An Army of One: A John Rossett Novel

by Tony Schumacher

  His last posting had been the frozen tundra out east. In the wilds where what was left of the Soviet military machine had retreated after the fall of Moscow and the escape from the Urals.

  Dannecker had traveled for days on the troop train, listening to the wheels on the tracks for hour after hour of head-nodding boredom.

  The rattle-clatter had reminded him of when a needle was stuck at the end of a record. Repeating the same rough note, over and over again, for what seemed like an eternity. Hour after hour of clicking track, followed by month after month of the grim brutality of the work he’d been asked to do.

  He had done it, though.

  He’d suppressed what was left of the tattered and battered Soviet population and made them sorry they were ever born.

  He hadn’t hated them; he just hadn’t cared about them.

  They were less than grit trapped in his boot.

  He’d done things he wouldn’t have been able to imagine years before. He’d shot, stabbed, slashed, and slaughtered his passage to hell.

  He’d killed so many times that taking a life was now like taking a sip of cold coffee.

  He didn’t feel guilt, but he did hate it.

  He hated it because he knew it was all so pointless.

  And the knowing was the worst.

  None of it mattered.

  There had been a time when Dannecker had cared about Germany and the Führer, and nothing else. There had been a time that whenever he heard the “Horst-Wessel-Lied” being sung his eyes would mist over, and he would have to get to his feet and link arms with the monster standing next to him.

  But all that was gone.

  He’d seen through it.

  It was a sham, and the madness of it all was now apparent. It was broken; he was broken; the whole Reich was broken. He no longer cared because there was nothing he could do about it. Except try to survive and make it out the other side.

  The car thudded through a pothole and his forehead brushed against the cold glass of the side window.

  “Shithole,” he said quietly to himself.

  “Sir?” His driver looked at him.

  “I said that this place is a shithole.” Dannecker turned to face him.

  “Yes, sir.” The driver looked away.

  “Do you have a cigarette, Muller?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Fuck’s sake.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  Dannecker rested his chin in his hand and went back to the window. The car banged through another pothole. This one was filled with oily brown water that erupted and plumed across the pavement and onto two young women walking to work. They threw up their hands, but dropped them quickly when they saw the armored half-track full of Waffen SS soldiers following Dannecker’s staff car.

  The soldiers on the back of the half-track whistled and shouted at the women, who in turn spun away to look at their dripping reflections in an empty shop window.

  Dannecker smoothed the front of his uniform and twisted the driver’s mirror around so he could check his appearance. He wiped his hand across his cropped hair, then pulled at the collar of his tunic and adjusted his Iron Cross. He looked over his shoulder out the back window to check that the half-track was still behind them, and then leaned forward to look at the sky out of the windscreen.

  Heavy clouds.

  England.

  Did it ever stop raining?

  “May I have my mirror back, sir?”

  “Take it, there’s nothing in it I want to see.”

  The staff car pulled in to the curb, while the half-track stopped in the middle of the road to provide cover. The soldiers on the half-track were tumbling down and taking up positions on either side of the street before Dannecker even had his door open. A few of them paused, looked lost, and then followed their colleagues and dodged closer to walls and parked cars. Dannecker stepped out, looked around at the tall office buildings that surrounded Hope Street police station, and placed his cap on his head. He kicked the car door shut with his heel, then bent slightly at the waist to use the reflection in the window to check that his cap was on straight.

  Across the street there was a clatter as someone dropped his rifle. Dannecker looked across at Staff Sergeant Paul Becker.

  Becker shrugged a what-can-I-do sort of shrug, then glared at the men spread out around him.

  Becker dominated the street, all six feet four of him, head held high, a challenge to snipers, unlike his men, who were crouching low and dodging around. Becker slung his StG 44 machine gun over his shoulder and walked around the half-track to join Dannecker.

  Dannecker didn’t return the salute.

  “Who dropped his rifle?”

  “Kraus, sir.”

  “Jesus, where do they find them?” Dannecker didn’t wait for an answer from either Jesus or Becker. Instead, he turned and walked up the steps into the police station.

  Becker followed his boss.

  Same as he always did, without orders and without questions.

  Chief Superintendent James Evans hated his job.

  He wasn’t scheduled for retirement for another four years, but even if he made it that far, he doubted they’d let him go. Police pensions had been slashed, so even if they did, he probably wouldn’t.

  He was trapped, and he knew it.

  The police force had become a cutthroat world where the wrong word or step could lead to you being sacked, imprisoned, shot, or disappeared.

  Either by the Germans or the resistance.

  Evans didn’t know which was worse, and he hoped he would never find out.

  Every day was filled with dread.

  Every day was worse than the one before.

  Every day he wished he were dead.

  He had joined the job just after the 1919 Liverpool police strike. Back when half the force had been sacked overnight for daring to stand up for their rights. Evans had answered an advert in his local paper, then jumped on a train from Wales to Liverpool and never looked back. For six years he hadn’t thought about promotion. For six years he’d been happy to be a simple bobby walking the beat. Then one day he met a girl who wanted a husband who was better than a beat bobby, so he’d worked hard and become a detective. It wasn’t long before that wasn’t good enough, either, so he became a detective sergeant, and then an inspector, with a car and a mortgage that looked like it was never going to go away.

  He’d have stayed an inspector if the war hadn’t come along, then the invasion. He was the only senior officer who hadn’t been part of the final stand as the Germans took control of the city. Many coppers had fought alongside the last troops who held out, and the ones who had survived were long gone, away working on the continent.

  Evans hadn’t been a coward that day. Surgery on a burst appendix had deprived him of the chance of being a hero, pretty much the same as it had deprived him of dying and getting it over with.

  As a result of being alive, he was all that was left of the officer class in Liverpool. He’d been sucked into an unhappy vacuum, and that vacuum had just sucked a Waffen SS major, and the biggest, scariest-looking staff sergeant he had ever seen, to the other side of his desk.

  Evans put down his pen. Behind the German staff sergeant, Mrs. Kenny, Evans’s secretary, peeked around and lifted one hand to the ceiling in a what-was-I-supposed-to-do gesture.

  Evans didn’t know what to do, either.

  Dannecker sat down and tossed his cap onto Evans’s desk. Becker took up position leaning against a filing cabinet. The butt of his StG 44 banged against it, causing Evans to flinch.

  “Good afternoon, Chief Superintendent.”

  “Good afternoon, Major Dannecker.”

  “You know why I am here?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “I have one of your men in custody.”

  “Why is that?”

  Becker, over by the cabinet, adjusted his position slightly and Evans looked up at him. The big German stared back so blankly
, Evans felt like he was falling into a trance. It took him a few seconds to finally drag his attention back to Dannecker.

  “He was involved in a shooting; he killed an Amer—”

  “Do you know what?” Dannecker cut Evans off by airily waving his hand as he turned his head away. “I really don’t care about all of that. Honestly, I’m sorry I asked. Just tell me why he is in your cells.”

  Evan reached for the pen he’d put down moments ago, swallowed, and then tried again.

  “As I was saying, he is accused of—”

  “Who do you think you are?” Dannecker interrupted again.

  “Excuse me?” Evans looked at Dannecker, then Becker.

  “Who do you think you are?” Dannecker said it again, his voice low, his German accent loose around the edges of his clipped English.

  “I . . . I don’t know.” Evans leaned back from his desk an inch. He realized his secretary had retreated and silently closed the door behind her.

  He was alone.

  He put the pen down again, being careful not to let it make a sound on the desktop.

  “Answer the question.” Dannecker tilted his head this time.

  Evans swallowed. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

  Dannecker squinted, then rubbed his right temple with the palm of his hand. When he finally spoke he sounded exhausted.

  “I have a terrible headache, and I am very, very tired.” He dropped his hand into his lap. “So to speed things up, I’ll tell you who you are, Chief Superintendent. That way if you are stupid enough to meet me again under these circumstances, it’ll save us some time.” Dannecker paused, stared, then smiled.

  “You are nobody.” Dannecker waited to see if Evans wanted to say anything, then continued when he was satisfied the Englishman didn’t. “You are a failed policeman in a failed city. You don’t want this job, and I don’t blame you. It is a shit job. Only an idiot would want it. The problem you have, though, is that you’ve made it shitter than it need be. Much, much, shitter.”

  “Major, I had no choice . . .”

  “Considerably shitter.” Becker spoke for the first time.

  “Even the staff sergeant agrees with me, Chief Superintendent. You have a shit job, and you are doing a shit job of it.”

  Evans tried again with Dannecker. “What am I supposed to do? Your man committed a . . .” Evans paused, then lifted his hands toward Dannecker. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “You telephone me and we sort it out,” Dannecker said quietly. “You don’t hold him without telling me.”

  “If . . .” Evans leaned forward, hands still out in front of him, as if he were trying to hand the words he couldn’t find over the table. “If it had been an Englishman he’d shot, I could have done that. But this is an American, sir, and a consul at that. The arresting officers contacted London before I could intervene. I had to do something.” Evans turned to Becker, desperate for support from someone. “Your man didn’t even try to explain to the arresting officers what was going on. If he had, maybe he could have talked himself out of the arrest. But he didn’t even try, Major. What were they to do?”

  Dannecker broke the silence after a few seconds.

  “Where is Captain Bauer?”

  Evans swallowed. “I can’t release him. Please, I really can’t.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Please, Major.” Evans was coming apart. “Just wait until your German police liaison officer gets into town, I’m begging you. I’m sure he’ll sort things out.”

  “Liaison officer?”

  “I have . . . we have . . . a procedure. I must follow it, sir. It really isn’t in my hands. We have to call London, the Home Office. They set the wheels in motion for matters such as this.”

  Becker shifted over by the filing cabinet, the butt of his assault rifle ringing out again. Both Dannecker and Evans looked at him, then back at each other.

  “Who is this liaison officer?” Dannecker’s voice was soft now, his hangover back with a sudden solid ache.

  Evans scanned the top of his desk and then picked up a piece of paper.

  “Generalmajor Neumann, and a Detective Inspector Rossett.”

  “An Englishman? They’re sending an Englishman to question a German?”

  The paper fluttered in Evans’s hand for half a second like a bird held by one foot. He quickly placed it down on the desk, then laid the palm of his hand flat across it in a poor attempt to hide his nerves.

  “According to this he is attached to the Kripo, sir.”

  “Well, he can unattach and then kiss my arse.”

  “I don’t think Detective Inspector Rossett is the sort of man to do that, sir.”

  Dannecker tilted his head, unsure if his authority had just been challenged.

  “He’ll do as he is told.”

  “If it is the Rossett I think it is, I’m not sure he will, sir.”

  “And who do you think it is?”

  “He’s a hero, sir.”

  “The world is full of fucking heroes; you’re looking at two of them now.”

  “Rossett was famous, sir. He won the Victoria Cross.”

  Dannecker tilted his head, so Evans elaborated. “It’s the highest award for bravery in the British army. They are making a movie about him.”

  “I’ve got an Iron Cross.”

  “With respect, sir.”

  “It had better be.”

  “It honestly is, sir . . .” Evans waited to see if Dannecker was going to up the stakes again. He didn’t, so Evans continued. “With a great deal of respect, Major, the Victoria Cross is hardly ever awarded, and Rossett’s was presented to him by the king himself.”

  “Which one?”

  “The old one.”

  “So he fought against us?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And now he works with us?”

  “Yes, sir. I think he’s also got an Iron Cross now.”

  “I don’t care,” Dannecker interrupted, but sounded less certain than he’d hoped. “He’ll do as he is told, and so will you. Release my man.”

  “Sir, you have to understand, I—”

  Dannecker leaned in close to the desk and raised a finger, cutting off Evans midflow. He waited, just a second or two, and then pointed at Becker.

  “Look at him.”

  Evans did as he was told.

  Dannecker waited for the Englishman to swallow a knot of nerves, then leaned in even closer across the desk and whispered.

  “You are about five seconds away from him pulling out his gun and shooting you in your fat fucking face.”

  The clock on the wall ticked three times, then Evans picked up the phone on his desk and rang downstairs to the jail.

  Seven hours later, Neumann leaned forward a little too far and had to grab the corner of Evans’s desk to steady himself.

  “You did what?”

  “I had no choice. They came into my office, what was I supposed to do?” Evans looked up at Rossett, who was standing where Staff Sergeant Becker had been earlier, but taking up slightly less room.

  “You’re supposed to be a policeman,” Rossett said quietly.

  “You don’t know what they are like.” Evans pointed a finger at Rossett, happy to be arguing with an Englishman for a change. “These men are dangerous, they can do what they want in this city, and for miles around. So don’t you judge me, Inspector. I have a family. I have to go home at night.” Evans shook his head, his voice fading away. “I do what I have to do to stay alive. You don’t have to deal with them day to day the way I do.” He looked down at his desk before adding quietly, “I have a very difficult job.”

  Rossett turned away to look out the window at the gathering gloom of the Liverpool evening.

  Evans’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again before he made one last attempt to justify his position, this time to Neumann.

  “You don’t know what it is like; you have no idea how hard it is here now. This isn’t London, this is
Liverpool.”

  “The law is the same,” Rossett said quietly, eyes still on the window.

  “Not anymore.” The fight was gone out of Evans. He took a breath and sighed, deflating as the breath left his body. “This city has fallen apart; it barely functions as a place to live for civilized people. We get no money, the schools have closed, the libraries have closed, the museums have been looted, and the local politicians roll over and do the government’s bidding with barely a whimper. And I for one don’t blame them, because if you dare to complain . . .” He shook his head and looked at Neumann.

  “Do you know how many guns are floating around here? Not just German ones, either. Do you know?” He waited a moment for an answer that didn’t come, and then continued. “There were thousands left at the docks in the evacuation, thousands. After the surrender the port was full of men desperate to get out of the country. Most of them bought their passage on a ship with anything they had, including their weapons. It was chaos then, and it is worse now. I’ve got families and gangs fighting for control of the black market and the brothels. Even the Germans are up to their eyes in crime. My uniformed officers go out on patrol in groups of four at the very least, and even then they won’t leave the city center unless they are in a car. We don’t have control, and neither do the Home Defense Troops.”

  “Who does?” Neumann glanced at Rossett, who was still staring out the window.

  “Nobody, not really.”

  “The Germans?” Neumann tried again.

  “Just the docks, the airport, and the goods railway to London. The rest can go to hell as far as they are concerned. The running of the city is down to us and the local council, and we can barely cope.” Evans glanced at his wristwatch.

  “So you don’t bother trying,” said Rossett.

  “What’s the point of trying? I’ve got people who are hungry and poor, I’ve got an infrastructure that has broken down, half the time the electricity is off or the phones are down. Liverpool is like a desert island and nobody cares, least of all a small group of police constables who aren’t paid on a regular basis. This is supposed to be a British-controlled zone, and yet the British either don’t care, can’t cope, or are corrupt and only interested in London.” Evans looked at Rossett.