captain had done otherwise. But it was a pity, the Major thought. He had long since felt that Yates would make a better lawyer and professional soldier if he took a less rigid line in his investigations.
The Major turned his attentions away from the Captain and emptied the contents of the two folders on to his desk. Spread out before him were photographs, maps, statements and reports. He extracted two photographs and held them in front of him. They were of two Austrian soldiers, a Major Reitzer and a Sergeant Leeburg.
‘I suppose it would help if I knew the history of you two,’ the Major muttered to himself.
He looked at the officer’s photograph and saw a strong, square face, with a stubborn chin and a sharp nose. It was a proud, handsome face. The face of a man used to giving orders and being obeyed. Was it also a cruel face? the Major wondered.
He replaced the photograph on the desk along with the other material from the dossiers and studied the Sergeant’s photograph. It was a softer face than the officer’s, not so square and more evenly featured. The eyes looked more gentle, the nose not so sharp and the mouth fuller. It was also a handsome face, but it was a friendly face.
The Major looked at the photograph long and hard. The last time he had seen the face had been in a P.O.W. camp in North Africa, three years earlier. The face had then been suntanned, the hair bleached white, but it had had the same open look about it that it had on the photograph.
The Major had gone to question the Sergeant, hoping to get some information about the Lucciano case. The Army Surgeon’s report had prewarned him that the man was suffering from a brief loss of memory as a result of a head wound. A loss of memory which covered a period of time critical to the Major’s investigation.
The Major had hoped to be able to jolt the memory back into action. He appeared to have tried in vain. As also had Captain Yates on a later visit. But now the Major was not so certain. The sergeant’s reactions to his questions and probing had been those of horror and disgust. The Major and Captain Yates had both left empty handed.
Now as he looked at the sergeant’s face again, the Major wondered if, in fact, they had not sparked off some fuse in the man’s mind, or disturbed some smouldering embers, because it now appeared that they had left behind a man with a deep burning question of guilt. A man with a doubt in his mind which had eaten into his conscience until it had become an obsession with him. A man who didn’t know whether or not he was a murderer!
The Major placed the photograph in front of him, on the desk. What had happened when the man had returned home? he wondered. What had taken place? Had he found the answer to the question they had left him with? Was he a murderer or not?
Thoughtfully, the Major started to sift through the material spread out befo
re him, in an attempt to piece together the jigsaw.
CHAPTER 2
The train came out of the tunnel, puffing white smoke which rose into the grey sky and was lost against the blanket of snow which covered the sides of the valley. For the snows had come early to the Vorarlberg district of Austria in the winter of 1947. At the beginning of November, it lay like a thin white veil, but by mid-November it was a thick, glistening carpet. And with the early snows came the first trickle of repatriated prisoners of war. Quiet, dull eyed, disillusioned men, anxiously returning to uncertainty, but thankful to be alive.
The train which battled its way up the valley had only two carriages and all but one of the compartments were filled with Allied soldiers all set to enjoy a weekend winter sports. The remaining compartment had been full when the train had set off from Innsbruck, but six of its occupants had left the train at the previous stations.
The three remaining men in the compartment were not Allied soldiers, but they wore uniforms — dark brown, drab uniforms, which bore no ranks or insignias. The uniforms of prisoners of war. The three men were Austrians — former members of the German Wehrmacht, now returning home from the internment camps in North Africa.
They sat quietly, huddled in the corners for warmth, each to his own thoughts. They were not strangers to each other, although it was pure chance that had brought them together on their return home. Two of them had once served together, but neither had referred to the fact. Nor had they spoken to each other. They had travelled together because as a group they felt less conspicuous and less conscious of the picture they portrayed in their ill-fitting uniforms.
Two of the men, Koper and Muller, were middle aged, but the third man, Sergeant Paul Leeburg, was much younger. At the beginning of the war he had been a youth of eighteen. Now he was a man of twenty-six. Unlike the other two, he was a tall, slim man, with fine fair hair and dark blue eyes. His face had a deep tan from his months of work under the hot sun. It was not a striking face, but it was even featured and pleasant. Close to his right temple was a small scar which the burning sun had failed to darken.
Leeburg sat with his eyes closed, mentally following the scenery which he would see if he cleaned the moistened window. Soon, he thought, they would be crossing the river and they would be able to get an unobstructed view of the valley with its tree-covered mountains steeply rising to the sky on both sides. At the head of the valley would be the town with the gilt domed roof of the church rising above the roofs of the houses like a sentry standing guard over his sleeping men. To the right of the town would be the terraced slopes, now covered with snow and the mecca for the skiers. To the left, would be the dark, rugged faces of the mountains, unfriendly and foreboding to all except those who had been brought up under their shadow.
The engine driver blew his whistle. They were crossing the river now, Leeburg thought, and approaching the road crossing. If he were to look out the other window he would be able to see the turreted roofs of the Reitzer mansion silhouetted against the white face of the snow above the trees.
Leeburg opened his eyes and glanced at Muller. Immediately, he wished he hadn’t. The beady eyed Muller gave him a pathetic, almost apologetic look. Leeburg looked away and closed his eyes again. So he hasn’t forgotten, he thought. He was thinking of Reitzer also.
Leeburg clenched his fists as if trying to erase some thought out of his mind. Reitzer, he thought. My God! Would he ever forget? Could he ever forget? He had thought the mountains would protect him, make him feel safe, but it wasn’t going to be. Reitzer! Reitzer! Reitzer! He could feel the perspiration come to his brow. If only Muller hadn’t been on the same damned train. But no, he was sitting there with the same stupid grin on his face that he had given to Reitzer on that patrol in France. God! Why Muller?
He could feel his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands. He breathed heavily and tried to relax his body. Muller only knew about that patrol, he didn’t know about… If only he had been there instead of Leeburg. If only… But he wasn’t. Leeburg had been there, and only he and Reitzer knew what happened.
And where was Reitzer now? Dead? Prisoner? Where was he? Where was his former friend? The boy who had been his closest friend for as long as he could remember. The youth with whom he had gone to war. The man who had been his commanding officer when his war had ended. Did Muller know? He mentally gave a mocking grunt. Muller would have been a Reitzer man all right. He had shown that on that patrol. Muller! God! It was a strange twist of fate that he should be on the train. The patrol had been the beginning of it all — or had it been the end?
CHAPTER 3
Paul Leeburg was born the second son of Hans Leeburg and his wife, Maria, in the summer of 1921. Their first son, Karl, had been born a cripple with a withered leg and it was to their great joy, and relief, to find that their second son was not only normal, but soon showed promise of being a natural athlete.
Hans Leeburg was of farming stock from many generations and it was on a small hillside farm in the Montafon valley, that Paul Leeburg first saw the light of day. But Paul’s mother, Maria, was the only daughter of a shopkeeper in Feldkirch and when Paul was two years of age his grandfather died leaving his shop to Paul’s mother. The Leeburgs sold the business and moved into the valley where they bought a Gasthof and twenty acres of fertile land. The Gasthof had ten bedrooms for guests and a private wing for the Leeburgs. Paul’s mother ran the small hotel, whilst his father farmed the land.
To Paul Leeburg, the Gasthof and the valley were his home. The mountains which towered over them were his playground and protector. It shut them off from the world beyond. A world which he was only made aware of by the many visitors who came and went to their boarding house. Visitors who would pat young Paul on the head and mutter words of sympathy about his brother.
Paul and Karl grew up closer to each other than many other brothers and without any resentment or envy in the elder boy’s mind — a tribute to the affection and attention Frau Leeburg gave to her family. When Paul started to outshine the other boys in the valley in the local skiing events and summer athletics, his brother shared the family’s pride and pleasure. In the schoolroom, also, Paul showed great promise and it soon became apparent that whereas Karl’s future was to follow his father’s footsteps, the younger Paul was destined to achieve greater things.
When Paul was fourteen years of age his mother gave birth to a daughter, Annalisa. The family was overjoyed, and none more than the two boys. But in the same year fate struck a cruel blow. Hans Leeburg died of a brain tumour. In the biting wind the family and townspeople gathered around the small hillside graveyard and laid his body to rest.
With typical fortitude and resilience which the mountains make of its inhabitants, the Leeburgs closed their ranks and carried on as before. Karl, who had reached the age when he could leave school, took on his father’s role. Paul helped as much as he could, but his future was to remain as they had hoped.
The only very close friend of the two boys was Erich Reitzer, the son of a wealthy Viennese lawyer who had brought his wife and family to live in the valley because of his wife’s health. Erich Reitzer grew up in the valley until he was sent away to private school. His friendship with the Leeburgs started at an early age and lasted until, like many other links and ties, the bond that held them together was severed by the demands of the German Wehrmacht.
In many ways Paul Leeburg and Erich Reitzer were alike. They were of the same age; they constantly matched each other in height; they were both slim, fair haired youths. They both shared the love for physical sport and competed against each other in local events. But inwardly there were differences, which showed at such times as the stag hunts when Erich Reitzer would follow the hunters to the kill, and Paul Leeburg would busy himself in the Gasthof. Paul Leeburg had inherited his mother’s sensitivity and tenderness, Erich Reitzer had not. There were many fundamental differences between the two boys which didn’t seem to matter to Paul Leeburg as they grew up together, but up
on which he was later to reflect. Erich Reitzer had the need to win, to outshine, to lead. Paul Leeburg had no such need to prove himself.
When the German National Socialist Party steamrollered its way into power, the people of the Vorarlberg watched, as they always did, with a feeling that this was something which was happening beyond their mountains. But gradually the Fascist propaganda crept into the valleys, like a new mountain stream worming its way from the snow peaks through the green fields to the sea. There were those who openly supported them. Men like Braun who ran the Post Hotel and Fogler the Post Master. In the cellar bars it became a constant talking point.
Most of the townspeople, like the Leeburgs, watched the meandering stream silently, wondering where next it would trickle and turn.
The day of the ‘Anschluss’, the news spread through the town and valleys like a bush fire. The men folk again gathered in their cellar bars and people stood around the post office anxiously waiting for news.
Paul Leeburg, like the rest of his classmates, watched their elders argue the pros and cons of the German Annexation. But soon there was to be no further discussions or arguments. First the troops came — German troops. They camped in the valley and used the mountains as a training ground. The people watched, but didn’t comment. Then came the swastika flags. One followed another. To refrain was to disapprove, and there had been strange rumours of what happened to people who disapproved.
After the flags, the Party Headquarters was set up in the Post Hotel. Herr Braun proudly wore his uniform and strutted around the town like an over fed, proud peacock. Again others followed, and again many of the townspeople watched silently as the supporters of the Hitler movement showed their loyalty.
Paul Leeburg was one of those who watched from the background. Only with Erich Reitzer did he ever confide his fears, and with Erich he was naïve enough to think it was safe to talk. Leeburg’s fears were basic. He loved his home, the people, the mountains and the valleys. He didn’t want things to change. Even if he had to leave the valley to go to university, he wanted to be able to come back and find everything as it was then. He suspected that his new overlords might have other ideas.
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