by Tricia Goyer
He stopped and kicked the ground. They would leave without him. Sail away to safety. And I’ll be stuck here. Friedrich, you idiot! Why’d I listen to you? I’ll never get out of this now.
Then Arno thought of the man who awaited him, Friedrich’s messenger. Only a small clearing separated him from the church.
Arno stared at the envelope clutched in his hand. He ducked behind a tree and ripped it open. He pulled out the letter, read it, then slipped it back in the envelope.
Then again, he thought, a smirk crossing his face, perhaps I don’t want to leave the country after all.
MAY 1, 1945
Arno blew warm air onto his cold hands. He adjusted the thin blanket around his shoulders. The wall he leaned against rose high above him, ending in a jagged line. Beyond that there was only night sky, just beginning to lighten. Friedrich’s messenger—not a man, but a boy of thirteen—had brought him to this castle ruin in hopes of finding safety. So far it had worked.
Arno glanced at the boy, sleeping soundly under the stars. Shaggy, straw-colored hair covered most of his freckled face. Over the past few days he’d discovered that Henri was a dedicated Nazi youth and a hired hand to Friedrich’s mother. Arno reached over and shook the boy. Henri stirred, then sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“It is time,” Arno said. “You will go to the old woman as planned. I will watch from a distance. Tell her Friedrich wants to know if she still has the treasure. Ask if it is safe.”
The boy hesitated. Arno knew what he was waiting for. He tossed a few cigarettes to him. “That is a down payment. I am much more generous than Friedrich, ja?”
Henri’s eyes sparkled. “Ask Frau Völkner about the treasure. I understand.” He jumped to his feet and brushed the dust from his tan shirt and knickers. Together they advanced down the hill, an ebbing moon brightening their path.
When they reached the small cottage, they saw a light flickering inside. Arno hung back in the covering of trees. He watched Henri stroll up to the house and tap on the door. The woman eagerly welcomed him inside.
Arno leaned against a tree and lit up a cigarette. As he surveyed his surroundings, he noticed castles high up on the hill. Not ruins like he’d stayed in the previous night, but two full-fledged castles with tall windows and massive turrets. He wondered what it must have been like for young Friedrich to grow up under the shadow of such wealth.
Arno waited an hour, then two. He’d just about decided to storm the door when the boy emerged from the house, waved, and jogged away. The stooped-over old woman waved back.
Henri sauntered down the road for a while before slipping back into the woods. As he approached, Arno caught a whiff of bacon and eggs. His stomach growled, but hunger was the least of his concerns.
“Well?” Arno asked impatiently.
“Frau Völkner is a nice lady,” Henri commented. “She fed me breakfast and told me how her goats were doing, and—”
“What did she say about Friedrich?”
“She laughed when I mentioned treasure. She thought I was joking. She asked about her son. I told her he was doing well.” Henri paused. “He is doing well, isn’t he?”
“Of course.” Arno patted the boy’s shoulder. “He has just been detained for a while. Now, go on.”
“She’s a poor woman, living off the few schillings her son sends every month. She obviously knows nothing about a treasure.”
Arno thought back to Friedrich’s words: “If you can’t trust your mother, who can you trust?” Surely the woman knew something. Maybe he’d have to get it out of her himself.
Henri’s brow furrowed. “There was one thing—” Arno straightened. “Stacks of Friedrich’s letters. He writes weekly and has since joining the military.”
A smirk curled on Arno’s lips. That’s it. Information about the treasure has to be hidden in those letters.
“You are going back tomorrow,” Arno said, folding his arms across his chest. “Only this time, I am going with you.”
Two
MAY 5, 1945
MUEHLVIERTEL REGION, AUSTRIA
ELEVENTH ARMORED DIVISION
FIRST PLATOON OF TROOP D
FORTY-FIRST CAVALRY
RECONNAISSANCE SQUADRON, MECHANIZED
The half-track rumbled like a purring lion. With the tanklike track and the front wheels providing good mobility, this truck was the perfect vehicle for reconnaissance. Cool air from the open window tugged at the corners of the open map as Sergeant Peter Scott rechecked the platoon’s location. He calculated the red-lined route would not take more than an hour.
Peter’s men had arisen before dawn, readied the ammunition, and secured information about terrain conditions and enemy emplacements. They’d received orders to secure a bridge near St. Georgen, Austria. Now on their way, Josef, Peter’s driver, focused on the road ahead. Banion, his gunner, sat in the armored box in back, machine guns ready … just in case.
One half-track led the way. Peter’s was second in line. He glanced at the side mirror, assessing the ribbon of machinery that wound behind. Twenty men in olive-drab fatigues and steel helmets followed in a parade of half-tracks and mud-splattered jeeps.
Troop D’s task was to find the bridge and check its suitability for heavy convoys. If the bridge was intact, advancing troops that followed could use it to bypass the heavy fighting in the city of Linz and along other major roads of the Danube Valley.
Even though the fighting had died down in most areas, hinting that an end to the war was in sight, German holdouts were still scattered throughout northern Austria. They were the only barrier blocking the meeting of Patton’s Third Army and the Russians. And once the two united, all of Europe would finally be in Allied control.
Peter tried to picture St. Georgen, the small town that would give the Eleventh Armored the passage it needed. Just another stop on the journey from Normandy, through France and Belgium, into Germany and Austria. Another scenic village the war would keep him from enjoying.
Yesterday, when his division stopped for maintenance, Peter imagined how much his sister, Annie, would get a kick out of painting the landscape of rolling hills draped with green and dotted with century-old cottages. Or the high Austrian peaks on the horizon that reminded him of the Rockies near their home.
And even as his mind returned to Montana, his eyes examined the hills, watching for movement in the brush or the flickering gleam of the sun against a German weapon. He knew the enemy could strike at any moment, and often had during their months of movement.
Josef, a nineteen-year-old Austrian American, shifted gears, taking the purr one level deeper. “Kinda peaceful, ain’t it, Scotty?”
Peter regarded Josef, wondering what it was like for him to be fighting the men who’d caused many of his people to flee their homeland.
“Peaceful is different from quiet,” Peter replied, sliding his palm down the barrel of his trusted carbine. “Quiet it is. Peaceful it’s anything but. You ought to know that.”
Peter’s words sounded harsher than he intended, but over the past few months he’d come to realize peace was simply a lie. Nicknamed Preacher by his pals on the football team back in Columbia Falls, he had dreamed of impacting others with the good news of God’s love. That dream had died on the battlefield. Beaches dotted with bodies and open ditches filled with channels of blood had a way of doing that. Now his friends just called him Scotty.
Josef took the cue and focused again on the road.
Peter scrutinized his driver. Josef looked a lot like the dark-haired, light-eyed villagers he’d seen peering from the shuttered cottages they’d passed. But Peter stood out like a carrot in a cabbage patch. With his blond-red hair, green eyes, and tall, lanky build, he was always seen, always remembered. And he used it to his advantage. The memory he determinedly left with his superiors was one of total effort. In the past two years he had done his job well, even learning the German language.
Peter smiled at the thought of what diligence cost. Taking the jobs no
one else wanted. Insisting his troops were best prepared. Spearheading through unknown territory.
They passed a sign announcing the town of Katsdorf. The moment they entered the village, Peter knew something was wrong. Villagers’ faces—typically some curious, some frightened, others joyous—were not at their usual spots in the windows. Outside of town, road barriers appeared more frequently. Peter tried to remember hearing of any German outposts near this spot, but he couldn’t. If some type of camp were close, it was another confounded Nazi secret.
“Corporal Clifton,” Peter radioed to the acting scout, “stay alert.”
The line of vehicles slowed. Without checking, Peter knew his men had their heads cocked, inspecting the hills for the slightest movement.
A few miles down the road, one man’s shout split the airwaves. “On high ground! Germans!”
Peter spotted them. Five Krauts watched from above the tree line on a high hill. They were partially hidden by boulders and shrubs.
On Peter’s order, gunfire thundered from the front half-track, hitting just shy of the boulders. None returned. Was this a trap?
Peter swung his carbine in the direction of the surrounding hillside. The Germans had vanished. He climbed out of the half-track and scrambled to the cover of trees. “Fan out! Search for mines and men.”
Soldiers leaped from their vehicles and spread into the low trees that lined the road while the drivers remained to cover them.
“Scotty,” a voice called out. “Over here!”
It was Clifton. Peter couldn’t distinguish if the strain in his voice carried pain or fear. Perhaps both.
Peter advanced toward the towering oaks. He motioned for a few others to join him, then inched through the heavy foliage. A thick pine scent penetrated the air. Wildflowers grew in clusters. A bird, startled from its nest, flew across the cloudless sky.
Then Peter spotted Clifton. He was crouched in the shadow of a large oak, staring at a large clearing just beyond the trees. Peter followed the corporal’s gaze, then pulled out his field glasses to take a closer look.
The terrain was rugged. Boulders lay scattered over the rolling, grass-covered hills. In the distance, next to what appeared to be a steep quarry wall, a ten-foot-high perimeter fence glistened in the sunlight. The fenced-off area held men. Men caged like animals.
“They’re less than a mile away,” Peter said to Clifton. “And no guards in sight. But we can’t get there with our vehicles. It’s too risky. We’ll have to walk.”
Peter glanced over his shoulder. A dozen of his troops gathered behind him, creating a semicircle of protection.
Peter pointed to the three closest men: Murphy, Banion, and Clifton. “Follow me.” As they ventured down the grassy hillside, the breeze captured a sickening smell. The stench became stronger with each step.
Peter stopped when he saw a lone German approaching through swaying wildflowers and grass. The thin man’s empty hands were raised. A tattered gray uniform with too-short sleeves hung limply from his shoulders.
“Get on the ground, facedown,” Peter yelled in German. “Get down!” He pointed his carbine toward the dirt.
“I have nothing. I have nothing,” the man cried in English. He fell to the ground and stretched out his limbs.
“Murphy. Banion. Check him for weapons.”
Peter watched them pat the man down, then scrutinized the hillsides, wondering if a full attack would be waged.
“He’s clean, Sarge,” Murphy reported.
The two GIs yanked the German to his feet, then thrust him toward Peter. He staggered a few steps and dropped to his knees.
“Who are you?” Peter asked.
“I am Wilhelm,” he stuttered. Peter wondered why he gave no last name or rank but didn’t care enough to ask. More important matters concerned him now.
“What is that?” Peter pointed to the fencing in the distance.
“It is prisoner-of-war camp called Gusen. I take you there.” The German’s eyes seemed eager, as if he hoped his assistance would save his life.
Peter lifted Wilhelm’s chin with a firm grip. “Who are the prisoners?”
“Refugees from Poland and Russia. Some Italians also.”
“Any Americans?”
“Nein. No GIs.” Wilhelm’s eyes darted. Peter detected the lie. He guessed that if there weren’t Americans in the camp now, there had been.
Peter ordered his troops to move back to the vehicles. Then, with a tight grasp on the German’s arm, he dragged him up the hill, then slammed him against the door of his half-track. “Call out to your comrades.” He pointed his rifle in the direction of the hills. “Tell them to lay down their weapons and surrender.”
Wilhelm shouted the commands. A couple dozen filthy men staggered out of hiding with hands high. Their uniforms were neither those of the regular German army nor the SS. These were not trained soldiers. Some were very young, others quite old. Most likely they’d been left behind to cover for fleeing SS troops.
“Line up in groups of ten, five abreast,” Peter called. These prisoners were not part of the day’s plans, but they would be a fine bounty to present to his Commanding Officer, Captain Standart.
Peter checked his watch. It was only nine o’clock. Still early enough to check out the POW camp and secure the bridge … wasn’t it? Both were in the same direction. But should he risk going beyond his orders?
“McCoy. Wilks,” Peter called. “Restrain them, then wait here. Wilks, you’re in charge. Jackson, radio the CO for a pickup. The rest of you, follow me.”
Peter pressed the point of his carbine into Wilhelm’s side. “Take us to the camp.”
“You must go through St. Georgen,” he replied, eyes to the ground.
“Then you will lead us,” Peter commanded. He motioned to his troops. “Back to the vehicles!”
Wilhelm climbed into Peter’s rig, then led the halftracks and jeeps to an unmanned roadblock at least eight feet higher than any Peter had ever seen.
“Check for trip wires and mines,” he instructed. In the distance, he heard the muffled sound of a motor. Peter took out his field glasses and spotted a white touring car traveling down the road toward them. A Swiss Red Cross flag fluttered from the hood.
“What now?” Peter mumbled. “Keep them in your sights,” he radioed to his men as their convoy skirted the roadblock.
When the white car stopped before them, a Swiss civilian stepped out. He was a slender man with small, round spectacles and a knee-length white trench coat. The flag on his coat pocket identified him as an international Red Cross worker.
Two German officers climbed out of the backseat. The sleeves of their brown uniforms were wrapped with red armbands, their knee-high black boots spotless. Every instinct told Peter to shoot. To go for those uniforms decorated like Christmas trees. How many innocent lives paid for those medals?
Instead, Peter calmly climbed out of the half-track. “What’s going on?” he asked in German.
After a few minutes of hurried dialogue, Peter translated for his men. “They say there’s a camp with four hundred SS on the far side of the bridge, looking for a U.S. general to surrender to. And there are sixteen hundred prisoners eager to be freed.”
Peter searched his men’s faces, seeking their response. They waited for his. They all knew this went far beyond orders.
He spoke first in English, then in German. “I am a direct representative of the commanding general of the Eleventh Armored Division.” Neither his voice nor his eye contact wavered. “There are hundreds more troops coming behind us.” Peter knew the Germans understood his words. He just hoped they believed them.
The half-truth paid off. Soon Peter’s radio operator had him on the line with the CO. “Sir, the Red Cross says there are sixteen hundred prisoners depending on us for a fast liberation. They assure me there will be no trouble.”
Captain Standart’s voice crackled on the other end. “We’re already on our way to pick up the Germans you captured an hour a
go. How many more prisoners do you need?”
Peter suppressed a laugh.
“Look,” Captain Standart said, “your mission was to secure the bridge. This little side trip of yours represents an unnecessary risk for you and your men.”
Peter realized it could be a trap. He also recognized that those POWs behind the fence needed his troops.
“You know me, sir,” Peter said, “and I know my men. We’re willing to take the chance.”
There was a long pause. “On one condition.” Captain Standart’s voice was firm. “Keep in constant radio communication with me. Do you hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Peter addressed the Red Cross worker. “We’re moving out under the lead of the white car. But tell the Germans that if I detect even one false move it will all be over. And be prepared to stop at the bridge before crossing. We will make sure it is secure.”
The twenty-three remaining GIs returned to their half-tracks and jeeps. Peter gave the order to move forward, then wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, hoping no one noticed.
Back on the main road, and within a matter of minutes, the entourage wound through St. Georgen. The town curled up to the hills around it, as if seeking protection. A white church with a tall steeple rested in the center. The village circled out from there.
Just beyond the town Peter’s troops found the bridge. They checked it for mines and made sure it could handle the weight of convoys. Then Peter left two soldiers to guard it while the rest of Troop D followed the white car over the winding river.
The Red Cross vehicle stopped before a large wooden gate. A tall wire fence extended from both sides. The three occupants emerged. Peter’s half-track pulled up behind, and he jumped out.
Camp Gusen consisted of a series of plank structures set against a white, sandy hillside. On the front and sides of the camp stood tall administration buildings. Beyond that, row after row of dark wooden barracks. Cement guard towers protected the corners. They were empty now, but Peter could imagine Nazi sentries with rifles aimed into the courtyard below. A fog of death hung in the air, filling Peter’s lungs with every inhalation. A trembling started at his knees and worked its way up his body, landing in his chest. He used every bit of his will not to gag.