Slaughter City

by Len Levinson

  Knoedler sat on a chair and looked wilted. “What can we do?”

  Neubacher paced the floor. “There’s only one thing. We must tell the Americans.”

  “Tell the Americans!”

  “What else? They’re the only ones who could take action.”

  Knoedler shook his head. “But how can we tell the Americans.”

  “We’ll simply go to them and tell them.”

  “But how can we get through their lines?”

  “I don’t know, but we’ll have to try,” Neubacher said. “If Meier uses poison gas here in Metz, the Americans may retaliate by using it on German cities. Also, if he uses the gas here, he’ll probably kill as many German soldiers as Americans.”

  “He’s crazy,” Knoedler said.

  “Well, we always knew that,” Neubacher replied. “What we didn’t know was that one day he’d be placed in charge.”

  “What a catastrophe,” Knoedler moaned. “Perhaps we can stop it,” Neubacher replied, sitting in the chair behind his desk. “Here’s my plan.”

  ~*~

  That night, under a fierce American artillery bombardment, General Neubacher, dressed in the uniform of a private in the Wehrmacht, made his way toward the American lines. He carried a Mauser rifle and a long bayonet and wore his helmet low over his eyes so that no one would recognize him. He knew that if he was discovered, he’d be put before a firing squad and shot, if he was lucky.

  He also knew that in another part of the city, Colonel Knoedler was similarly dressed and also trying to surrender to the Americans. They hoped that one of them would get through to warn the Americans. Otherwise, Neubacher shuddered to think of what might happen if the gas was unleashed. People for miles around might be killed, and if the Americans decided to use poison gas themselves, it would be terrible for Germany, for the Americans had control of the air and could bomb German cities at will. Neubacher’s wife and two daughters lived in Stuttgart, and he didn’t want them to die from poison gas. The ordinary American bombing campaign was enough.

  Neubacher made his way through the streets of the central city to the front lines. He passed artillery emplacements and columns of battle-weary soldiers. How strange and horrible it was to see the war from the viewpoint of the foot soldier, all alone and vulnerable to death at any moment. Not even when Neubacher was a young captain in the First World War had he known what this was like.

  He heard a fierce battle taking place straight ahead and tried to get around it. Moving parallel to the front line, walking down streets cluttered with the debris of destroyed buildings, he thought after a while that he had passed the scene of the confrontation. He took a deep breath and passed between two buildings, heading directly toward the American lines.

  “Halt, who goes there!” shouted a German soldier behind the house.

  “Private Kreegar,” answered Neubacher.

  “Advance and give the countersign.”

  Neubacher advanced and said the password.

  “Where are you going?” asked the soldier, a corporal who was looking Neubacher over suspiciously. He’d never seen a private this old in his military career.

  “I’ve been ordered to scout the American lines straight ahead,” Neubacher said.

  The corporal became more suspicious when he heard Neubacher’s educated Prussian accent and wondered whether Neubacher was a spy. “I think you’d better wait here a moment while I check with the sergeant of the guard.”

  “What for?” Neubacher asked.

  “To make sure you’re who you say you are.”

  Neubacher may have been old, but he still had a lot of strength and energy. Lunging forward, he pushed the corporal with both hands, knocking him backward. The corporal tripped and fell, and Neubacher ran into the night, heading toward the American lines.

  “Sergeant of the guard!” the corporal yelled, getting up. “Sergeant of the guard!”

  He raised his rifle to his shoulder and took aim at the figure disappearing into the darkness. He fired a shot, and the figure could be seen no more. Did I get him? the corporal wondered.

  He thought he’d better make sure, although he didn’t feel like venturing out into no man’s land. Carefully, holding his rifle ready, he stepped over the bricks and chunks of plaster, heading toward the spot where he’d last seen the soldier who’d called himself Private Kreegar. He heard running footsteps behind him and saw the sergeant of the guard with a few privates.

  “What’s going on here!” said the sergeant of the guard, catching up with him.

  “Somebody dressed as a German soldier tried to run to the American lines, but I think I shot him.”

  The group of German soldiers spread out and progressed into no man’s land, searching the rubble for a sign of the soldier the corporal had shot at.

  “There he is!” shouted one of the privates, pointing ahead of him.

  They all ran forward and saw the soldier lying on his stomach in a puddle of mud. The sergeant of the guard grabbed his shoulder and pushed him on to his back.

  “Is this the man you shot, corporal?” he asked.

  The corporal looked at the face of the old soldier on the ground. The soldier’s eyes were closed, and blood trickled out of his open mouth. “That’s the one, sergeant.”

  “Good work.” The sergeant took a closer look at the dead soldier. “You men pick him up and carry him back. I’m sure somebody from Intelligence will want to come and have a look at him.”

  ~*~

  Colonel Knoedler, also disguised as a private, crept along the track of the same railway line that had carried two battalions of soldiers to their deaths in the attack several days ago. He hid in the darkness provided by one of the ridges that lined the track and put his feet down carefully every time, for he had done a lot of hunting during his life and knew how to move silently.

  He’d figured that the railroad tracks wouldn’t be too closely watched anymore because American bombers had destroyed the railroad yard and much of this track the day after the attack. There would be soldiers from both armies in the vicinity, but he doubted whether anybody would be down in the gully where the track was, and so far he’d been right.

  Ahead, on both sides of the track, he heard gunfire. He moved toward it apprehensively, hoping he could get through, and wondering how General Neubacher was making out. The gunfire was sporadic, and he was glad because it meant no great battle was being fought in the vicinity.

  He continued to walk silently in the shadows of the ditch, listening for signs of danger, knowing that he’d be in serious trouble if a German sentry caught him. He’d heard stories of what Hitler had done to the generals who’d been involved in the bomb plot of July 20: he’d had them hung on meat hooks, where they died slowly, twisting in the wind. He could expect the same kind of treatment if he, a German general, were found trying to surrender to the Americans.

  Soon he became aware that shots were being fired behind him and in front of him, the indication that he was in no man’s land. Now he moved more slowly and carefully than ever, as pinpricks of perspiration covered his forehead. He was afraid to breathe too loudly for fear of being heard.

  The next two hundred yards were the hardest of his life. He bit his lower lip and placed his feet down gently, hunching low in the shadows, hoping no one would see him. Sometimes, hearing a sound, he’d freeze for several minutes until he was certain it was safe to move again.

  Finally, all the shooting was behind him, and he realized that he was inside the American lines. Now he had to hope that an American soldier wouldn’t shoot him on sight in his German uniform. He took a white handkerchief out of his back pocket and climbed the side of the ditch, hoping for the best. He wished he could have worn civilian clothes underneath his uniform, but there had been no civilian clothes available for him.

  At the top of the ditch, he saw a nightscape of ruined buildings and shell craters. Metz had been a beautiful city once, but now it was a big junkyard. Knoedler noted the change without sufferi
ng much remorse. He was a professional soldier and knew that destruction follows in the wake of an army.

  “Halt!”

  Knoedler stopped cold and looked ahead of him but could see nothing. Trying to smile, he waved his white handkerchief in the air.

  “Who goes there!” said a voice in English.

  Knoedler spoke some English, and said in his thick German accent: “I am a German colonel and I wish to surrender!”

  “Don’t move, you cocksucker!”

  Knoedler didn’t move, and two American soldiers materialized out of the night in front of him. One was tall and the other short, and they both were filthy, bearded, and bedraggled. They pointed their rifles at Knoedler and stepped closer, their faces expressing extreme suspicion.

  “Watch him,” said the tall soldier. “If he moves, drill him.”

  The tall soldier checked Knoedler for weapons but couldn’t find anything. Knoedler still held his hands in the air, trying to smile.

  “I am a German colonel, and I wish to speak with your commanding officer about something important,” Knoedler said in a thick German accent.

  The American soldiers looked at each other.

  “He don’t look like no colonel to me,” said the tall one.

  “But why would he say he was if he wasn’t?” replied the short soldier.

  Knoedler cleared his throat. “I disguised myself as a private soldier so I could slip through the lines more easily.”

  “I think he’s lying,” said the tall one.

  “Maybe he’s not, Joe.”

  “Why would a German officer come through our lines? I think we ought to shoot the fucker where he stands.”

  “Come on, Joe,” said the short soldier. “Don’t be so crazy all your life. Let’s bring him to Captain Bryans. He’ll know what to do.”

  The tall soldier thought that maybe if he went to headquarters, he could get a hot cup of coffee.

  “Okay,” he said. “We’ll take the fucker back.” He looked at Knoedler. “You’d better not try anything funny, kraut, or I’ll put a hole in your head.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Mahoney felt a hand on his shoulder and came up out of a deep sleep, lunging at the throat of the person who’d touched him.

  Private, First Class Drago pulled back quickly. “Jesus, sarge, whenever I have to wake you up, I take my life in my hands.”

  Mahoney yawned and looked at Drago through half-closed eyes. The rest of the first platoon was sprawled out around him, snoring or grumbling in their sleep. They were in the cellar of a bombed-out building not far from the front.

  “What do you want this time?” Mahoney asked.

  “Captain Anderson wants to speak to you right away.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s something big. They want you at division.”

  “Division?”

  “Yeah. We got a call from division, and after it was over, Captain Anderson said to get you on the double.”

  “Holy fuck, I can’t even get a night’s sleep!” Mahoney complained, reaching for his pack of Luckies.

  “Come on, sarge. Captain Anderson is waiting for you.”

  Mahoney followed Drago out of the cellar, wondering what they wanted from him now. He limped slightly, for his wound was still healing, and they stumbled over wreckage to the building where Captain Anderson had set up his headquarters. A jeep with division markings was parked near the door to the building, and in the cellar, Captain Anderson sat behind his field desk, his helmet off and his reddish-blond hair tousled. Not far away, on a wooden folding chair, sat a soldier who Mahoney figured to be the driver of the jeep.

  “What’s up, sir?” Mahoney said, not bothering to salute.

  “They want you at division,” Captain Anderson said.

  “What for?”

  “Something special. They’ll tell you when you get there.”

  Mahoney groaned because he knew that whenever they wanted him for something special, it usually meant risking his life more than usual. “Aw shit,” he said.

  “You’d better get going,” Anderson told him. “Private Atkinson here has his jeep outside.”

  Mahoney followed Atkinson out the door, and Atkinson got behind the wheel of the jeep. Mahoney sat beside him, and Atkinson drove away.

  It was a rocky, bumpy ride because all the streets were covered with debris. Mahoney puffed his cigarette and turtled his head into his field-jacket collar, shivering. Every night was a little colder, and soon winter would arrive with all its attendant miseries. It wasn’t easy to fight when your hands and feet are numb and you can’t even feel your trigger. “Aw fuck,” Mahoney mumbled, wondering what it would be like to be a civilian again. The vision was almost beyond the capacity of his imagination. He’d been in the army so long he felt as if he’d been born in the supply room and issued out to the first company commander who walked by.

  The jeep stopped in front of division headquarters, an old courthouse some distance back from the front lines.

  “Follow me, sarge,” Atkinson said.

  Mahoney did so and soon came to an office where two other soldiers were sitting on chairs.

  “Wait here,” Atkinson told Mahoney. “Somebody will come for you pretty soon.”

  Atkinson left the room, and Mahoney sat on a chair. The two other soldiers looked at him, and he looked back. Nobody said anything; they all were too tired. They leaned their heads against the wall and closed their eyes. A few minutes later, another soldier joined them. After a while, a major entered the room and told everybody to follow him.

  The four tired soldiers dragged their asses down the corridor and entered the office of General Donovan, who sat behind his desk looking grumpy. He had a potbelly and a deeply lined face with a pug nose. A few other officers were present, and Mahoney was surprised to see an elderly man in the uniform of a German SS man.

  “Have a seat, men,” said General Donovan.

  The soldiers sat down. Here it comes, Mahoney thought.

  “You’ve all been selected for an extremely important mission,” Donovan said.

  No shit, Mahoney thought.

  “You don’t have to go on the mission if you don’t want to because it’s going to be very dangerous. Let’s not make any bones about that. But I hope you will because you’re the only ones who can bring it off.”

  What a crock of shit, Mahoney thought.

  Donovan stood and pointed to a city map hanging on the wall behind his desk. “Here,” he said, “in Gestapo headquarters, there is a vast quantity of poison gas called Zyklon B. We believe that the new German commandant of Metz will use this gas unless he’s stopped, and the only way to stop him will be to kill him. If he cannot be stopped, there is every reason to believe that he’ll unleash the gas, and it might very well kill everybody in the city, German and American alike. You men have been chosen to stop him. Each of you has been on special missions before behind the enemy lines, and each of you speaks German fluently. You will wear uniforms of the SS, infiltrate the German position, find the new German commandant, and kill him. Then you will return here. Any questions so far?”

  One of the soldiers raised his hand to shoulder level. “How do we know that this information is true.”

  “Because we have received it from a very high source. Gentlemen, may I present Colonel Alfred Knoedler, the former chief of staff of the Metz garrison.”

  Colonel Knoedler smiled faintly, and the American soldiers stared at him because they’d never seen a German general this close before.

  Mahoney raised his hand. “How do we know he’s telling the truth?”

  “Why,” asked Donovan, “would he risk his life to tell a lie?”

  Mahoney ran that one through his mind. He couldn’t think of any good reason unless he didn’t like the new commandant and wanted him knocked off, but surely there’d be a better way than coming over to the Americans and telling that story. It’s a wonder he wasn’t killed when he tried to get t
hrough our lines, Mahoney thought.

  “Any other questions?” General Donovan asked.

  No one said anything.

  “Good,” said Donovan. “You’ll have to act fast because we’re pressing in on the center of the city, and the Germans can’t hold out much longer. This new German commandant may set off the gas at any time. He must be stopped.”

  Mahoney raised his hand. Donovan looked annoyed. “Yes?”

  “Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but another question just came to my mind. If we kill this kraut commandant, how do we know that the next kraut commandant won’t do the same thing?”

  “Because Colonel Knoedler here has assured me that the present commandant is the only man in Metz who would do such a horrendous thing. The commandant, whose name is Meier, is a madman and a fanatical Nazi, and he will do anything for his cause. And when I say anything, I mean anything.”

  ~*~

  General Meier, attired in his black-leather SS topcoat, sat on a crate of Zyklon B and looked at the other crates of the chemical in the basement of Gestapo headquarters. He was all alone, and it was shortly after one o’clock in the morning. He smoked a cigarette and wondered what to do about the poison gas. Throughout the day, ever since his Fuehrer had appointed him commandant of the garrison at Metz, he’d been having doubts about using the gas. He knew it would turn Metz into a sea of corpses and realized that the Americans probably would retaliate. They might even drop poison gas on Berlin. His act might raise the war to an entirely new level of destruction.

  But, on the other hand, did the Fuehrer himself not say, in a speech before a gathering of SS officers, that if Germany lost the war, it would deserve to be overrun by barbarians, and did he not also say it was good that the German people themselves were feeling the war personally because that would make them more determined and fanatical about winning.

  Also, didn’t the Fuehrer give him permission to do anything he wanted in the defense of Metz? Might not gas warfare win the battle Hitler wanted so much to win, and if the Americans wanted to use gas, too, well so could Germany, in greater quantities than the Americans. Gas warfare, after all, was nothing new. It had been a commonly used weapon during the First World War. At Ypres, the German army turned it loose for the first time, and the British line melted away in front of it. The Germans won a great victory, and might that not happen tomorrow in Metz? With him, General Meier in command?