The Witnesses

by Robert Whitlow

  Sedan, on the France-Belgium border, was the site of a major battle in May 1940. Franz, a junior lieutenant at the time, made an unorthodox tactical recommendation to his captain, who reported it to General Berg. The general summoned a trembling Franz to his headquarters for a fuller explanation. Reconnaissance confirmed Franz’s hunch, and the resulting victory boosted General Berg’s career and cemented the relationship between him and the fresh-faced lieutenant.

  Franz’s mind flashed back to the carnage after the battle was over. The bodies of enemy soldiers lay contorted and dismembered throughout the woods. Although he’d not fired a single shot, Franz knew he was connected to every corpse. Since then he’d seen thousands of dead bodies: German, French, Italian, British, and American displayed in a macabre mural of untimely death.

  Inwardly, Franz trembled at the horror of war. His toughest struggle was trying to erase from his memory individual faces, comrades he knew from the mess hall and unknown enemies whose countenances, for one reason or another, remained imprinted on his mind.

  Two specific events—a mission in Siena in northern Italy and the treatment of resistance fighters in a nearby French village—had undermined Franz’s loyalty to the German cause. And he was still reeling from a terrifying dream of tornadoes he saw sweeping toward Germany from the east at the time of the invasion of the Soviet Union. Franz’s homeland had sown to the wind and was now reaping the whirlwind. The Allied invasion of France would succeed unless immediately repulsed. Without question, Germany was on the verge of losing the war, and there was nothing he or any other loyal soldier could do to stop it.

  “Have you considered asking General Blaskowitz to exert his influence?” he asked. General Johannes Blaskowitz was the supreme commander of Army Group G. His headquarters lay ten kilometers to the west. Franz had not yet met him.

  “General Blaskowitz is a soldier first with little interest in politics. He spent a couple of years in internal exile after complaining about the conduct of SS units during the invasion of Poland. Now that he has a command again, he’s not going to cross Berlin when the big shots are wedded to a Calais invasion. And I’m not sure I want to tell him about you. Not yet, maybe never.”

  The general coughed again. Franz could hear the older man wheeze as he took in his next breath.

  “At any rate, he’ll be here this evening for a formal reception,” the general continued. “I want you to evaluate him and let me know what you think.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you have anything new to tell me?” the general asked, clearing his throat.

  The question was always part of their conversations. Franz kept his hand from going to the letter in his pocket. Dresden was hundreds of kilometers to the east. What happened there had no relevance to Army Group G.

  “No, sir.”

  “If something comes to you, I’ll need it prior to the reception. It’s supposed to be a social event, but I anticipate General Blaskowitz will pull General Kittel and myself aside for a private conversation.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, one other thing,” the general said. “There’s a possibility General Krieger will be here next week.”

  Franz shifted on his feet. The powerful staff officer from Berlin had visited General Berg when the division was in the Tuscany region of Italy and was the person who ordered the mission to Siena. Young for a general, the ambitious Krieger was cold-blooded, cruel, and greedy.

  “Do you know why he’s coming?” Franz asked nervously.

  “It probably has to do with this.” The general rubbed his thumb against his fingers. “We’re close to France, and the general is always on the lookout for something of value. He appreciates what we did for him in Siena.”

  Franz’s mouth went dry. “Herr General,” he began but then stopped.

  “Out with it,” Berg ordered. “Don’t waste my time.”

  Franz took a deep breath and licked his lips. “Do you think General Krieger may transfer me to Berlin?” he asked.

  The general swore. Franz stepped back.

  “It’s possible,” the general growled. “And I’m not sure I could stop him, especially if the high command wants you there.”

  “I want to remain on your staff, sir,” Franz said, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

  “Of course you do. But if duty calls . . .” The general paused. “Maybe Krieger won’t show. The adjunct who contacted me said it was only a possibility.”

  They left the antechamber. Franz lagged behind the general’s entourage as they made their way to the large dining room where the briefing and reception would take place. The threat of a transfer to Berlin was real. Anxious thoughts began racing through Franz’s mind. A soldier stepped in front of him. Franz almost ran into him.

  “Hauptmann Haus, a telegram for you,” the young man said, holding out his hand.

  Franz wasn’t expecting a message. Shaking his head to clear it, he took the telegram into the dining room. An enormous chandelier filled the room with a stunning display of reflected light. Stepping into a corner, he opened the message. It was from his aunt. As the impact of the words hit him, the lights of the chandelier blurred, and his concerns about General Krieger vanished.

  Franz’s family was dead.

  CHAPTER 2

  Franz held the telegram tightly in his right hand as he blinked and tried to refocus on the room. He saw one of General Berg’s aides standing a few feet away and stepped over to him.

  Keeping his gaze lowered, he spoke in a hoarse whisper. “If he asks, please tell the general I don’t feel well and went to my quarters.”

  Not waiting for a response, Franz walked rapidly from the room. By the time he reached the smooth stone pathway outside, tears had begun to fall down his cheeks.

  His father, mother, brother, and little sister lived in a modest working-class neighborhood in one of the industrial areas surrounding Dresden. Two nights earlier, a solitary bomb had scored a direct hit on the house, killing everyone instantly. His family was most likely asleep when they died.

  Franz made it back to his room, closed the door, and leaned against it. Why hadn’t he received the warning about coming destruction sooner? Why would he write a letter begging them to relocate before Christmas when they were dead before he put pen to paper? He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand as another wave of sorrow hit him. Franz wanted to run from the dormitory and not stop until his lungs were burning and his legs gave out.

  He began to pace back and forth across the room. Franz had always considered himself a loyal soldier who would perform his duty as long as it was humanely possible, but the things he witnessed and reported no longer had the ability to do anything except delay an inevitable result. The mission of Army Group G to defend southern France would ultimately become a tactical retreat. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. And he couldn’t go to Berlin. Closing his eyes, Franz saw himself in a room with Krieger and a group of high-ranking officers. Someone turned off the lights, and he was plunged into total darkness. The scene vanished; Franz shivered. His Germany was gone. And he couldn’t stay in the one that was left.

  An odd calm descended on the numbness of his broken heart. He quickly threw his personal belongings in a knapsack and slowly opened the door. The private who had accompanied him earlier to the chateau turned around.

  “Are you feeling better, sir?” he asked. “One of the general’s aides asked me to either bring a medic if needed or accompany you back to the meeting if you are able to join them.”

  “No, I’m going to remain in my quarters for the rest of the evening,” Franz responded. “You may resume your duties.”

  “My orders are to stay here.”

  “Suit yourself.” Franz shrugged as he closed the door.

  Franz sat down in his chair and stared at the wall. The presence of the unwanted soldier was a roadblock, but it forced Franz to realize that he needed a strategy, especially for something dangerously foolish.

  Franz waited
two hours until the lights from the chateau twinkled between the tree trunks in the dusky light. Then, carefully raising the window, he slipped outside. With his knapsack slung over his right shoulder, he started to walk up a small hill behind the building and looked back as General Blaskowitz’s motorcade made its way onto the property. Franz’s timing was perfect. It was best to leave when the commotion surrounding the supreme commander’s arrival was at its height.

  Franz continued to climb the hill. Coming to a clearing, he had a panoramic view of the estate, which was lit up as if for a holiday. Inside the main house the wine would be flowing, and the officers would be congregating in small groups to chat and act important. Franz disliked receptions and the constant download of information that forced its way into his consciousness. At some point in the evening General Berg would notice Franz’s absence and send another soldier to check on him. If the general discovered Hauptmann Haus was missing, he would take immediate action to locate his Aryan Eagle.

  Then the lights across the chateau suddenly began to disappear as blackout curtains were lowered. Franz listened for the drone of approaching airplanes but heard nothing. Perhaps General Blaskowitz’s security detail had wisely decided to squelch the public display of a large military gathering.

  Franz climbed toward his goal, a paved road that crossed the crest of the hill. The road would give him an opportunity to catch a ride in the direction of the town of Freiburg and the Black Forest. He’d already prepared his story for any motorist who stopped—he was an officer needing to meet friends in town. Nearing the top of the hill, he saw a tiny glowing light and slipped into the shadows. Peering around a tree, he saw a solitary soldier smoking a cigarette. The man was on guard duty at the precise spot where the road to town came out of the trees. Beside him was a motorcycle.

  Franz lowered his hand to the Luger strapped to his hip. He was a staff officer, not a combat soldier, and he’d never fired his weapon except as part of a training exercise. Also, the guard was a fellow German, not an enemy combatant. Standing at the edge of the hill looking down at the chateau, the soldier had taken off his helmet and placed it on the seat of the motorcycle. Franz crept closer, raised his gun, and pointed it at the guard’s back. From this distance he couldn’t miss. And if he fired a shot it would only be one more pebble added to the mountain of guilt already charged to Franz’s account.

  Suddenly the soldier let out a loud belch followed by a second, softer one. It was such a basic human sound that it caused Franz to freeze. And in that instant he knew something about the guard. The man came from a long generation of Bavarian dairy farmers, and Franz could see the soldier standing in an idyllic pasture in the late-afternoon sunlight as a herd of cows walked down a flower-strewn hill toward a stone barn. Franz lowered his pistol. He couldn’t shoot a man he knew.

  Taking a deep breath, Franz ran as fast as he could and crashed into the man’s back. The guard grunted, lost his footing, and rolled down the hill into the darkness. Turning away, Franz didn’t check to see where the soldier landed.

  The man’s motorcycle was a lightweight DKW RT 125. Early in his army career, Franz had awkwardly ridden one of the bikes in the courtyard of a military barracks while stationed in Belgium. He touched the engine. It was still warm. Then, out of the darkness, the guard called for help. Following the man’s cry was the sound of a gunshot.

  Franz jumped on the motorcycle. He kick-started the single-cylinder motor that sputtered to life with a staccato sound. Hoping it was in gear, he released the clutch. The motorcycle shot forward about ten feet then died. Franz could hear the guard’s voice as the soldier scrambled up the hill. Restarting the engine, Franz let out the clutch, and with a herky-jerky motion the motorcycle lurched forward to the edge of the road. Franz opened the throttle without shifting gears, and the engine screamed in protest. The bike jumped over the edge of the pavement and onto the roadway. He shifted gears and heard a loud pop. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the guard standing at the edge of the road with his pistol pointing in Franz’s direction. Franz stopped the motorcycle, turned, and gave a crude “Heil Hitler” salute. The salute seemed to puzzle the guard, and Franz didn’t hear another shot as the motorcycle pulled away and rounded a bend into the forest.

  It was ten kilometers to Freiburg. The dairy farmer turned soldier could run down the hill and report the assault and theft of the motorcycle by a crazy officer in less than ten minutes. Franz’s plan of a secret getaway was blown. He opened the throttle wider, and the motorcycle shot around a corner so fast that he almost lost control and skidded into the trees. Fighting panic, Franz slowed and tried to match his reflexes to the gray pavement illuminated by the dim headlamp. Over the next few minutes he encountered two cars going in the opposite direction. There was no sign or sound of pursuit from behind.

  It took fifteen minutes to reach the outskirts of Freiburg. Franz rode toward the medieval center of the city. Stopping on a side street near a streetlight, he turned off the engine. He ripped a twig from a nearby tree, opened the fuel tank, and lowered the stick. When he raised it up, he was relieved to see that it was damp halfway from the top. The lightweight motorcycle was stingy with petrol. He had plenty of fuel.

  A door opened, and a group of German officers stepped from a nearby beer garden. Franz ducked his head as if inspecting the motorcycle. He was about to kick-start the engine when he felt a hand on his arm.

  “Haus?” a voice asked.

  Franz looked up into the faces of Hauptmann Koenig, an officer who had joined the division the previous week, and Hauptmann Dietz, a short, chubby man who had served on General Berg’s staff for over a year. They were accompanied by two officers Franz didn’t know.

  “You could have ridden in the car with us,” Koenig said. “How did you know we were here?”

  “Haus knows everything,” said Dietz, who was obviously intoxicated. “He’s General Berg’s soothsayer.”

  Without responding, Franz made another move to start the engine.

  “Let me take it for a ride?” the drunk officer said, stepping closer. Franz could smell the beer on the man’s breath. “I need the fresh air on my face.”

  “No.” Koenig held out his hand. “You don’t want to wrap yourself around a pole or crash your face into a wall. And wrecking a motorcycle would get you a quick trip to the eastern front.”

  Dietz roughly pushed away Koenig’s hand.

  “Why aren’t you at the reception for General Blaskowitz?” Dietz asked Franz. “He keeps you around like a pet puppy.”

  “Why aren’t you?” Franz countered, trying to sound bolder than he felt.

  “It doesn’t take a fortune-teller to know that,” Dietz retorted.

  The drunk officer stepped off the curb, tripped, and crashed into Franz, knocking him and the motorcycle to the pavement. Dietz swore. Koenig grabbed Dietz by the arm and picked him up in the air, depositing him on his rear end on the sidewalk. The other officers laughed.

  “You don’t need weights to work out, Gerhardt,” one of the officers said. “Dietz is your dumbbell.”

  Franz righted the motorcycle. There was a small rip in his trousers.

  “If you don’t want to join us, I’ll understand,” Koenig said. “See you at the barracks.”

  Dietz tried to stand up, but Koenig placed his hand on top of the smaller man’s head and kept him pinned to the ground.

  “Heil Hitler,” Franz replied and then started the engine.

  He drove slowly down the street without shifting gears. After he’d gone a hundred meters, he glanced over his shoulder. The group was turning into a side street. Franz’s heart was pounding. He rode three blocks toward the main square before turning southeast in the direction of the Black Forest.

  The dense woodlands and high mountains of the Black Forest weren’t Franz’s ultimate destination. His original plan had been to pretend he was on a short leave, spend the night in Freiburg, and then catch a train going south sixty kilometers to the Rhine. On the other
side of the Rhine was Basel, Switzerland, where Franz and his family had vacationed on a couple of occasions when he was a boy. However, that plan didn’t make it past his encounter with the Bavarian guard at the crest of the hill overlooking the chateau. Now time was Franz’s enemy and the motorcycle his only friend.

  As part of General Berg’s staff, Franz had studied maps of the area and knew there was a road running south along the edge of the forest. The moon was full, and when he reached the edge of town Franz could make out the brooding peak of Feldberg, the highest mountain in Germany outside the Alps. He headed south, slowing several times when he reached crossroads. None of the intersections had signs, and making an incorrect turn would cost valuable time and be disastrous. He tried to discern the direction of the main highway.

  The road entered the edge of the woods. The Black Forest hadn’t been truly dark and foreboding since the Middle Ages, but the combination of firs and pines did become thicker and the moonlight dimmed. Franz tried to stay calm and focused. He approached another crossroads and saw a sign he’d been seeking: “Basel 70 Kilometers.”

  Franz turned right and accelerated. He buzzed past farmhouses and vineyards. War was a time when darkness reigned, and good people stayed inside once the sun set. There was virtually no traffic on the road. Alone on the motorcycle, he found his thoughts returning to his family. The reality that they were gone was as hard to grasp and hold on to as the air rushing by his ears. He tried to keep his mind focused on the dimly lit pavement illuminated by the lamp between the motorcycle’s handlebars.

  Twice, dogs charged out in warning but didn’t pursue him. He scattered a small flock of chickens that had escaped their coop. The motorcycle’s engine jangled like it was about to sputter and die, but that was its normal sound. He came to a larger village. In the center of the town, a sign announced that it was fifteen kilometers to Basel. Franz stopped and took a long drink of water from an aluminum dipper at a communal well.

  The biggest question mark in his original plan had been how he would get across the Rhine. Whether by train or motorcycle, crossing the border would be difficult. All interaction between neutral Switzerland and the Third Reich was tightly controlled, and a German military officer like Franz couldn’t casually saunter across one of the ancient bridges that spanned the river for a spontaneous Swiss holiday.