Order of Battle

by Ib Melchior

  As Willi neared the bar, a young man in a Luftwaffe uniform stopped and spoke to the girl.

  Willi felt a pang of anxiety. Would she go with him? He was surprised at the intensity of his feeling. He hadn’t even met the girl yet. But she shook her head, and the Luftwaffe soldier walked away.

  Her name was Gerti Meissner. She came from Nürnberg. She was just eighteen.

  They were attracted to one another right away. Months of getting acquainted, of dating, of discovering each other seemed to be telescoped into a few hours. Of necessity, of course. But they chose to ignore that.

  It was late. Many of the couples had left the hall. Willi and Gerti were dancing. He held the girl close. She was soft and yielding in his arms. It had happened so fast, he thought, but he knew she was the one he wanted. He thought how it would be with her. He dwelt on it. He felt his excitement grow. He held her tightly. He couldn’t help himself. His fantasies, the soft girl body pressed against him, controlled him. He felt the swelling, the rising hardness. Suddenly he was frightened. They were so close. She would feel it against her. He pulled away a little, but Gerti moved to him. She held on to him, desperately. He could feel her soft thigh between his legs. He knew she must be aware of his erection. And he strained against her.

  She looked up at him. Her eyes were big.

  “Willi,” she said softly. “You will be the first. Ever.”

  Hand in hand they walked from the hall. They were crossing the reception foyer, when a strident voice called to them.

  “You there! Just a minute!”

  It was the sharp-faced BDM noncom. She came up to them. She glared at Willi.

  “Are you booking her?” she asked.

  Willi felt himself go cold. “Yes.”

  “Let me see your card,” the woman ordered. “Yours, too, girl.”

  Dumbly they handed her their cards.

  “Haven’t you read the instructions?” the woman asked irritably. “You can’t just walk out of here and hop into bed without going through the proper procedure!” She turned and marched toward her desk. “Come here!”

  Automatically Willi and Gerti followed her.

  “Your cards have to be stamped.” With a flourish she banged an official-looking rubber stamp on each of their cards. Then she quickly wrote in a large brown ledger. “The union has to be recorded.” She looked at Gerti. “She has to be checked out of the dormitory.”

  She fixed Willi with a baleful eye.

  “You understand, don’t you, there’s no second choice? Once you book her, she stays with you until you leave.”

  She shrugged.

  “After that—we see. If it took, fine! If not, she goes back to the dormitory.”

  Gerti was deathly silent. Her hand in Willi’s was like ice. He could feel her nails biting into his palm.

  The woman handed them their cards, properly stamped.

  “In Ordnung,” she said.

  Willi’s entire body felt clammy. In Ordnung, he thought. Regulations of Lebensborn Bodenheim complied with!

  He suddenly had a quick vision of that funny framed photograph on the mantel in his boyhood home. Mutti in her long white dress; his father with his imposing mustache. Both stiff, and formal, and proud. Mutti’s and Vati’s absurd wedding picture.

  Gerti was tense. With pathetic defiance she made straight for Willi’s bed and sat down on it. Wary. Stiff.

  “Your card has been stamped,” she said tonelessly. “Mine, too.” She looked steadily at him. Her eyes were unnaturally bright.

  Willi understood. In a rare moment of real insight he understood. He knew the emotional turmoil that must be surging inside the girl. He knew because he felt it, too. Feelings that were never meant to be coupled. Tenderness and shame; desire and disgust; need and debasement.

  He said nothing. Quietly he sat down beside her and felt her grow rigid. He didn’t touch her.

  “I feel sorry for her,” he said softly.

  Gerti looked up at him in surprise.

  “I really do feel sorry for that woman,” he continued. “She’ll never know.”

  Gerti regarded him curiously, her attention steered away from herself, from her own humiliation.

  “She’ll never have what you and I can have together.” He stood up. “She’ll never know what it can be like.” He walked away from the bed. He went to the window and held the curtain aside.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said. “The way the moonlight shines through the evergreens like that. Come look.”

  For a moment there was silence. Then he heard the girl get up. She came to him. Together they watched the still night forest outside. He put his arm around her waist, and she leaned her head against his shoulder.

  Suddenly she was in his arms. She clung to him in fierce desperation. Great rending sobs shook her slender body.

  He held her tenderly. He buried his face in her golden hair. He didn’t move, didn’t talk. And presently the girl grew quiet.

  He took her face between his hands, He kissed her dry, bright eyes, that could produce no tears. He kissed her smooth throat and felt the hot blood beating wildly inside her. He found her mouth, parted, eager—waiting for him.

  Slowly he led her back to the bed. With tender clumsiness he began to undress her. Impatiently she helped. And soon they were gazing at each other’s young, naked bodies with excitement and delight.

  He caressed her cool, silken skin. He kissed the small, thrusting breasts and felt the nipples grow jewel hard. He stroked her loins and felt himself close to bursting with desire.

  And they were together. Nothing existed except the two of them. He felt the obstruction that guarded her and thrust against it, her nails raking his back. And he felt it break in a surge of motion. And they were no longer two. Gerti moaned. Her musky scent intoxicated him. And suddenly the girl screamed. It was a clarion sound to him. He felt himself explode in a burst of sensual agony inside her. He felt his life force spurt and flood from him.

  They belonged to one another in that moment. Completely.

  After that they were insatiable. The night darkness was already graying when they finally fell asleep in each other’s arms. Gerti was still asleep when he woke up. A fine ray of sunlight squeezed through the drawn curtains and sent a line of gold across her hair. Gently he disentangled himself from her arms. He stood up and looked at himself. With wonder he saw that his thigh had a spot of dried blood on it. He looked closer. There was more dried blood on his pubic hair. He looked at the sleeping girl. He suddenly felt an overwhelming tenderness toward her. He thought, I won’t wash it off. There was something almost sacred about it. This was the way his child had been conceived. With the blood of innocence.

  Outside a motorcycle backfired. Lebensborn Bodenheim was waking up.

  Willi went to the showers. . . .

  It had been a long time ago. He knew now that he’d simply been a “stud” in a National Socialist breeding station. Like others. He knew his child—his son?—was a “Hitler baby.” He knew the boy belonged to the Third Reich, and he knew he’d never see him. He had only his memories. And he didn’t know whether to be proud of them or to regret them.

  Von Eckdorf turned from the bulletin board. He started down the crowded corridor and Willi followed. Coming toward them was a small, stocky man in dirty civilian clothes. He carried an oily rag. Von Eckdorf regarded him with repugnance. When the man came abreast of him, he stopped him. He held out his hand.

  “Your papers!”

  The man looked startled. He shot a quick glance at Willi. Willi said nothing. The man turned back to von Eckdorf. He shook his head. He looked confused, frightened. Haltingly he jabbered something unintelligible. Von Eckdorf was taken aback.

  “Your identification papers, you idiot,” he snapped.

  The man flinched. He looked petrified. But he did not respond.

  “Well?”

  The man cringed before von Eckdorf. He shook his head violently.

  “Nein—verstehen,” he st
ammered.

  Von Eckdorf stared at the man in astonishment. The whole place is a lunatic asylum, he thought. With a little smile, Willi said:

  “The man has orders to speak only Russian, Herr Reichsamtsleiter.”

  “Russian?” Von Eckdorf was startled. “But—he is a German?”

  “Of course, sir. But to the Americans he will be a—a foreign laborer. A Ukrainian. He has been instructed to speak only Russian, even here, to get him used to it—to condition him.” He turned to the cowering man. “You may answer, Kunze,” he said.

  At once the man’s attitude changed. He snapped to attention.

  “Jawohl, Herr Untersturmführer.”

  Quickly he brought out his identification papers and handed them to von Eckdorf. The Reichsamtsleiter examined them curiously.

  “They are completely authentic,” Willi said with obvious pride. “Every stamp. Every signature. Everything. Nothing is forged.” He grinned. “Except, of course, the information they contain!”

  Von Eckdorf fingered the papers. “What is the purpose?” he asked.

  “Kunze will be an outside agent. A collector of intelligence for us,” Willi explained. “His foreign laborer identity is simply his cover. We know the Americans often use these foreigners—Displaced Persons, they call them, or DPs—for various jobs. For example, as waiters or cleaning personnel in their service clubs. In their motor pools.” He smiled. “The Americans don’t like to do the dirty work themselves if they can get someone else to do it. We’ll be glad to help them out!”

  “I see. A Werewolf spy among the Americans. Of course. It might prove valuable,” von Eckdorf said with grudging approval. He turned to Kunze. “Do you carry a gun?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Not even a knife, Herr Reichsamtsleiter,” Willi interjected. “Obvious weapons would betray him. But he is armed.”

  Von Eckdorf looked nonplussed. Willi was beginning to see the course of action to take. He felt he was capturing the Reichsamtsleiter’s interest despite the man’s prejudiced antagonism. Willi knew it was important not to make an enemy of a high-ranking party official like von Eckdorf, even if he was a self-important bastard. He knew better than most that everything done in Germany today had political overtones, and he realized it had to be like that. It was the only way the Fatherland could survive. Krueger, on the other hand, was strictly a soldier. The best! Willi would follow him anywhere. The colonel—general now—was an expert in guerrilla warfare. For over a year he had fought Tito’s partisans in the Balkans, and he had learned much from them. But he had little use for politicians, sticking their ignorant, meddlesome noses in military matters. If Willi could help by mellowing Reichsamtsleiter von Eckdorf, he’d damned well break his back to do it! He reached over and took a pencil from the breast pocket of Kunze’s threadbare jacket. He handed it to von Eckdorf.

  “He does carry a weapon,” he said. “This!”

  Von Eckdorf turned the pencil over. He examined it. He scratched it with his nail. He tested the point. Then he turned to Willi.

  “It’s just an ordinary pencil,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” Willi confirmed. “It is just a plain pencil. But—” He looked at von Eckdorf like a kid showing off a new toy. “If I may show the Herr Reichsamtsleiter.”

  He turned to survey the stream of people flowing through the broad corridor. I hope I’m not overdoing it, he thought with sardonic self-appraisal. He motioned to a passing soldier carrying a rifle. The man came over. Willi took the soldier and Kunze aside and gave them some brief instructions. He retrieved the pencil from von Eckdorf and returned it to Kunze, who put it back in his breast pocket in plain sight. Von Eckdorf was watching the proceedings with an impatient frown. Willi joined him.

  “Please, Herr Reichsamtsleiter,” he said eagerly. “The men will demonstrate for you.” He nodded to the two men. The soldier slung his rifle over his shoulder, and took up position as if he were a guard.

  “Please imagine,” Willi commented in a conspiratorial sotto voce, “that the soldier is a sentry who must be eliminated. Silently. Efficiently. Please watch. . . .”

  Kunze and the recruited soldier entered into their roles with proper enthusiasm. They’d done it many times before. In training.

  Kunze walked up to the soldier. The man brought his gun to port arms and challenged him. With a big, disarming grin Kunze held up his empty hands in a gesture of harmless submission. He spoke a few words in Russian.

  “Speak German, you clod,” the soldier barked. “What do you want?”

  Kunze shrugged ingratiatingly. His grin grew wider. “No—speak,” he said. He launched into a stream of Russian. The soldier obviously understood nothing. Kunze kept his distance. Clearly he presented no threat to the sentry, as he gestured and babbled on.

  God, what a ham, Willi thought with amusement. He’s putting on quite a show. But it’ll take more than that to get a positive reaction out of a critic as sour as that pompous little ass! He chanced a glance at von Eckdorf. The Reichsamtsleiter was watching with wary interest.

  Kunze was getting nowhere. He stopped talking. He cocked his head in cogitation. He suddenly seemed to get an idea.

  “Tovarich!” He beamed. “I—show . . .”

  From his breast pocket he carefully fished out an old scrap of paper. And the pencil. He studiously wetted the point on his tongue and began laboriously to scrawl something on the paper. He seemed completely engrossed in his task. In his concentration he edged closer to the soldier, who was watching him.

  Even though he knew what was going to happen, Willi felt himself growing tense with suspense. He was aware of von Eckdorf beside him. The little man was absorbed in the scene, sensing the climax was near. He was clutching Kunze’s papers in his hand, forgotten. Now, Willi thought. Now!

  Suddenly, with lightning speed, Kunze made a vicious stabbing sweep at the soldier’s stomach with the pencil. With instinctive reflex action the man pulled his stomach back. For a split second he was leaning slightly forward, his head thrust out, his neck exposed. The sweep to the stomach had only been a feint. Without hesitation, in continuous motion, Kunze stabbed the sharply pointed pencil upward straight for the soldier’s exposed jugular vein! In the last possible moment he veered it away. With the same motion he brought the pencil up high, and drove it down hard—this time with the metal-capped blunt end first, so he didn’t have to reposition the pencil in his hand—directly toward the soldier’s eye, stopping only short of piercing it! The soldier collapsed. His rifle clattered to the floor. He would have been a dead man.

  The “kill” had taken less than two seconds.

  Von Eckdorf stared at the man on the floor. Willi spoke matter-of-factly.

  “The pencil point will pierce the jugular vein, Herr Reichsamtsleiter. Death is instantaneous. Should he miss, he can ram it down through the man’s eye into his brain. The bone is quite thin there.”

  Von Eckdorf said nothing. Despite himself he had been excited by the scene he had witnessed. But this was not the place, not the time to show it.

  Willi dismissed the soldier. “It’s a very effective maneuver,” he said. He glanced at von Eckdorf. The Reichsamtsleiter was still clutching Kunze’s papers in his hand. The little bastard is impressed, Willi thought. He’s just too damned mulish to admit it! No matter. We’ve just begun, little man!

  Von Eckdorf made a point of sounding uninterested. “So I imagine,” he said. He suddenly became aware of Kunze’s papers in his hand. He gave them back to the man at once. They were wrinkled and crushed. He nodded curtly.

  “You may go,” he said.

  Kunze clicked his heels and left. Willi looked after him. He was pleased.

  “We have many of these—DPs,” he said with satisfaction. “They’ll get us information—reliable information—about a lot of important targets. It is a very effective program. General Krueger’s idea, of course.”

  Von Eckdorf said nothing.

  There were fourteen Lilliputs left in the
box. Hauptmann Ludwig Schmidt made a quick head count of the men gathered around the table. It would be enough. There would be at least half a dozen extras. He’d instruct Steiner to load them with the HQ supplies.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Willi Richter approaching, accompanied by a small, imperious-looking civilian. That would be the man from Berlin Krueger had said would be arriving. He walked over to meet them.

  Willi turned to von Eckdorf.

  “Herr Reichsamtsleiter,” he said. “May I present Hauptmann Schmidt. Our executive officer.”

  Schmidt saluted. “Heil Hitler!”

  Von Eckdorf returned the salute. He inspected Schmidt with curiosity and consternation. The Wehrmacht captain was in uniform, but his right leg and right arm were encased in prominent steel and leather braces.

  “You are—a cripple, Hauptmann Schmidt?”

  “So are many of us, Herr Reichsamtsleiter,” Schmidt said with a cold smile. He indicated the group of men gathered around the table. Several of them were in some way crippled. One of them, a man in his late thirties, turned from the table and walked away from the group. He was clad in civilian clothes. His left arm was missing, the empty jacket sleeve pinned up to his shoulder. He wore a patch over his left eye and walked with a limp.

  “Heinz lost his arm and his eye in the Afrika Korps, El Alamein,” Schmidt said. He slapped his leather-encased right arm against his steel brace. “I got mine at Salerno.” He looked steadily at von Eckdorf.

  “We’re crippled. But it makes us no less loyal to our Führer.” A thin smile narrowed his lips. “And who considers a poor cripple dangerous?” he added.

  Von Eckdorf looked at the officer with approval. Here is a real German officer at last, he thought. “Excellent,” he said.

  The three men walked over to the table. A noncom, Steiner, was distributing handguns to the men and recording serial numbers in a ledger. Schmidt took one of the guns from the box and handed it to von Eckdorf. The Reichsamtsleiter inspected it gingerly. It was exceedingly small and compact.

  “It is the Lilliput, Herr Reichsamtsleiter,” Schmidt explained. “German made. Four point two five millimeters. Magazine load. Easily concealed. It’s the smallest effective automatic made.”