“After we put Colonel Mannberg’s—and the English-Polack’s—pictures on one of these, do you think this Munich Military Post is going to ask them if they’re American?” El Jefe asked.
“Very impressive,” Cronley said. “Do I get one of these?”
He handed the card to Gehlen.
“I’ve got twenty-five of them,” El Jefe said. “I can get more, but I thought that would be enough for now.”
“If I may?” Gehlen said.
“Go ahead.”
“I can make a small contribution. Seal the cards you brought in plastic.”
“How are you going to do that?” Schultz asked.
“Abwehr Ost’s special documents facility survived the war,” Gehlen said. “Amazingly intact.”
“Survived where?” Schultz asked.
“Here in Munich. In a sub-basement of the Paläontologisches Museum on Richard-Wagner Strasse.”
“I thought that was pretty much destroyed,” Hessinger said.
“Not the sub-basement,” Mannberg said. “But just about everything else.”
“We’re back to getting something to drive in Vienna. What I’d like to have is a couple of cars—I’m too old to ride around in a jeep in this weather—and maybe a small truck—like that ambulance you had at the airport.”
“That’s no problem,” Cronley said. “We have half a dozen of them. I don’t know about cars. If we ask the Ordnance Depot for cars, they’ll want to know why we want them.”
“No, they won’t,” Schultz said. “I’ve got another letter from the admiral in my briefcase. This one directs all U.S. Army facilities to provide DCI-Europe with whatever support we ask for.”
He produced the letter and passed it around.
“That’ll do it,” Hessinger pronounced. “I recommend you get Fords or Chevrolets, not German cars.”
“Why would you recommend that?” Cronley asked.
“Because there’s no spare parts for the German ones.”
“So what’s left to do?”
“Except for getting the cars, cutting the orders, and getting these ID cards filled out, I can’t think of a thing,” Hessinger said.
“Except wait to hear from Rahil,” Gehlen said. “That would be useful.”
“The one thing I didn’t expect you to be, General, is a wiseass,” Schultz said.
“Life is full of surprises, isn’t it, Chief?” Gehlen said.
Cronley saw they were smiling at each other.
And that Mannberg and Ashton, seeing this, seemingly disapproved.
Screw the both of you!
V
[ONE]
Quarters of the U.S. Military Government Liaison Officer
The South German Industrial Development Organization Compound
Pullach, Bavaria
The American Zone of Occupied Germany
1305 4 January 1946
“How’d you do at the Ordnance Depot, Freddy?” Cronley asked, when Hessinger, trailed by First Sergeant Tedworth, came into what they were now calling “the sitting room.”
“I got us four 1942 Fords, one with three hundred miles on the odometer, one with forty-five thousand, and the other two somewhere between the extremes.”
“I was hoping for at least one Packard Clipper,” Cronley said.
“Even if you could get one, that would be stupid,” Hessinger said.
“Stupid? What have you got against Packards?”
“A Packard would draw unwanted attention. As will painting ‘Mess Kit Repair Company’ on the bumpers of the Fords. I came to talk to you about that.”
“Painting what on them?” Oscar Shultz asked.
He was sitting with Maksymilian Ostrowski at the bar. They were hunched over mugs of coffee and the Stars and Stripes. El Jefe had exchanged his naval uniform—and Ostrowski his dyed-black fatigues—for Army woolen OD Ike jackets and trousers. Civilian triangles were sewn to the lapels.
“You have to have your unit painted on the bumpers of your vehicles,” Cronley explained. “Since I didn’t want to paint CIC on them, and certainly don’t want to paint HQ DCI-Europe on them, I told Freddy to have what we have on all the other vehicles—711th MKRC—painted on them.”
“Which is?”
“It stands for the nonexistent 711th Mess Kit Repair Company,” Cronley explained.
“Very funny, but one day some MP is going to get really curious,” Hessinger said.
“What would you paint on them, Freddy?” El Jefe asked.
The question was unexpected, and it showed.
“Maybe some military government unit,” he said after a moment.
“Freddy, when you don’t like something, always be prepared to offer something better,” Schultz said. “Write that on your forehead. It’s up to Cronley, but I sort of like the sound of Seven-One-One-Em-Kay-Are-See.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don’t call me ‘sir,’ Freddy. I am trying to pass myself off as a civilian.”
“I thought Captain Cronley would continue to be unreasonable,” Hessinger said, “so I got him and Captain Dunwiddie these.”
He handed each of them a small box.
“Oh, Freddy, you’re sweet, but you shouldn’t have!” Dunwiddie mocked.
“What the hell is this?” Cronley asked.
“Quartermaster Corps lapel insignia,” Hessinger said. “It is possible that when you are stopped by the MPs, they will be less suspicious if they think you’re in the Quartermaster Corps. Those swords you’re wearing now . . .”
“Sabers, Freddy,” Cronley corrected him. “Cavalry sabers.”
“. . . might make them curious.”
“He’s right,” El Jefe said.
“Again. That’s why I hate him. He’s right too often,” Cronley said. “Thanks, Freddy.”
“I will be disowned if anybody in my family hears I’m trying to pass myself off as a Quartermaster Corps officer,” Dunwiddie said.
“Say, ‘Thank you, Freddy,’” Cronley ordered.
“Thank you, Freddy,” Dunwiddie said.
One of the three telephones on the bar rang. The ring sound told them it was a leather-cased Signal Corps EE-8 field telephone connected to the guardhouse on the outer ring of fences.
Ostrowski picked it up, thumbed the TALK switch, answered it in Polish, listened, and then turned to Cronley.
“Captain, there are two CIC agents at the checkpoint. They have packages and letters for Lieutenant Cronley.”
“What?”
Ostrowski repeated what he had announced.
“Pass them in,” Dunwiddie ordered. “Have them report to me.”
The two CIC agents came into the sitting room. Both were in their early thirties. He recognized both of them from his days at the XXIInd CIC Detachment in Marburg.
He knew they were enlisted men because they had not been billeted with the officers. He also knew that they were “real” CIC agents, as opposed to Special Agent (2nd Lt) J. D. Cronley Jr., who had been sort of a joke CIC special agent, whose only qualification for the job was his fluent German.
What the hell is going on?
What are these two guys doing here?
With packages? And letters?
What kind of packages?
Letters from whom?
“How you been, Lieutenant?” the heavier of the two agents asked of Cronley.
Cronley now remembered—or thought he did—that the man’s name was Hammersmith. And that he was a master sergeant.
“Okay,” Cronley replied. “How’s things in Marburg?”
“About the same. What is this place?”
“If there is no objection from anyone, I’ll ask the questions,” Dunwiddie said.
The CIC agent displayed his credentials.
&
nbsp; “No offense, Captain,” Special Agent Hammersmith said, “but this is a CIC matter. I’ll handle it from here.”
Dunwiddie pulled his own CIC credentials from his jacket and displayed them.
“As I was saying, I’ll ask the questions,” Dunwiddie said.
“Sorry, sir,” Hammersmith said. “I didn’t know.”
“You’ve got packages for Cronley?” Dunwiddie asked. “And letters?”
“Yes, sir,” Hammersmith said. He took two letter-sized envelopes from his Ike jacket and extended them to Dunwiddie.
“They’re addressed to Special Agent Cronley, sir.”
“Then give them to him,” Dunwiddie ordered. “Packages?”
“Four, sir. They’re in our car. They’re addressed to Lieutenant Cronley.”
“One of you go get the packages. Ostrowski, help him.”
“Yes, sir,” Hammersmith and Ostrowski said on top of one another. Then Hammersmith gestured to the other CIC agent to get the packages.
“Now, who sent you here?” Dunwiddie asked.
“Major Connell, who’s the Twenty-second CIC’s exec, sent us to General Greene’s office in the Farben Building. Then Colonel Mattingly sent us here.”
“Hessinger, did we get a heads-up about this?” Dunwiddie asked.
“No, sir.”
Dunwiddie looked at Cronley, who had just finished reading one of the letters.
He extended it to Dunwiddie.
“When you’re finished, give it to El Jefe,” he said.
Robert M. Mattingly
Colonel, Armor
2 January 1946
Special Agent J. D. Cronley, Jr., CIC
C/O XXIIIrd CIC Detachment
Munich
BY HAND
CC: Rear Admiral Sidney W. Souers
Lt Col Maxwell Ashton III
Dear Jim:
Vis-à-vis the packages addressed to you at the XXIInd CIC Detachment, and which were opened and seized as contraband by agents of the Postal Section, Frankfurt Military Post Provost Marshal Criminal Investigation Division.
I have assured both Major John Connell, of the XXIInd CIC Detachment, and the FMP DCI that the cigarettes, coffee, Hershey Bars, and canned hams were being introduced into Occupied Germany in connection with your official duties. The four packages of same were released and will be delivered to you with this letter.
May I suggest that you notify General Greene, or myself, the next time you feel it necessary to directly import such materials, so that we may inform the DCI and avoid a recurrence of what happened here?
With best personal regards, I am,
Sincerely,
Robert M. Mattingly
Robert M. Mattingly
Colonel, Armor
When Dunwiddie had read the first letter, he passed it to Schultz and then looked at Cronley. Cronley was not finished with what looked like a very long handwritten letter.
It was.
F-Bar-Z Ranch
Box 21, Rural Route 3
Midland, Texas
Christmas Eve 1945
Dear Jim,
I really hate to burden you with this, but there is no other option.
We have — your mother has — heard from her family in Strasbourg. This came as a surprise to us, as the only time we have ever heard from them was a few years before the war when they notified us that your mother’s mother — your grandmother — had passed on.
That obviously needs an explanation, so herewith.
In early November of 1918, I was a very young (twenty-six), just promoted major. Colonel Bill Donovan sent me to Strasbourg to get the facts concerning rumors that he (and General Pershing) had heard about the Communists wanting to establish a “Soviet Government” there.
After the abdication of the German Emperor, Wilhelm, the Communists had done so in Munich, and were trying to do in Berlin and elsewhere.
Our little convoy (I had with me four officers and a half dozen sergeants traveling in half a dozen Army Model T Fords) arrived in Strasbourg on November sixth and found very nice accommodations in the Maison Rouge Hotel.
I immediately sent one of the officers and one of the sergeants back to Col. Donovan’s HQ with the news we were in Strasbourg and prepared to carry out our orders to report daily on the situation.
I was by then already convinced I had been given the best assignment of my military career. It had nothing to do with the Communists, but rather with a member of the staff of the Maison Rouge, a strikingly beautiful blond young woman who had, blushing charmingly as she did so, told me her name was Wilhelmina.
Right. I had met your mother.
She had also told me that she could not possibly have dinner, or even a cup of coffee, with me, else her father would kill her.
Nothing would dissuade her from this, but over the next few days, I managed to spend enough time with her at the front desk to conclude that she was not immune to my charm and manly good looks, and it was only her father’s hate of all things American that kept her from permitting our relationship to blossom.
The Communists solved the problem for us. on November 11, 1918 — Armistice Day — they started trying to take over the city. There was resistance, of course, and a good deal of bloodshed. Citizens were ordered by the French military government to stay off the streets, and to remain where they were.
The threat was real. Two of my officers and one of my sergeants were beaten nearly to death by the Communists.
Your mother’s family lived on the outskirts of town and it would have been impossible for her to even try to get home. The Maison Rouge installed her (and other employees) in rooms in the hotel.
She was there for almost two weeks, during which time our relationship had the opportunity to bloom.
Finally, on November 22, General Henri Gouraud, the French military governor, had enough of the Communists. Troops, including Moroccan Goumiers, moved into the city and restored order. Brutally.
The next morning, I loaded your mother into a Model T and drove her home. I had the naïve hope that her father would be grateful that I had protected his daughter during the trouble and would be at least amenable to my taking her to dinner, if not becoming her suitor.
Instead, when he saw us pull up outside your mother’s home, he erupted from the house and began to berate her for bringing shame on the family. I managed to keep my mouth shut during this, but when she indignantly denied — with every right to do so — that anything improper had happened between us, this served only to further enrage him.
I would say he slapped her, but the word is inadequate to describe the blow he delivered, which knocked her off her feet. At this point, I lost control and took him on. He wound up on the ground with a bloody nose and some lost teeth.
I loaded your mother, who was by then hysterical, back into the Model T and returned to the Maison Rouge.
When we got there, we found Colonel Donovan and a company of infantry. They had come to rescue us from the Communists. The French had already done that, of course.
When I explained my personal problems to Donovan, he said there was one sure way to convince your mother’s father that my intentions were honorable, and that was to marry her.
To my delight and surprise, your mother agreed. We drove that same morning to Paris, armed with two letters from Donovan, one to the American ambassador, the other to the manager of the Hotel Intercontinental on rue de Castiglione.
The ambassador married us late that afternoon, and issued your mother an American passport. We spent the night in the Intercontinental and then drove back to Strasbourg as man and wife.
There was a black wreath on the door of your mother’s house when we got there. Her father had suffered a fatal heart attack during the night.
Your mother’s mother and other
relatives attributed this to the thrashing I’d given him. While obviously there was a connection, I have to point out that your mother told me he had had three previous heart attacks.
Your mother was told she would not be welcome at the funeral services.
I managed to get myself assigned to the Army of Occupation, and your mother and I moved to Baden-Baden, where I served as liaison officer to the French authorities.
We were there nearly six months, during which she made numerous attempts to open a dialogue with her family, all of which they rejected.
Then, on a beautiful day in June, we boarded the Mauretania at Le Havre. Eleven days later, we were in New York, a week after that I was relieved from active duty, and four days after that we got off the Texas & Pacific RR “Plains Flyer” in Midland.
There was no more communication between your mother and her family until May (June?) of 1938, when she received a letter (since they had our address, it was proof they had received your mother’s letters) from a Frau Ingebord Stauffer, who identified herself as the wife of Luther Stauffer, and he (Luther) as the son of Hans-Karl Stauffer, your mother’s brother.
That would make Luther your first cousin. In this letter, Frau Stauffer told your mother that her mother — your grandmother — had died of complications following surgery.
When your mother replied to this letter, there was no reply.
We next heard from Frau Stauffer the day of Marjie’s funeral. That night, your mother told me that she had received a letter begging for help for her literally starving family. I asked to see it, and she replied, “I tore it up. We have enough of our own sad stories around here.”
That was good enough for me, and I didn’t press her.
A week or so later, however, she asked me if I had the address from the 1938 letter, that she had thought things over and decided she could not turn her back on your Cousin Luther, his wife and children.
I was surprised, until I thought it over, that she didn’t remember the address, Hachelweg 675, as it was that of her home where I had the run-in with your grandfather. Your mother said she intended to send a “small package or two” to your Cousin Luther’s family.
The Assassination Option Page 15