IV
Monuments resumed work on interrogation; it was the way they could be most useful, setting free the military men for more urgent duties. In this mixed-up fighting a number of prisoners were gathered, and it called for some knowledge of German character and disposition to get out of each one as much as possible. The work was interesting, because it brought revelations as to how the battle was going; sometimes Monuments knew more than the commander and his staff. Lanny’s interest was the keener because his own life was at stake.
In his progress up the “Route Napoleon,” from Cannes to Lyon, he had met just one Nazi who recognized him, an SS man of the Führer’s own bodyguard. Now he wondered how long it would be before this happened again. Many whom he didn’t know would know him, for he had been a conspicuous figure wherever he went in Naziland, the American whom the Führer trusted. Why the Führer trusted him was a mystery to all Germans, except those few who understood the Führer’s peculiarity, that persons whom he had known in the days before he became great constituted a chosen band, above suspicion of self-seeking. In some seventeen years of acquaintance Lanny Budd had never asked a favor, and when a favor was offered he had refused it unless it was one of small importance.
During the first crowded day came the sort of thing he had anticipated. The GI whose assignment it was to bring in prisoners and stand guard during the interrogation remarked, “We have just nabbed a staff car with three officers; the chauffeur was shot and the car upset in a ditch.” Lanny asked the rank of the officers, and the answer was, “Two colonels and a major.” Lanny’s curiosity was aroused, and he went to the room where the prisoners were sitting and looked in; then he went back to the cubicle in which his work was carried on and said, “Soldier, go and bring that SS colonel to me.”
The GI went away and came back with a black-clad SS Oberst in his middle forties, pasty-faced, stoutish, and carrying a paunch which a tight military belt could not conceal. Ordinarily he would have been dignified, but now he was mudstained, wet, and crestfallen—for one is not thrown out of a car into a ditch during a rainstorm without loss of social status. His round face had always been amiable in Lanny Budd’s presence, but now he was obviously taken back by this confrontation.
“Oberst,” said the P.A., speaking English, “I offer to put you on parole. Will you give me your word of honor not to attempt to escape while you are talking with me?”
“Certainly, mein Herr,” replied the German at once. He was quick to guess that Lanny might not wish to be known as his friend.
“Soldier, you may wait outside,” said Lanny. It wasn’t the soldier’s business to ask questions, and he went out, closing the door. Lanny held out his hand. He did it with some misgiving, for when he had done the same thing to another prisoner, his old friend Kurt Meissner, Kurt had spat in his face.
But Heinrich Jung was a different sort of Nazi; much milder, and always awed by a wealthy and elegant playboy from overseas. He accepted the handclasp, although his face wore a pained look. “You have turned against us, Lanny!”—this in German.
“No,” replied the other, “you have been misinformed, Heinrich. I am not a military man and have never fired a shot against a German.”
“But you are wearing a uniform!”
“The Army has given me what is called an assimilated rank, to enable me to travel with it and to have proper treatment. I am an officer of what is called the Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives Section. My duty is to seek out the treasures of art and culture and protect them as far as possible from damage in this war.”
“To be taken to America?”
“No, to be returned to their lawful owners when the war is over. Of that I am authorized to give positive assurance. You must know that as an art expert I could not refuse to render such a service. But what about you, alter Freund? You have become a military man?”
“As it happens I am in much the same position as yourself, Lanny. I am doing morale work only. I am attached to the Hitlerjugend SS Division. As you know, those are my own boys; I have been helping in their education since they were five years old, and I could not refuse an assignment to guide and inspire them at the front. Like you, I can say that I have never fired a shot.”
“Well, Heinrich, that makes it about even; we can still be friends.” Lanny wasn’t really that naïve, but it was his job to appear so; it had been his job for the past seven or eight years, ever since he had become a presidential agent and had turned his acquaintance with Heinrich Jung to the service of the anti-Nazi cause. So now the P.A.’s face was wreathed in smiles; between the son of Budd-Erling and the Oberförster’s son from Schloss Stubendorf it would be as if there had never been any war. They were still in the happy days when Lanny would come to Berlin on a visit, and invite Oberführer Jung and blond Frau Oberführer to an elegant dinner at the Adlon, and send them home loaded with presents for the eight little Hitlerjungen and Hitlermädels.
V
What did Lanny want from this rather dull Nazi patriot, and why was he willing to spend an afternoon chatting about old times and risk his personal safety still further? To be sure, Heinrich was a prisoner, and his two fellow officers were prisoners—but who could say for how long? Heinrich would be sure to tell the others about this wonderful rich American. And if the Americans in Bastogne were forced to surrender—something which would surely happen if help did not come soon—the Germans would know about him and would learn quickly that he was one of the most wanted of enemies.
It was what the military men call a “calculated risk.” Lanny would collect information from Heinrich and then would find some way to get out of here, or to get Heinrich out of here; it would be a battle of wits between them, and Lanny was sure he had the better set of wits. Now he assured his old friend that it was all a cruel misunderstanding, the reports which had been spread in Germany that he had turned against his Nazi friends; he had been terribly distressed about these reports, and only recently had come upon what he believed was the true explanation. Reichsminister Himmler, head of the Gestapo and now of the SS, had interviewed Lanny on the latter’s last visit to Berlin. Lanny had assumed that Himmler was suspicious of an American friend of the Führer; but since then he had found reason to believe that Himmler himself was planning to turn against his Führer and replace him, and had been sounding Lanny out with the idea of inviting him to join in the conspiracy. Only when Himmler had found that Lanny was completely loyal to Hitler had he set out to poison the Führer’s mind against him.
The worshipful Heinrich was, of course, horrified by this idea and assured Lanny solemnly that it couldn’t possibly be true. Lanny insisted that he had come upon convincing evidence. The ruthless Reichsminister had become certain that the war was lost and was trying to save his own neck.
Heinrich’s answer to this was, of course, that the war wasn’t lost; quite the contrary, it was being won right now, and Lanny himself must be aware of it. Lanny admitted that his confidence had been shaken, and that started Heinrich off to boasting about his wonderful Führer and what that Führer had done to turn the tide and snatch victory out of defeat, exactly as his predecessor Frederick the Great had done under similar circumstances. Heinrich boasted about his own Hitlerjugend Panzer Division and how far it had penetrated, and as he named town after town and village after village, Lanny expressed surprise. The P.A. would ask whether the Americans hadn’t broken up this unit and that, and Heinrich would laugh and tell him it wasn’t so. Heinrich himself had nothing to fear, he insisted, for Bastogne was completely surrounded, and the Americans couldn’t get out if they wanted to; Heinrich would soon be liberated, and when that happened he would at once take Lanny to the Führer and give him a chance to warn the Führer about Himmler’s treachery.
VI
Yes, the Oberst Oberführer was a rather inept person. He was tremendously proud of his friendship with the greatest man in the world, and indeed the greatest man in all history—not that Heinrich knew much history. He told how he had had the
honor of attending a meeting with this greatest man at his headquarters at Ziegenberg, a castle in the Taunus Mountains, just east of the Rhine. Heinrich had gone there to make a report on the morale of the Hitler youth in the Army; he didn’t have to explain to Lanny why he had been singled out for this honor, for Lanny knew that Heinrich was one of the Nazi “old companions”; he had visited Adolf Hitler when Hitler had been imprisoned for his part in the Putsch in Munich just twenty years ago. That had given him something to talk about for the rest of his days, and also a safe and sure career in the Nazi bureaucracy.
“How is the Führer?” asked the P.A. with the solicitude of a friend, and Heinrich said that his spirit was still that of the eagle, but physically he had never recovered from the shock of the dastardly attempt upon his life last July. His hands shook so that he would no longer eat in the presence of others, and he was obliged to wear spectacles when he read, something he had never done in public hitherto. During Heinrich’s visit had occurred the conference with all the army, corps, and division commanders at which Adi had announced this present offensive, which he had planned all by himself and made known as fixed and final.
Heinrich himself had not been invited to this session, but there had been so much talk about it among the Führer’s personal staff, both preceding it and afterward, that it was as if he had been present; he couldn’t resist the impulse to tell Lanny all the gossip. Imagine, if you could, those high and mighty Wehrmacht generals and marshals being compelled to leave their pistols and briefcases in the cloakroom of a hotel, and then enter busses and be driven around in pouring rain for half an hour, so that they wouldn’t know where they were! They entered a heavy bunker between a double row of SS men and sat at a table with a line of SS men behind them, watching every move; those old fellows didn’t even dare to draw a handkerchief out of their pockets! For an hour the Führer told them the history of the National Socialist party and how much the German people owed to him.
After the first hour of history there was another of tactics and strategy. Everything was to be put into this Ardennes offensive, and it was going to win the war; nothing else must be thought of for a single moment. Each commander received his precise orders. General Dietrich, known as “Sepp,” which is short for Joseph, was to go in a wide curve to Liége and take possession of its enormous stores of supplies, thus crippling the enemy and building his own power. General Manteuffel—which means “man-devil,” exactly what Hitler thought of him—was to go on to Antwerp, the port upon which all Allied power depended. General Montgomery’s entire army of British and Canadians would be cut off and destroyed, and the loss would so discourage America that it would quit. To the Führer’s devoted servant this was a clear outline of what was in progress now, and his heart swelled with exultation as he recited it; the art expert served as a proper foil, now looking dismayed and discouraged, then expressing doubts which brought out more details. That was the way to interview an enemy prisoner.
VII
When the session was over Lanny asked, “How do you get along with those two Wehrmacht officers you are with?” The answer was, “They look down on all party people and show it as much as they dare. Besides, they blame me for what happened, because I insisted on taking the road that we did.”
Lanny thought for a space. “Suppose I could arrange for you to be paroled, Heinrich?”
“Oh, could you do that? You could surely trust me, Lanny. I wouldn’t break faith with you for anything.”
“The point is, you’re not really a fighting man, any more than I am. You might put on civilian clothes and help take care of some of the German wounded we have here.”
“I’d be happy to do it, Lanny. I’d help any wounded men, regardless of which side.”
Lanny called in the GI and told him to keep this prisoner until Lanny returned. He sought out the staff officer to whom he was reporting and told him the whole story, explaining why he didn’t want the Germans to know who he was, and didn’t want Heinrich to go back with the two Wehrmacht officers. There was no special reason why a “morale” Oberst Oberführer shouldn’t be paroled; he was too fat and soft to be a fighting man, even if he wanted to be.
The result was that he was put in Lanny’s custody and went to work in an improvised hospital, wearing a dead civilian’s suit much too small for him. He solemnly promised not to mention the name of Lanny Budd to anyone; and this seemed all right to him, for the reason that Lanny wouldn’t want anybody in the American Army to know that he was a friend of the Führer. It pleased the SS Oberst Oberführer to be keeping so deadly a secret from his foes. When the Germans took Bastogne, which was bound to happen in a day or two, Lanny would give a lot of priceless information to the German forces.
VIII
Things did look pretty black for the Americans that Monday night. Fog hung over the battle scene, so thick that you could put your hands in it. Sometimes it rained and sometimes it snowed, and there could be no help from the air. All over that black forest groups of men were fighting, and between times blocking roads and blowing bridges, doing everything they could to delay the enemy hordes. Small groups would join themselves to larger groups—there were some who had fought with as many as nine different units before the month-long battle was over; they were caught there, and had nothing to do but fight, and then fall back to some other crossroads and fight again.
Bastogne was completely surrounded; but the wireless telephone was in use, and headquarters told them to hold on at all hazards. Headquarters of the First Army had been at Spa, a luxurious springs resort to the north. It was uncomfortably near to the enemy’s line of advance, and the staff had got out in a hurry, some not even stopping to pack their duds. Where they had gone to now was not being told over the radio, even in code, but they had code words to identify them, and they kept saying, “Hold at all costs.” Bastogne kept saying, “We are holding.”
Somewhere just outside the Bulge, to the north, was the 101st Airborne, known according to its insigne as the “Screaming Eagle” Division. “Airborne” means that its members are flown in transport planes or towed in gliders; they are tough guys and have been taught all there is about combat. This division had been put down in Normandy and had fought all the way to Holland. They were supposed to be resting now, and it was only a few days to Christmas; they had been planning a football game, the most wonderful ever, and they were greatly excited about it—but it was never played. On Sunday morning had come telephone orders, in double-talk, telling them to be ready to move on Tuesday; a little later it was changed to Monday at fourteen, which is two in the afternoon. Nothing could be “airborne” in this weather, so their SOS—Service of Supplies—scoured the neighborhood for trucks big and little and all sizes between.
The commanding officer of this division happened to be in Washington. The second in command was Brigadier General McAuliffe, a little man, quiet but determined, known to his men as the “Old Crock”—although he was young. He got his twelve thousand men under way at the time specified, using all the north-south roads there were. Plenty of Germans were in the way, but led by tanks the Americans broke through everything. It was like an episode in a movie, the grand climax where the cavalry comes galloping in with flags flying and is welcomed with frantic cheers; the only difference was that the Screaming Eagles came packed in trucks, and had no flags, and there was nobody to cheer, because the Belgians were hiding in their cellars and the fighting men were out in trenches and foxholes and didn’t even know what was happening.
The way they found out was that fresh men kept sneaking up behind them and joining them in the trenches; very cocky fellows who called themselves “paradoughs” and thought that nobody else knew very much. Presently they began charging out and driving the enemy back, with the help of shells from their batteries posted behind the lines. Something new began to happen to the Germans then, and most of them never knew what it was. There had come to the rescue of Bastogne not merely some thousands of paradoughs and their artillery, but a la
rge group of scientists and engineers working in laboratories three or four thousand miles away.
IX
It was one of the great secrets of the war, and one of the engineering marvels of all time; a thing known as a “proximity fuse.” Lanny had been given a hint of it by his friend Professor Alston, the presidential “fixer”; but he hadn’t asked any questions, for it wasn’t his job. Now the talk went round among the officers at Bastogne, the amazing things that were happening out there at the front, and so Lanny heard a strange phrase, “pozit ammunition,” as the new device had come to be called.
When a shell is fired at an airplane in the sky, the gunner has to calculate or guess the spot where the plane will be when the shell arrives; then he has to set the fuse of the shell so that it will explode in the number of seconds required for it to reach that spot. A tremendously difficult task, and experience showed that a gunner fired twenty-five hundred shots to bring down one plane. But suppose a fuse could be made with some sort of radar equipment that would send out signals as it sped, and when these signals were echoed back with sufficient strength from some object in the sky, the shell would explode near the target?
There would be no trouble in devising a fuse that would go off at a radio signal. The problem lay in the fact that it had to be fired from a cannon, and had to be tough enough to withstand the impact of an explosion that would hurl the shell a distance of many miles. Moreover, the shell on its way revolves 475 times a second, and it takes some toughness to stand that. Literally thousands of scientists and engineers had been working at this problem for years, even before the war; in the end they had come up with a marvel called the VT-fuse, an object no bigger than your hand. Inside it was a radio sending and receiving set, so resistant to shock that the shell in which it was set could be fired from a gun big or little. The fuse was set to detonate the shell a certain number of feet from an object which sent an echo back from its radio signals.
O Shepherd, Speak! Page 8