Order of Battle

by Ib Melchior

While the other guard covered him, the SS man examined the case. Werner stood patiently, holding his wounded arm. The pain was getting worse. He tried his best not to drip any blood on the floor.

  The SS man turned to him. He motioned with his gun.

  “Get them up!”

  Werner stared at him. He started to speak in protest.

  “Move!” snapped the guard.

  Werner raised his right arm. The two SS guards glared at him dispassionately. What the hell, he thought angrily. Do they think I’ve come to blow up the place? Do they think the damned hole in my arm hides a gun? The devil take them! Biting down the pain, he managed to lift his injured left arm. He could feel the warm blood run down his armpit inside his clothing. He looked straight ahead. He’d be damned if he’d give those SS bastards the satisfaction of seeing him suffer.

  The guards searched him—roughly, thoroughly.

  From the bunker area beyond, an SS captain entered the reception corridor. With a glance he took in the scene. The SS men came to attention. Werner didn’t move. The officer turned to one of the guards.

  “What is it?”

  “Courier with a dispatch for Generalfeldmarschall Keitel, Herr Hauptsturmführer,” the guard answered at once.

  The SS officer glanced at Werner. Then he looked questioningly at the SS men.

  “All in order, Herr Hauptsturmführer.”

  The officer motioned to Werner.

  “Come with me.”

  Werner took his hands down. His left arm felt like a balloon swollen with agony. The SS man threw the pouch to him and he hurried after the officer.

  Colonel Hans Heinrich Stauffer had a throbbing headache. It had been a long day. An impossible day. And it wasn’t over yet. He looked up from the papers on his desk, as the SS captain, followed by Stabsgefreiter Stefan Werner, entered the office. He felt a twinge of distaste when he saw the SS officer. The SS were getting more officious, more impossible every day. The man had simply barged right in!

  The SS captain raised his arm in the Nazi salute.

  “Heil Hitler!”

  Stauffer deliberately turned back to his papers. He did not return the salute. Without looking up, he said acidly:

  “Come in, Captain. I did not hear you knock. What is it?”

  The SS officer’s face grew tight. His voice grated as he said:

  “Courier with an urgent dispatch for Generalfeldmarschall Keitel, Herr Oberst!”

  Stauffer looked up. He held out his hand. Werner quickly took a large sealed envelope from his pouch; he stepped up to Stauffer and handed the document to him. He let his left arm hang at his side. The blood was again running down his wrist. He cupped his hand, trying to catch it, before it dripped on the carpeted floor.

  Stauffer took the dispatch. He noticed Werner’s bleeding arm. He felt a shock of annoyance. He fixed the SS captain with a cold stare. The man must have seen it before. He must have known. And he’d done exactly nothing. Stauffer felt a surge of disgust. Brutish beasts, all of them! His voice was icy when he spoke.

  “This man is wounded. He is bleeding. I presume you have noticed? I want him taken care of. At once! I’ll expect your personal report on his condition within the hour!”

  Tight-lipped, the SS officer gave a curt nod.

  “As the colonel wishes.”

  Stauffer looked at the dispatch in his hand.

  “That’s all.”

  Again the SS captain gave the Nazi salute—pointedly:

  “Heil Hitler!”

  Stauffer ignored him. The officer turned on his heel and stalked from the office. Werner followed him quickly. He tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. He didn’t at all relish being in the middle. But his arm did hurt like hell. . . .

  Stauffer tore open the envelope. Quickly he read the message. His face clouded.

  Damn! he thought bitterly. They bungled it. His headache was suddenly much worse. He’ll be furious. . . .

  Field Marshal Keitel marched stiffly up and down his office. He slapped the dispatch angrily into the open palm of his hand. His face was pinched with frustration and acrimony.

  “Imbeciles! Incompetents!”

  Stauffer longed for a headache powder. He tried to think where he could find one. He said:

  “Herr Feldmarschall. It’s a very efficient, very reliable group. . . .”

  Keitel whirled on him.

  “Reliable! They’re lucky if the Führer doesn’t have them shot!”

  “It was the same group that was responsible for the time bombs at Saint Avoid, Herr Feldmarschall, last December. . . .”

  Keitel held up a hand in dismissal. Stauffer pretended not to see it. He went on:

  “There were sixty-nine casualties. Many high-ranking American officers. Even more important, it forced the enemy to change his occupation procedures entirely. A whole new security system had to be worked out before they dared take over any building. It caused a great deal of confusion. The Führer ordered the group leader decorated.”

  Keitel was silent. Stauffer added quietly:

  “There was very little time to prepare this mission.”

  “That’s no excuse!”

  “It was a matter of last-minute change of plans. On the Americans’ part. Eisenhower didn’t go to Feldstein himself. He sent someone else. They could not possibly have known. . . .”

  “So all they got were a few cans of gasoline and some obscure officers,” Keitel said caustically. “The Führer will be delighted at the way his orders were carried out!”

  Stauffer said nothing.

  Keitel went to the situation map on the wall. He stared at it without actually seeing it. He was deeply troubled. He had never doubted his Führer, but with profound shock he realized that he found it impossible to share his belief that the tide could be turned at this late hour and the war won from Berlin. He felt it imperative that Hitler abandon the capital and go south to the Alpine stronghold, to Obersalzberg above the village of Berchtesgaden. The fight could continue from the mountain positions there. From there defeat might be turned into victory.

  He scowled in an earnest attempt to find a proper perspective. Sometimes events happened too fast for him. And without order. Above all without order. It was impossible to make anything work smoothly without order. He felt irritated. He hated to have plans changed, once they were decided upon. And everything had been arranged.

  Already a week ago the Führer had sent his personal household servants to Berghof to prepare the mountain retreat for his arrival. The Führer planned to follow on the twentieth of April. On his fifty-sixth birthday. But now there were more and more indications that he might stay in Berlin and lead the defense of the city himself.

  The situation was developing rapidly. Keitel frowned. He only hoped not too rapidly. Hitler’s presence in the Alpenfestung was imperative. His personal leadership was essential. If only the Führer would not wait too long. Everything was ready to be activated. Everything.

  Keitel’s frown deepened. How could he tell the Führer of the failure? The first attempt to carry out his orders! The whole thing made him uneasy. He had a nagging suspicion that the Führer placed too great an importance on nonmilitary matters. On the advice of mystics and astrologers. On special missions like the assassination scheme. On promises of new superweapons, like those abortive experiments with nuclear chain reaction the scientists were conducting at Haigerloch. They’d actually told the Führer they could make a bomb the size of a pineapple that could wipe out an entire city! Bah! Puttering around in their caves in the Black Forest. More like black magic! And just as unmilitary and implausible. It was a disturbing suspicion to Keitel, and he did not allow it to grow beyond just that.

  He felt resentful, however, at finding himself involved in the assassination plot. Not for any moral reasons. And the idea did have a certain merit.

  The Führer had been obsessed with the assassination of enemy leaders, both political and military, ever since the failure of “Operation Long Jump,” tha
t abortive assassination attempt at the Big Three meeting in Teheran in the winter of ’43. This time he felt certain failure would not be tolerated. It had become too personal a matter for the Führer. After all, he had been a target himself! At Rastenburg.

  But Keitel anticipated a lot of difficulties. A lot of negative reports would have to be given Hitler. And he didn’t like that. He had enough to contend with. Anyway, it was not the kind of responsibility he should have to shoulder. It was the kind of thing that should be supervised by someone else.

  Someone else? Of course!

  He had the answer. And it could be made part of the greater plan. That was the beauty of it! He turned to Stauffer.

  “Where’s Krueger?” he asked. “What is his status now?”

  “At Thürenberg.” Stauffer joined Keitel at the map. Good for you, Willi! he thought with cynical amusement. I knew you’d find a way to dodge the blame!

  Keitel continued. Once more he sounded like his old stiff self.

  “Krueger is the one to carry out the Führer’s orders. It is to be his responsibility. Part of his overall mission. I want orders prepared at once.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Keitel was pleased with the solution. Simple. Logical.

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “He’s already received his orders to close down Thürenberg. Go operational. Orders from Reichsführer Himmler.”

  “When?”

  “Two days ago. His positions are being prepared now.”

  “Where?”

  Stauffer indicated the locations on the map, all in southern Bavaria.

  “Here . . . here . . . here . . . Headquarters near Schönsee—here—close to his ultimate position in the Alpenfestung.”

  “Prima! His new orders will have top priority. He is to carry out his mission without delay. The Führer wants results!”

  “Jawohl, Herr Feldmarschall,” Stauffer said. The old man was back in form again.

  The field marshal contemplated the situation map.

  “The Russians are battering the gates of Berlin. The Americans are still pressing on.” Almost to himself he added, “We must carry on the fight—from the Alpine Fortress. . . .”

  Stauffer turned to leave.

  “Wait!”

  He stopped. He looked expectantly at Keitel.

  “Krueger is only a colonel, is he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Promote him. Make him a general. Generalmajor. In the name of the Führer!”

  He paused for a moment.

  “One more thing. Reichsamtsleiter von Eckdorf. He is still in Berlin?”

  “I believe so, Herr Feldmarschall.”

  “He has family in the area around Schönsee. Farmers, if I remember correctly.” He sighed. “Send him to Thürenberg. Make the orders effective immediately. I want him to report directly to me. He will be responsible only to me—and to the Führer personally!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stauffer left. Keitel looked after him. He felt somehow delivered of a depressing burden. With the Führer’s plan carried out, and the Americans badly shaken; with Krueger and his backbone organization in position; with the Alpenfestung ready to become operational under Hitler’s personal leadership, the German phoenix might still rise from the ashes of temporary defeat. . . .

  17 Apr 1945

  Thürenberg

  1322 hrs

  Werewolves! he thought disdainfully. For the fiftieth time he shifted his weight on the back seat of the gray 1939 sedan.

  Reichsamtsleiter Manfred von Eckdorf was extremely uncomfortable. And extremely disgruntled. It was close to three hundred kilometers from Berlin to the Czechoslovakian village of Thürenberg and the old Germanic castle of the same name. Three hundred kilometers. Three hundred thousand meters—and a hole in the road every damned meter of the way!

  Von Eckdorf was in a sour mood. He’d been on the road more than seven hours. They’d awakened him in the early morning hours and taken him to the Führer Bunker. Here an insufferable Wehrmacht colonel had handed him top priority orders sending him off to a Godforsaken place in Czechoslovakia with less than two hours’ warning.

  The briefing by the colonel had been short and to the point, but von Eckdorf had a disquieting feeling of veiled mockery in the officer’s attitude. And the whole thing wasn’t at all what he’d expected. He’d come up to Berlin from Munich to report to the Führer on the financial state of Bavaria. In a gesture that was simply meant to show his loyalty, he’d offered his services to Adolf Hitler, in any capacity. But he certainly hadn’t counted on this! Riding herd on a flock of Werewolves!

  The car hit another bump in the road and von Eckdorf was thrown forward. Angrily he caught himself.

  Before his briefing earlier he had known only a little about the Werewolves. He’d always mistrusted the word. He was under the impression it was something thought up by that little “poison dwarf,” Goebbels. He had been genuinely surprised to learn that the Werewolves, complete with mission and name, had been created by the Reichsführer SS, Heinrich Himmler, himself, quite some time ago, and with Hitler’s full approval. Of course, the Führer had always had a penchant for that word, “wolf.” In the early days of the National Socialist movement he’d used “wolf” as a cover name. And it seemed that ever since he’d seized every opportunity to use this savage symbol. His headquarters at Rastenburg in East Prussia had been named Wolfsschanze—Wolf’s Lair. Somewhere else, he’d forgotten where, it had been Wolfsschlucht—Wolfs Throat; at Vinnitsa in the Ukraine, Werwolf. And now these Werewolves. They were supposed to be highly trained, specially equipped guerrilla fighters, operating under top secret orders. They were supposed to form the backbone of the resistance forces in the Alpenfestung.

  His briefing had really been quite inadequate, he thought resentfully. He knew little more now than he had before. He was supposed to inspect the organization headquarters, under the command of some newly promoted Generalmajor Krueger, and make sure the Werewolves were ready to start operations as soon as possible. As a high-ranking civilian party member he was supposed to observe the subsequent Werewolf activities and report on them. The Werewolves had some vital, top secret mission to carry out within the next few days. Then they would take up their position in the Alpenfestung, and von Eckdorf’s responsibilities would end.

  It was all ridiculously mysterious. But von Eckdorf was an economics expert. Everything with which he concerned himself had ultimately to add up. Everything had to be mathematically precise and correct.

  This would be no different.

  The driver turned off the road. In the hills ahead loomed the old Thürenberg Castle.

  Spring had already begun to splash the mountain slopes with fresh pale greens. The groves of darker-colored evergreens contrasted sedately with the light exuberance of new growth. Built long ago with massive blocks of weathered stone native to the mountains themselves, the unpretentious castle, rising with solid grace from the rock, seemed to be part of the countryside. It was a scene of peace and beauty.

  The approach to the castle led under a heavy stone archway between two square guard towers. In the portal a barricade had been placed across the road.

  The car was flagged to a halt. Two armed Waffen SS soldiers examined von Eckdorf’s orders under the watchful observation of other armed guards at the barricade. The boom was raised and the car was waved on.

  The courtyard of Burg Thürenberg was surprisingly large and entirely surrounded by the castle buildings and a high stone wall. Opposite the portal a broad, imposing flight of stairs led to the main entrance to the castle itself. The place had a decidedly medieval atmosphere—much in keeping with the werewolf tradition, von Eckdorf thought wryly. The car slowly made its way across the courtyard toward the massive stairs. Von Eckdorf leaned forward and in astonishment looked out the window. He had expected nothing like the spectacle before him.

  The sprawling, cobblestoned courtyard was the scene of brisk, organized confusion. A lar
ge number of horse-drawn wagons and carts of all descriptions were pulled up in several rows. Von Eckdorf made a quick calculation. At least sixty. A small fleet of motor vehicles, both military and civilian, were parked along one wall, including an old truck converted into a wood burner. Two men— one a civilian clad in short Bavarian lederhosen and wearing a gray wool jacket embroidered with a green oak leaf design, the other a Waffen SS Rottenführer—were loading wood logs into the truck’s storage bin.

  Nearby four men were struggling a heavy mortar onto a cart. A wagon next to it was being loaded with cooking pans, with pots, kettles, boxes of utensils. Several Wehrmacht soldiers were stowing machine guns on a truck; others were piling up ammunition boxes. Throughout the courtyard, around the wagons, carts and motor vehicles, men were swarming, fully half of them in their teens. Stacks of supplies and equipment of all kinds were scattered among the rolling stock. Crated small arms, mortars, MGs; ration boxes and barrels of provisions; cans of gasoline; hampers filled with clothing; furniture and crated office equipment. One wagon was already piled high with batteries; another held tools, rolls of wire, cut lumber.

  The men beside a truck set off from the rest showed extra care in loading a stack of crates. Each one bore a warning in large red letters, HIGH EXPLOSIVES.

  Von Eckdorf took it all in. In his amazement his mind turned for comfort to a cliche. Like ants, he thought. Like scurrying ants in a suddenly exposed anthill. Only they weren’t like ants at all. There was no uniformity. There were Wehrmacht soldiers, Waffen SS, Hitler Jugend, civilians, indiscriminately mixed together, even men wearing only parts of uniforms.

  A disgraceful conglomeration, von Eckdorf thought. His orderly mind was offended at the complete lack of military conformity and the obviously haphazard discipline.

  The sedan came to a halt before the stairs. Waffen SS Lieutenant Willi Richter hurried down the steps and opened the car door for Reichsamtsleiter Manfred von Eckdorf.

  The Nazi party official was a smallish, wiry man of about fifty-five. He wore conservative civilian clothes. Smartly Willi raised his right arm.

  “Heil Hitler!”