Five Past Midnight

by James Thayer

  "But I saw him fall," Heydekampf objected.

  "You heard Cray scream, and turned in time to see him fall a few feet and bounce off the courtyard stones. Lieutenant, your imagination filled in much of his fall. He dropped only from this first-floor window. To further convince you, Burke kicked his legs and slid around a bit up on the roof, and made it look like he had almost fallen."

  Heydekampf did not bother translating these last revelations.

  Apparently resigned to the course of the conversation, Commandant Janssen offered, "If you look at the tips of those bars, you'll see the mortar used to stick them back in place."

  Dietrich brought up an iron shaft. Dry powdery paste was at the tip.

  "It's made from the old mortar in the stone walls," Janssen said wearily. "They probably scraped it off the wall with a nail or spoon, then mixed the powder with water. The mortar reconstituted and became sticky, just as it was when these walls were constructed many years ago, and they dabbed it onto the ends of the bars and replaced them right after Cray went through the window."

  Dietrich held up his hand to Heydekampf to stop him from interpreting, then asked Janssen, "Where do you suspect the POWs got the metal saw or file to cut the bars?"

  The commandant lifted his palms. "From a maintenance crew probably. The POWs will steal absolutely anything left untended for more than two seconds. Or perhaps they have picked the shop lock. They can get into the shop and infirmary and kitchen at will, it seems. The prisoners undoubtedly have a hardware store's inventory hidden around the castle."

  Dietrich nodded to Heydekampf, who again began translating when the inspector said, "Jack Cray's willpower can be measured by his posture after he landed on the stone court below this window. His arms were dislocated, and surely he was in a great deal of pain. He hit the stones, and he remained motionless in a rag doll's limp posture. A man who is badly wounded will reflexively curl up into a ball, but a dead man has a sprawled, boneless look to him. That's how you found Jack Cray. His flaccid posture alone would have led you to think he was dead."

  "He wasn't breathing," Heydekampf blurted in German.

  "He was breathing, very shallowly and slowly under his loose coat, and in checking everything else, you missed it."

  Dietrich placed the bars on the floor and returned to the table. Hornsby and Bell had finished their crullers, but David Davis still had one in each hand, taking bites out of each alternately and as rapidly as he could as if afraid the German inspector might abruptly take them back.

  "But he had no pulse," Heydekampf argued. "I swear it."

  "You are correct, Lieutenant. Jack Cray had no pulse. You and Colonel Janssen are not surgeons, so you cannot be faulted for failing to detect the American's ruse." Dietrich brought out two lengths of rubber tubing from his jacket pocket.

  Bell again glanced at Hornsby.

  The inspector said, "This is surgical tubing. When a surgeon amputates an arm or does some other invasive procedure on an arm, he wraps this tubing around the patient's upper arm, right under the shoulder. He pulls it tight. It prevents bleeding during the operation. And it blocks off all detectable pulse."

  Colonel Janssen's face whitened. His eyes darted to SAO Hornsby, whose features remained unreadable.

  "The tourniquet can remain in place up to two hours without damage to the arm," Dietrich went on. "Cray had tourniquets around both arms under his shirt and coat. Maybe not surgical tubing, maybe lengths of twine. But the tourniquets were there."

  As he interpreted, Heydekampf’s voice lowered to a chagrined whisper. The POWs leaned toward him to hear the translation.

  The inspector asked, "You remember the blood on Cray's neck? It seemed to have flowed there from his bleeding ears and eye. In fact, it had been smeared there just before he went through the windows. Probably the same POWs blood that was in his ears."

  "Whatever for?" the commandant asked. His shoulders were hunched forward, as if the inspector's revelations were blows with Cray's bat.

  "So you wouldn't check his carotid pulse in his neck."

  Heydekampf closed his eyes. "Of course."

  "When it's easy to check his wrists, no sense bloodying your hands by checking the pulse in his neck."

  Janssen said quietly, "So that's how he did it. It's clear now. And I've never heard of anything like it, not from Colditz or any other POW camp."

  "That's not quite all of it," Dietrich said, a note of apology in his voice. "Your report indicated that Major Bell and Captain Davis placed the American in the burial bag. To make him fit into the gunnysack, they had to relocate the arm. Another excruciating ordeal for Cray, who again remained silent, not calling out in pain. They also surreptitiously threw a knife into the bag, if Cray didn't already have one in his clothes, so Cray could cut himself out of the bag. And they may have removed the tourniquets, or Cray might have done it himself. The POWs who dug the grave made sure it was shallow."

  Janssen only nodded.

  "And then there was the shortness of the ceremony at the grave," Dietrich continued. "None of the POWs offered to speak a few words over the body, saying they didn't know Cray well enough. Group Captain Hornsby, you and the others knew that Cray could last only a few minutes below ground."

  David Davis struggled, trying to keep a grin from his face.

  "How did Cray know when the burial party had left?" Heydekampf asked.

  "Maybe as he lay underground he could hear you. More likely he simply waited as long as he could, until his air was gone. The minister who read the service and who saw Cray rise from the earth estimates Cray was in the grave less than ten minutes. There was some air in the gunnysack When it ran out, he came up, hoping no one was watching. Cray didn't know the pastor was nearby, in the orchard. The American probably never saw the pastor."

  Hornsby's head came up. He had not known about the minister seeing Cray emerge from the ground. So that was how the Germans were alerted so quickly.

  Otto Dietrich replaced the American's bat where he had found it, leaning it against the wall. He stepped toward the ward's door "Colonel Janssen assures me that you have a radio hidden in the castle, and that in all likelihood you received coded orders over the radio to help Jack Cray escape this castle."

  The POWs remained impassive.

  "You probably were not informed of the reasons Cray was to escape. He may not know the reason himself as yet But he is going to try to commit a murder. Knowing this might reduce your pleasure from Cray's escape."

  After the translation, SAO Hornsby said in a crabbed voice, "We need a lot of things in this castle, but moralizing from a German isn't one of them."

  Dietrich locked his gaze onto Hornsby's. After a moment the investigator replied, "No, perhaps not." He buttoned his coat. "Good-bye, gentlemen. You told me nothing, but I learned a lot." He stepped to the door. Janssen and Heydekampf followed.

  12

  THE LINE OF REFUGEES at Sergeant Hans Richter's checkpoint was growing. His post was on the road between Colditz and Leipzig, at the small town of Rotha. His company had erected a barricade across the road and was checking all vehicle and foot traffic. He took documents from the next traveler in line.

  Richter was a member of the Police Group General Goring, a guard unit originating in Prussia, where in the early years of the Reich, Goring had become commander in chief of the Prussian Police. The unit was now under the auspices of the Luftwaffe, with Goring at its head. On the left sleeve of Richter's green greatcoat was a dark green cuff title with silver Gothic letters spelling LPG GENERAL GORING. The sergeant wore a service knife and a canteen on a belt at his waist.

  Richter's unit had been at the road barricade for the past twenty- four hours. At their barracks in Berlin the sergeant's men had been given thirty minutes to pack their kits and climb into troop trucks headed south. Fire police, barrack police troopers, railway protection police, waterways police, police tank crews, motorized traffic police, female police auxiliaries, Party member volunteers, members of th
e Security and Help Service, the Air Raid Warning Service, National Labor Service guards — Richter had seen them all heading south to isolate a portion of Saxony. The size of the operation awed him. Three of his mates had been killed in a British strafing run during the journey south.

  The checkpoint was on the outskirts of Rotha. Pastures were on both sides of the road. Fields were overgrown because cattle that would have grazed the grass down had been added to the Reich's ration. Police patrolled the fields, insuring that the refugees kept to the road, funneling them to the checkpoint. The company's first duty when arriving on the Rotha road had been to dig a slit trench to dive into if Allied planes were spotted.

  Richter was only twenty years old, and his face was moist and undefended, a twelve-year-old's countenance, he knew. He compensated by scowling while on duty, molding his face into one of authority. The Schmeisser submachine gun he carried across his chest helped.

  He passed the identity card back to the refugee and waved him through. The refugee grabbed his suitcase with one hand and his daughter with the other, and continued on. Richter rose to his toes to glance back along the line. Must be three hundred people waiting to pass through, he guessed. They were hollowed-eyed with fatigue. They wore a mixture of cast-off military uniforms, peasants' field clothes, and city attire. Some had blankets over their shoulders. Many had stuffed newspapers into their coats and down their pants because nights were cold. They pulled carts and pushed wheelbarrows. Horses led wagons piled with furniture and trunks. Richter even saw a cart drawn by a white goat.

  Low clouds had moved in over the hills to the south. The clouds were about the only defense Germany had left against Allied planes. Richter was glad for the respite from skyward vigilance. It let him do his job, searching the line of refugees.

  He looked again at the clipboard attached to the back of his Borg- ward troop transport at the side of the road. On the board was a large print photo of an American. At the briefing that morning Richter's captain had warned that the fugitive was to be shot on sight.

  A horn bleated, and a Horch limousine parted the refugees as it approached the checkpoint. The auto had a lieutenant general's ensign above its sweeping black fenders. The driver stopped the automobile at the crossbar and rolled down his window.

  Sergeant Richter bent to the window "May I see your papers, please?"

  From the back seat came a bark, "I am Wehrmacht Lieutenant General Karl Drager. Let me through immediately."

  "I must see your identification, General And your driver's. Those are my orders, sir."

  The general leaned across the seat back to bellow, "And I'm giving you new orders. Raise the barricade right now."

  Sergeant Richter put his hand around the Schmeisser'b pistol grip. "Sir, I'm a guard, and spend most of my time at factories and government buildings. I have gone the whole war without shooting anybody, and I'd hate to begin with a Wehrmacht general."

  Accompanied by a spewing curse, the documents were passed through the window. Richter took his time with them, flipping through the pages with a studied insolence. He held up the general's identity card to the daylight as if to detect a forger's mistake, and earned more profanity from the back of the Horch.

  From somewhere in the growing line of refugees came a shout, "The big shot gets to ride while we walk."

  Another angrily yelled, "That's all this war got us, a bunch of bloodsuckers."

  Richter waved them to silence. Carrying a carbine in his arms, one of his men moved back along the line, shaking his head, warning the travelers. A cargo truck slowly approached along the road, pausing frequently while walkers stepped aside.

  The sergeant bent low to stare at the general's face, which was crimson from indignation. The Wehrmacht general's hooked nose could not be mistaken for the fugitive American's. The general was wearing a tailored gray-green greatcoat with scarlet facings, buttoned at the neck. Next Richter examined the chauffeur's papers. The driver was a fifty-year-old corporal undoubtedly called from the reserves. No American there, either. Richter glanced at the Horch's floor to make sure no one was hiding there. He handed the documents back through the window.

  "Stay where you are while I search the boot," Richter ordered. He lifted the trunk lid, then pushed aside several camouflaged travel bags.

  Nothing but changes of uniform. He closed the trunk and then walked slowly to the Horch's hood. He opened it to reveal the eight-cylinder engine.

  Richter glanced at one of his corporals across the road. The corporal was grinning. Seldom could one thumb his nose at a general, and a rude one at that.

  "You idiot," the general shouted from inside the cab. "Nobody could hide under the hood."

  Moving even more sluggishly, Richter latched the hood. He used a mirror mounted on a pole to look under the car, then walked to the cross arm, a red and white bar with a counterbalance. Even his words were slow. "Please proceed, General."

  The Horch shot forward, trailing curses like exhaust. Richter joined the corporal in a laugh. The truck neared the checkpoint. Richter was able to pass several more refugees through, and then the truck arrived at the crossbar. It was an Opel Blitz two-axle vehicle with an enclosed bed.

  Richter stood on the running board to ask the driver for his documents. The corporal was on the other side of the truck, and another guard positioned himself at the rear. The checkpoint guards had been ordered to bracket all trucks so no one would be able to escape.

  As he passed his papers and his cargo manifest through the window, the driver asked, "You looking for anybody in particular?" He had a Swabian accent, which to Berliners sounds lisping.

  Richter returned the papers. "Not you. Your ears stick out too much and you're about a foot too short."

  The driver smiled thinly. "I guess a lad carrying a submachine gun is allowed to have a smart mouth."

  "Your cargo doors locked?"

  The driver shook his head.

  While one of his men searched the truck's underside with the mirror, Richter went to the back of the truck, where the guard there lifted his rifle to cover the sergeant. Richter lifted the hasp and pulled open the doors. The cargo was beef carcasses, hung from rods in two rows. The carcasses were still swaying from the truck's stop. They dripped blood from their butchering. They hung there, teasingly rocking on their hooks, five tons of meat not seen by most Germans in two years.

  Gasps came from the refugees. Several stepped toward the truck. The guard moved his rifle to the ragged crowd.

  "My God, look at all the beef." came from someone in the crowd.

  "Enough to feed a village."

  "Another load for Wilhelmstrasse?" came from another refugee. Wilhelmstrasse was Berlin's diplomatic and government quarter.

  "Goddamn Berliners," another roared. "The countryside is sucked dry to fill Berliner's bellies while we starve."

  An old man atop a horse cart cried, "We've given them our sons and our grandsons, and they still aren't satisfied."

  A woman dropped her cloth bag to shake a fist. She raged, "My boy starved to death in the east. And look at that truck. Look at all the meat."

  The crowd had transformed into a mob. Fists were raised and oaths yelled. The swarm moved tentatively, then, fed by its own momentum, it surged toward the truck.

  Sergeant Richter raised his Schmeisser until the stubby barrel was pointed at the sky. He squeezed the trigger. The submachine gun bucked and brayed. Spent shells flew to the roadway.

  The mob instantly halted.

  "I'm not going to have to use this goddamn gun in earnest, am I?"

  The refugees stared at him with fear and hatred and hunger, but slowly the crowd ebbed from the meat truck. The corporal held his carbine at the ready while the refugees listlessly reformed their line at the barricade. Sergeant Richter stepped onto the Opel Blitz's bumper, then into the cargo bay.

  The cattle carcasses had been skinned and dressed out. They hung by their rear legs. Short poles passed between the two bones of each hind leg, and th
e poles were hung from hooks on short chains. Some of the animals were bulls, with torsos much larger than the others, reaching from the hook almost to the truck bed. As hunger mounted, the Reich had begun slaughtering its breeding bulls. Richter pushed the carcasses aside. He searched the length of the bed, looking behind each swinging bovine cadaver, making sure no one was hiding behind the suspended carcasses. Blood from the carcasses stained his uniform. He also checked the corners of the van.

  He peeked back out the truck, then stepped behind a side of beef, drew his service knife, and cut a dozen jagged sirloins from the hanging beef. He was no butcher, and he struggled with the beef cuts, taking several minutes. He tucked them into his coat under an arm. For a month his men had been eating nothing but Eintopfgericht, a wartime stew consisting of butcher-shop sweepings, the men suspected. Tonight would be different. Richter made his way between the rows of hanging beef carcasses back to the door. Holding the sides of his coat so he wouldn't drop his prizes, he jumped down to the road and closed the truck's cargo doors.

  Sergeant Richter returned to the cross arm to lift it, then waved the driver through the checkpoint. He placed the beefsteaks on the front seat of his troop transport. The sergeant again began checking the refugees, one at a time, occasionally glancing at the photo of the American to refresh his memory. When the woman who had shouted that her son had starved in the east passed for inspection, he returned to the transport to slip her one of the sirloins. Her startled and grateful expression almost made the war worthwhile for the sergeant.

  When the meat truck was two kilometers west of the checkpoint, Jack Cray's knife emerged from between the breastbones of a bull carcass. The blade slashed through the twine he had used to tie the ribs together after he had entered the organ cavity. He wrestled with the bones, grunting with the effort. He slithered out of the bull, dropping like a newborn calf to the truck bed. He was covered with blood and offal. His hair was matted with pieces of sinew and blood. His clothes were sodden. A veil of red slime covered his face.