Order of Battle

by Ib Melchior

  Willi started. Krueger didn’t seem to notice. He went on.

  “Already Himmler has been successful in sowing mistrust in the minds of the Russians. Persuading them, for instance, that despite the Americans’ protestations, they intend to drive for Berlin, leaving the Alpenfestung as a thorn in Stalin’s side. There is no love lost between the eastern and western allies. They are already on the brink of open hostilities. It’ll be up to us to push a little. To send them over that brink! There are many ways it can be done. Diplomatically, of course, through planting false ‘leaks’ of ‘confidential’ material. In neutral countries. Sweden. Switzerland. On our part, through special missions. Staged provocations. Our men in Russian uniforms attacking an American unit. Americans killing Russians! Little incidents of no importance by themselves. But—the retaliations will be real. In the armed conflict between East and West that will result, it will soon become apparent who is the stronger. And to the winning side Himmler—in the name of the Führer—will be able to offer the deciding strength of the Third Reich, sustained in the Alpenfestung. On our terms! The Master Plan will turn defeat into ultimate victory.”

  He took a sip of his Armagnac.

  “But we must act quickly now. Decisively. At best we have to the end of this month.”

  He looked straight at the two officers. There was a grim glint in his penetrating eyes.

  The elimination of Eisenhower will give us a few more days. Perhaps. We make our move to the Alpenfestung immediately after that mission is accomplished,” he said.

  He sipped his drink. Twelve years, he thought. Twelve long, hard years—half of them spent at war—the National Socialist Third Reich had fought to attain her rightful place as the leading power of the world. And now two weeks would decide her ultimate fate! He felt awed at the realization. He looked at the two young men before him. Did they know the roles they were about to play in shaping history?

  “Two weeks, gentlemen,” he said soberly. “Two weeks before the Americans seal off the Alpine area. Unless we can prevent it.”

  He stood up. The two junior officers quickly followed suit. Krueger raised his glass.

  “To the Master Plan,” he said. “Sieg Heil!”

  “Seig Heil!”

  They drank. Krueger looked at his glass. He looked at the Bavarian civilian clothes he was wearing, the forester’s knee breeches, the coarse green shirt, the gray jacket with the carved bone buttons. Again he raised his glass. It was nearly empty. He drew himself erect. Quietly he said:

  “Hoch! Hoch—the Werewolves!”

  Part II

  28 Apr 1945

  Weiden

  0957 hrs

  The white sheets of surrender hung from the windows, limp and dejected, speckling the old, colorful buildings of the little Bavarian town of Weiden with their signals of submission. They had greeted the American troops when they rolled into town a week earlier. They were still there, calculated insurance against the violence of war.

  Erik and Don dismounted from their jeep and made their way toward the town jail. One of the few larger and newer buildings in town, it served as quarters for the Counter Intelligence Corps.

  Erik glanced down the street. It never ceased to amaze him how quickly the people of the small German towns seemed to accept the upheaval of their world. Already the Weiden townspeople walked the streets on purposeful errands of their own, pointedly ignoring the raw scars of battle that marred most of the buildings. Many of the old houses wore the shrapnel-chipped signs of more imperious times crudely painted on their walls—like rueful dowagers wearing the faded finery of better, bygone days: the ever-present swastikas, the Nazi propaganda slogans, SIEG ODER SIBIRIEN —“Victory or Siberia”; EIN VOLK EIN REICH EIN FüHRER—“One people, One Country, One Leader”; HITLER BRINGT BROT, STALIN DEN TOD—“Hitler Brings Bread, Stalin Death.” And other, less arrogant, more sober messages: WIR SIND IM KELLER—“We Are in the Basement”—lettered on the only standing wall of a bombed-out house, with a large white arrow pointing down. Or a terse ABGEABGEREISTREIST——““Gone””——on the shell of a gutted shop.

  The jail itself, a substantial stone structure, was almost undamaged. Only the doorframe of the main entrance and part of the wall around the door had been badly cracked by shrapnel from a shell that landed in the street. An elderly German civilian wearing a soiled leather cap was in the process of repairing the damage, carefully removing a hand---lettered sign fixed to the wall to cover part of the hole ROOMROOMS WITH ADJOINING TOWELS,S WITH ADJOINING TOWELS, it proclaimed.

  The German doffed his cap as Erik and Don walked past him into the building. They did not acknowledge his greeting, nor did they notice the glint of hate that flitted across the man’s eyes as he glared after them.

  The corridor was crowded with people. Civilians and German soldiers; men and women; young and old. All sorts of people—but all with one thing in common, the tension of fear. At the far end of the corridor a bored MP stood guard at a door. The blue and orange windmill insignia with the letters CIC was tacked on the wall next to the door. Beneath it was written: SCREENING & INTERROGATION. Erik and Don pushed open the door and entered.

  “. . . and your entire unit was disbanded more than a week ago?”

  The question was sharp, incredulous, as it was shot at a German soldier standing at attention before a large desk littered with papers and books. The two CIC agents seated behind the desk glared at the soldier. He looked pinched and gray with apprehension.

  “Ja! Y-yes, sir!” he stammered.

  The interrogator fixed him with a baleful eye.

  Then how do you account for the fact that no one else from your outfit has come through here? Only you!”

  “Why you?” the other man snapped.

  “What’s so special about you?”

  “What are you after?”

  The German was shaken, flustered. He looked pleadingly from one to the other of his interrogators.

  “I—I don’t know. I don’t understand. There should have been—others. Please, Herr Hauptmann. It’s true! I’m telling the truth!”

  Erik stood just inside the door with Don. He knew the routine. It was one of Agent Hacker’s favorite ploys. The soldier was probably okay. Just exactly what he said he was. Discharged. Probably a lot of his comrades had already been screened by Hacker and his teammate, Pierce, and been sent on their way. The man’s confusion at being told he was the only one was genuine. And believable. Had he come up with a clever, logical explanation—that would have been reason for suspicion, and a more searching interrogation.

  Erik looked around the room. He thought wearily of the many hours he’d already spent here, the many hours still to come.

  The room was a bleak-looking affair, cold and unfriendly. Through a broken windowpane ran the wires to two field telephones on the desk. A large area map was tacked up on the wall behind the desk. It had no markings of any kind. A small potbellied stove squatted in a corner, its black pipe disappearing through a sooty hole in the wall. There was no fire in it. On the dirty wall was a large rectangular spot, cleaner and lighter in color. Erik was certain it had only recently been occupied by a portrait of the Führer.

  Agent Hacker handed the German a slip of paper.

  “Take this to the military government office. The sergeant outside will show you where. They’ll give you a travel pass.”

  The soldier clicked his heels smartly.

  “Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann! Thank you! Thank you very much!”

  He saluted.

  “You may go,” Hacker said.

  The German left. Don sauntered over to the desk.

  “Okay, fellers,” he said pleasantly. “You’re sprung. We’ll take it from here.”

  “And you can have it,” Pierce grumbled with feeling.

  “What’s the matter?” Don asked with mock astonishmennt. “I thought you liked screening duty.”

  Pierce looked sour.

  “Don’t make me laugh. It strains my stitc
hes.”

  Erik was riffling through a bunch of papers in a basket on the desk.

  “Anything interesting turn up?” he asked.

  Hacker shrugged.

  “Not much. Couple of SS officers and a concentration camp guard. Member of the Deathheads.”

  “Big deal,” Don commented.

  “And one character we sent back to Army Interrogation Center.” Hacker ignored Don. “Just had a hunch he’d have something to tell.”

  The door opened, and Sergeant Jim Murphy stuck his head into the room.

  “Sir, you ready for another one?” He grinned broadly. “Think this one’ll interest you.”

  “Okay, Jim. Just one more. Send him in.”

  Murphy disappeared. Hacker turned to Erik and Don.

  “After this one, they’re all yours.”

  Don drifted over to the filing cabinets.

  “I can hardly wait.” he mumbled.

  Erik followed him. He was conscious of the sudden almost tangible change of atmosphere in the room. From friendly informality—to cold efficiency. He looked at Hacker and Pierce. They’re putting on their ruthless bastard faces like shrugging into field jackets, he thought. I suppose we all do it. He looked toward the door as it opened.

  The girl ushered into the interrogation room by Murphy was what the young sergeant would have reverently described as “a knockout.” Tall, beautiful and blond, she was the kind of girl who looks wonderful without any makeup at all, and she wore none. She was dressed in a gay dirndl skirt, tight at her slender waist, and a low-cut, short-sleeved Bavarian blouse adorned with fine embroidery across her jauntily thrusting breasts.

  Talk about straining stitches! Erik thought, glancing at Pierce. Even his dour face softened as he stared at the girl—but only for an instant.

  “Here you are, sir!” Murphy had trouble keeping the merriment in his eyes from contaminating his otherwise carefully set expression of stern efficiency.

  He ducked out.

  Hacker looked at the girl dispassionately.

  “Kennkarte, bitte!”

  The girl rummaged around in a little handbag and came up with the small gray identification card. She handed it to Hacker. She looked frightened and enormously appealing. Nervously she glanced at each one of the men in turn. Hacker was examining the ID card.

  “Anneliese Leubuscher. Correct?”

  “Yes.” She answered in a small, soft voice.

  “Age?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  With deliberation Hacker made a note on a piece of paper. He showed it to Pierce. Both men looked searchingly at the girl, then Pierce grimly began to leaf through a large mimeographed volume. Anneliese’s apprehension increased. She was trembling.

  “Why are you in a combat zone?” Hacker’s voice was cold and harsh.

  “I was in Pilsen. In Czechoslovakia.” She bit her lip. “I—I wanted to go home before the Russians . . .”

  Her words trailed off. She bowed her head. Her silence was eloquent. Hacker studied her for a moment.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “To Regensburg. I think my parents are still there.”

  Pierce closed the volume he’d been looking through. He shook his head almost imperceptibly at Hacker.

  “What did you do in Pilsen?”

  “I worked in an office. Stenotypist.”

  “What office?” Pierce demanded curtly.

  Anneliese looked startled. “The NSKK.” Her voice was low.

  “I see.” Pierce sounded ominous. “The Nazi Motor Tranport Corps. Why did the NSKK have an office in Pilsen?”

  “I don’t know.” Anneliese frowned. “Perhaps because there was so much heavy trucking from there. The beer, you know.”

  Don suddenly had a slight attack of coughing. Hacker quickly broke in.

  “Party member?”

  Anneliese started. “What?”

  “Were you a party member?”

  “I was—I was in the BDM.”

  “Who wasn’t?” Hacker was insistent. “Did you join the Nazi party?”

  Anneliese looked trapped. She lowered her eyes. She whispered:

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Two years ago. In Regensburg.”

  “Why?”

  “I had to. If I wanted to work.”

  Suddenly Pierce stood up. He walked to the girl. She seemed to want to shrink from him, but she stood her ground. Pierce glared at her.

  “Raise your left arm!” The command was brusque. Anneliese looked startled. She obeyed.

  Carefully Pierce looked at the inside of her upper arm. Then, without a word, he returned to his seat.

  Hacker looked up at the girl. She was standing motionless, her arm still in the air.

  “You may take your arm down now,” he said.

  With an awkward yet appealing motion, Anneliese complied. She looked humiliated, vulnerable—like a fawn caught in the sight of a hunter’s gun. Her huge eyes stole around the room. They met Erik’s—and held for just a brief moment.

  He looked away.

  “If we let you go, will you go straight to Regensburg?” Hacker’s voice had lost some of its harshness.

  “Yes! Oh, yes, sir!”

  Hacker scribbled on a slip of paper and held it out to the girl.

  “Here. Take this. The sergeant will tell you what to do.”

  Anneliese took the paper.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Oh, thank you so much!” She looked as if she were going to embrace him.

  “That’s all. You may go.”

  A quick curtsy, and the girl was gone from the room. Hacker got up. He stretched.

  “Well, that’s that. It’s all yours.” He turned to Pierce. “Coming?”

  “Okay.”

  “See you later.” Hacker started for the door followed by Pierce. Don called after them.

  “Hey! Hacker!”

  “Yeah?”

  “Watch your fraternizing!”

  Hacker turned to Don. He spoke with mock concern.

  “You know, I haven’t had a girl for so long, I wouldn’t know what to do.”

  “Don’t you worry,” Don assured him gravely. “It’s like riding a bicycle. It comes back to you once you get on.”

  Sergeant Murphy stuck his head in the door.

  “We’re really stacking them up out here,” he stated reproachfully. Don turned to him.

  “Okay, Jim. Send the next one in. And see if you can do as well for us.”

  “Got you.”

  Don joined Erik at the table. He let himself plop into the chair.

  “Well, here we go again.” He sighed. “This screening routine kills me. About as exciting as knitting cockwarmers for the Red Cross.”

  “Didn’t know they used them,” Erik commented dryly.

  Murphy appeared. Deadpan, he showed a woman into the interrogation room; a middle-aged hausfrau type running to fat, with a stony, hostile face. She glared at the two CIC agents.

  “That’s the closest I could come, sir,” Murphy said innocently.

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Thank you—very much,” Don answered. As Murphy left, he turned to the woman.

  “Kennkarte, bitte.”

  And time oozed on. An endless sameness of screening questions put to subject after subject; an endless sameness of answers—as if every man and every woman in Germany had studied the same implausible script . . .

  “No. I was not a Nazi. Never belonged to the party, or anything. . . .”

  “Well, we heard rumors about those camps. But we didn’t believe them. . . .”

  “All of us non-native Germans were placed in the Waffen SS automatically. We had no choice. I only followed orders. . . .”

  The soldier was ushered into the room by Murphy. He was number thirteen that morning. He stood quietly at attention just inside the door.

  Erik studied him. He was not remarkable in any way—like hundreds, thousands of others. He was about thirty-five, with a rud
dy complexion and large, guileless, water-blue eyes. He met Erik’s steady gaze with friendly confidence. Erik held out his hand.

  “Soldbuch, bitte.”

  The man handed him his soldier’s paybook. Erik began to look through it.

  “Where do you want to go?” Don asked.

  “To the Rhine, Herr Hauptmann.” The answer was quick and straightforward. “I have a vineyard there, right on the river. I have not been home for a long time.”

  Erik looked up from the paybook.

  “Your unit was disbanded a week ago?”

  “That’s correct, Herr Hauptmann. Rather than surrender to the Russians.”

  “And you were simply told to go home?”

  “Yes, sir.” He brought out a folded paper. “I have here my discharge papers.” He handed the papers to Erik with a click of his heels.

  “Your name is Plewig?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann. Plewig. Josef Plewig.”

  Don got up from his chair. He walked over to the German.

  “Take off your jacket,” he ordered, “and your shirt.”

  Plewig at once began to undress. He was not in the least worried. He knew exactly what the American was looking for. Let him look! he thought. He felt completely confident. He’d known he would be screened by the American Gestapo. Everything was going exactly as he’d been told it would at Thürenberg. He knew what to do. He’d gone through the exact same situation time and time again in training. He had all the answers. . . .

  “Raise your left arm.”

  Plewig at once obeyed. Don glanced at his upper arm.

  “You know what I’m looking for?”

  “Yes, sir. To see if I have my blood type tattooed on my arm. Only the SS have it. But you see I don’t.”

  He grinned disarmingly at Don. Erik handed the soldier’s papers back to him.

  “Your papers seem to be in order,” he said. He sounded vaguely reluctant. “Take your clothes and go over there and put them on.” He indicated the opposite side of the room.

  “Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann.”

  Plewig retired. Don joined Erik at the table.