Order of Battle

by Ib Melchior

  Von Eckdorf weighed the little gun in his hand. He could cover it completely with his palm. He was impressed. You can’t beat German know-how, he thought pridefully. He returned the tiny gun to Schmidt.

  “Very good,” he said. He still managed to sound patronizing. It pleased him.

  “It’s standard equipment, Herr von Eckdorf,” Willi said. “Have I the Herr Reichsamtsleiter’s permission to show him something— special?”

  “You have.”

  Willi turned to Steiner.

  “Steiner,” he said. “Show us!”

  Steiner grinned. “Jawohl, Herr Untersturmführer!”

  He walked a few steps away from the table. The men gave way. He was a big, muscular man clad in a brown shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of gray Wehrmaeht uniform pants held up by the standard broad leather belt, the solid metal belt buckle embossed with the Nazi eagle. Steiner stopped. Everyone was watching him.

  Suddenly he whirled toward a big, ornate mirror leaning against the wall. At the same moment his right hand slapped his belt buckle. Instantly it sprang open and with the same movement four short-snouted gun barrels leaped into position. At once Steiner fingered the side of the buckle—and four shots rang out in rapid succession, shattering the mirror, and sending Steiner’s image cascading to the floor in myriad pieces.

  Von Eckdorf started with shock. He caught himself, aware that all the men were watching him and conscious of their carefully concealed amusement. They were expecting me to jump, the louts! he thought angrily. They set me up. Steiner came over.

  “You just aim with your belly.” He grinned. “You can’t miss!”

  “It was developed especially for us,” Willi said. He held out his hand and Steiner took off his belt and handed it to him. Willi was careful not to betray how much he’d enjoyed seeing von Eckdorf jump. He’d been watching for it. Might take him down from his pedestal a notch or two. He showed the belt to von Eckdorf.

  “The device is built into the belt buckle,” he explained. “It fires four .32 ACP cartridges. You press a lever on the side of the buckle. The four barrels are released and instantly lock into position. Each barrel can be fired singly by squeezing an individual trigger—or as you saw Steiner do it.”

  Von Eckdorf hardly heard him. He pretended to examine the device minutely. He needed the time to compose himself, to control his mortification. He had been badly startled. Jumped like a rabbit. And everyone had seen it. He was impressed with the device, but he was much more acutely conscious of having been made to look undignified in front of the men. It was, of course, intolerable.

  He returned the belt to Willi. Then he turned deliberately to Steiner. He regarded him coldly.

  “That mirror,” he said. “No doubt it was the property of the Reich!”

  Steiner frowned with puzzlement. “Yes, sir,” he said soberly.

  “You will account for it then. Personally,” von Eckdorf said with icy calm. He turned on his heel and stalked off.

  Willi quickly followed.

  They had been through everything. Von Eckdorf was a very thorough man. But despite Willi’s efforts, the Reichsamtsleiter had remained overbearing and aloof throughout.

  They were approaching the main entrance. From a door marked with a red cross a man entered the corridor. He was naked from the waist up. A fresh bandage encircled his upper left arm. Willi stopped him.

  “How many more to go, Pitterman?” he asked.

  “Only two or three, Herr Untersturmführer,” the man answered.

  Willi nodded. The man walked off. Von Eckdorf looked after him.

  “It will heal within the week,” Willi said. “There will be no scar. In another week it cannot be detected at all.”

  He glanced at von Eckdorf. There was no reaction. What the hell do you make of a son of a bitch like that? he thought, frustrated.

  “We have thought of everything,” he added.

  Von Eckdorf turned to him.

  “Thank you for your time,” he said coolly. “You need not accompany me to my car. I am certain you have much to do. Convey my—congratulations to the general. If you fail in your mission, it will not be because your Führer and your Fatherland neglected to prepare you.”

  “We do not think in terms of failure, Herr Reichsamtsleiter!”

  “You are wise. Heil Hitler!”

  Von Eckdorf turned on his heel and marched off, leaving Willi staring after him. He didn’t think he’d done much good. He couldn’t understand why. He’d given the little man the impressive, triple grade A tour of the whole damned place. He’d explained programs, tactics, procedures to him. He’d staged demonstrations for him. He’d shown him everything. The works! And the bastard had been about as enthusiastic as a flower vendor in a fish market! What the hell was wrong with him?

  Willi watched von Eckdorf disappear through the huge double doors. Above them the big framed Werewolf motto still hung:

  ES GIBT KEINE KAMERADEN . . .

  THERE IS NO SUCH THING

  AS A FRIEND! IF YOUR MISSION

  IS AT STAKE, ATTACK HIM—

  IF NEED BE, KILL HIM!

  Heinrich Himmler

  Wonder if we’ll leave it here or take it along, Willi thought irrelevantly. He put von Eckdorf from his mind. The devil take him, he thought. But he was right in one thing. There’s still a lot to do!

  Willi turned away from the doors and walked quickly down the corridor. He whistled softly to himself:

  DU kleine Fliege,

  Wenn ich dich kriege—

  2309 hrs

  The great, massive desk stood in a pool of yellow light in the middle of the dark, empty room. The heavy draperies drawn across the big windows kept the light from the lone desk lamp from seeping outside. Even here in the Bohemian Mountains blackout regulations were strictly enforced.

  General Krueger was alone in his office. He sat behind the big desk. Spread out in front of him were the orders and reports brought by von Eckdorf. Every page, every photograph, every overlay was stamped GEHEIMSACHE—“Top Secret.” He had gone over all the material carefully. Evaluated it. There was not much time left. The Americans were less than a hundred kilometers from his Schönsee positions.

  Krueger had cut through all the stilted, formal military language of the final orders from the Führerhauptquartier and broken everything down to two principal missions, separate yet interdependent. First—eliminate the Supreme Allied Commander, General Dwight D. Eisenhower.

  The mission did not disconcert him. He did not regard it as an assassination. It was a military operation different from others only in its ramifications. Eisenhower, in his capacity of Supreme Commander, was a legitimate military target. He could see the reasoning behind the order. Eisenhower’s elimination would directly affect many phases of the war vital to the plans of the Third Reich. It was bound to create a certain amount of confusion and attendant delay in the conduct of the Allied campaign, even if they were only temporary. This would give the German forces much needed time and perhaps a short respite in which to consolidate and occupy the Alpenfestung. At the moment, the situation was deteriorating much faster than anyone had anticipated. He had no illusions that Eisenhower’s elimination would alter the course of the war. The Supreme Allied Commander was not indispensable. Others would carry on. However, if the elimination was carried out in such a manner that it was irrefutably an act of the Werewolves, the Americans would be forced to divert many troops and expend much effort on future protection against Werewolf activities. Again the result would be a much needed measure of relief for the German armed forces. In addition there was, of course, the undeniable propaganda value of the affair, the lift to the spirit of German resistance, both civilian and military. The plan would work, if executed correctly. He would concentrate on it as soon as the move to Schönsee had been carried out. The mission would be accomplished.

  Secondly—and still of primary importance to Krueger—was the long-range mission: To serve as the hard-core, backbone f
orce of the Alpenfestung. To battle the enemy through centrally controlled, efficiently organized guerrilla warfare. To wear him out with a barrage of hit-and-run strikes and buy the time necessary for the culmination of the Master Plan.

  Alone in the dark, disemboweled room, he smiled to himself. It was ironic. The Werewolf concept had been Himmler’s, but he, Generalmajor Karl Krueger, was entirely responsible for putting it into operation. He had been Himmler’s personal choice to carry out the Reichsführer’s concept. And with excellent reason. He knew better than any other German officer what guerrilla warfare could accomplish. For almost two years he had fought the Yugoslav partisans all over the Dinaric Alps. For two years he had been continuously and ignominiously defeated doing it! But he had learned.

  His schooling had begun in the early fall of 1941, when he was still a lieutenant colonel. In occupied Yugoslavia the Tito partisans were rapidly growing into the most effective, most dangerous guerrilla organization ever to fight an invader. Time and time again throughout the following months full-scale offensives had been mounted against the partisans, maximum efforts of up to ten divisions with heavy artillery and air support. He had commanded elements of these offensives. Time and time again the guerrillas had evaded all attempts to destroy them and escaped to keep fighting their hit-and-run war.

  Krueger smiled ruefully. He had been beaten. Badly beaten. By a Croat metalworker! In a way he supposed he should be grateful to him. Josip Brozovitch Tito. Two years ago he had cursed him and his partisans. Today he was preparing to imitate them, to use everything he’d learned from them about underground fighting! He had the greatest respect for the effectiveness of such unorthodox operations. Guerrillas by themselves may never have won a war, but they have prevented one or the other side from winning, he thought. Strike suddenly. Attack the enemy where he presents the richest target. Hit him where he is weakest. Above all, strike where he least expects it. And after the strike do not hang around. Fade away at once. Melt into the countryside. These were the partisans’ tactics. They would be the tactics of the Werewolves.

  He was confident. It had been proved conclusively these last years that a well-organized guerrilla force constituted a military factor of first-rate importance, against which a modern army of occupation was in many respects powerless.

  The Werewolves would be such a force. With wry amusement Krueger recalled the words of Dr. Goebbels a few weeks before, when the decision had been made to publicize the existence of the Werewolves on the state radio. He’d thought them rather egregious. “The Werewolves will be the Siegfried’s Sword that will slay the Dragons seeking to devour our Fatherland,” the little Doktor had declared. And he’d added, “On them will depend the success of the Master Plan!”

  So be it.

  Krueger idly pulled the thick mimeographed report to him.

  GEHEIMSACHE

  ZUSTAND DER ALPENFESTUNG

  Führerhauptquartier den 15.4.45

  There was a set of map overlays and a stack of aerial photographs as addenda to the report. He picked up one of the pictures and looked at it thoughtfully. It was an aerial view showing a peaceful valley between two majestic Alpine ranges; a string of mountain meadows ringed with evergreen woods and dotted with a few barns and shacks. He turned it over. On the reverse was a long list of specifications headed: LwUFH-7. He inspected the photograph again. The camouflage was remarkable. It was impossible to detect the slightest indication that this was indeed a Luftwaffe underground airfield. The runway access—like the entrance to a giant beehive, he thought—was completely hidden in the woods. The shacks and barns on the meadows effectively concealed the necessary ventilation intakes and exhausts for the field below. He tossed the photograph back and picked up a map overlay. He read the legend. Each symbol on the overlay marked the location of a very special kind of cache. Money. Valuables. Gold. Some of them he already knew. The gold coin hoard from Kremsmünster Monastery hidden in the Tyrol near Salzburg. He remembered with distaste the little SS major, Helmuth von Hummel, one of Bormann’s aides, who had been in charge of setting up the cache. That one alone must be worth not less than 25 million RM. The foreign currency collection at Berchtesgaden. Who knew how much? The gold cache near Rattendorf. At least another 20 million. And others. He wondered how much actually was available to finance the stand at the Alpenfestung. He gave up. At any rate, there’d be more than could possibly be needed.

  He gathered the documents together. It was an impressive report. More than that. It was a record of the staggering, overwhelming potential of the Alpenfestung.

  He stretched and looked at his watch. It was late. There was a knock on the door.

  “Herein,” he called.

  Schmidt and Willi entered. They stopped just inside the door.

  “The last units have left, Herr General,” Schmidt reported.

  “Thank you.”

  “Everything is ready for our departure tomorrow.”

  “Very good.”

  The two junior officers came briefly to attention. They turned to leave.

  “Wait!” Krueger stood up. He stretched again. He walked around the big desk. “I think tonight calls for a little celebration schnapps,” he said. “What do you think?” He was relaxed, informal. The men took their cues from the general.

  “Of course, sir. Thank you,” Schmidt said. He smiled. “And congratulations—General!”

  “Congratulations, sir,” Willi echoed.

  “Thank you, gentlemen.” Krueger opened the door to the hall.

  “Plewig!” he called. “Plewig!”

  He turned to Willi and gestured around the empty room. “Not much left,” he said. He pointed to the steel file cabinets. “Pull up a file. Sit down!”

  Willi grinned. “Yes, sir!”

  Plewig came hurrying around the corner. He was in stocking feet, holding up his pants with one hand. He skidded to a halt.

  “The general called,” he panted.

  “The general did,” Krueger said. “I want you to fetch a bottle of brandy from the cellar. The last of the Armagnac. And three glasses.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And, Plewig. Take a bottle of schnapps for yourself and the others.”

  “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!” The little man was off. Krueger returned to the room.

  Willi and Schmidt had upended an empty file cabinet and pulled it up to the desk. The general sat down in his chair. He indicated the file cabinet.

  “Have a seat, gentlemen. It may not be the most comfortable seat in the world, but you might as well get used to roughing it.”

  The men grinned. They sat down on the overturned file. The metal protested with a hollow groan. Krueger put his hand on the documents on his desk.

  “We’ve already gone over the orders,” he said. “We know what we have to do.” He studied the two younger men briefly. “Off the record. What are your opinions?”

  Willi and Schmidt glanced at each other. Schmidt said:

  “There’s not much time, General, if a substantial number of troops are to reach the Alpenfestung.”

  Krueger nodded. “I agree. We’re being badly squeezed.” He looked at his officers. “But Himmler has given me his personal promise to keep the approaches to the area open as long as possible.”

  “Munich?” Willi asked.

  Krueger nodded. “The SS troops have been ordered to force resistance to the utmost.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Plewig entered with a bottle of Armagnac and three brandy snifters. He had put on his boots and a jacket. Krueger motioned him over to the desk.

  “Ah,” he said enthusiastically. “Best brandy in the world. It rivals the finest cognac, gentlemen. Same quality, but a somewhat different style. More finesse.” He looked reverently at the bottle.

  “Thirty years old. From Grand Bas-Armagnac. The very best brandies come from that district. You are in for a treat!”

  Plewig poured an inch of the brandy into each glass. He put the bottle on the desk and
left. Krueger picked up his glass.

  “Prost!” he said pleasantly.

  The two men held out their glasses to him. “Prost!”

  They drank. Willi felt the deliciously burning sensation of the strong, smooth Armagnac gliding through his mouth and down his throat. He exhaled slowly through his nose, enjoying the rich flavor of the brandy to the fullest. This is the life, he thought. Boozing it up with the general!

  “You are right, Schmidt,” Krueger said. “Time is of vital importance. It’s up to us to make as much of it available for our purposes as possible.”

  Willi looked at the general. Why not? he thought. Why not take a chance? It’s only a question, after all. He cleared his throat.

  “Sir,” he said. “When we do reach our positions in the Alpenfestung. The others, too.” He swallowed. “What are our chances? Really.”

  Krueger regarded the young man for a moment.

  “Willi,” he said. There was an almost fatherly affection in his voice. “I think you should know.” He paused. Seriously he contemplated his brandy snifter, slowly turning it in his hand. Then he looked at the two officers.

  “At this moment,” he said soberly. “At this moment our Fatherland stands defeated. The war is lost.”

  Willi stared at the general. It wasn’t that he had not considered the same possibility himself. He had. But it was a shock to hear it said so unequivocally. By the general. Krueger continued.

  “But we can still turn today’s defeat into tomorrow’s victory. There is one way of doing it, and only one way. Reichsführer SS Himmler’s Master Plan!”

  He settled back in his chair. Willi and Schmidt watched him intently. He took a lingering sip of his brandy.

  “We can no longer win the war by ourselves,” he said. “We lost that chance in June last year, when the Allies established their beachhead in Normandy. Only a miracle could have given us victory after that. And no miracle came to pass. No, gentlemen—we need help. We need the help of either Russia—or America.”