Order of Battle

by Ib Melchior

  “You, too?” His voice was low.

  “Yeah.” Erik looked thoughtful. “Nothing to put your finger on, but . . .”

  “Just that old feeling.”

  “Too pat. Too confident, unconcerned. I don’t know. I just don’t trust him.” He looked toward the German. What was it? he thought. An attitude? The man’s papers were all right—not perfect, nobody’s were—just right enough. His answers made sense. His name was not on any list—and yet . . . He glanced at Don. He, too, was contemplating the soldier. Don feels it, too, Erik thought. He stretched. “I could do with a cup of coffee about now. What do you say we put Joe here through the wringer?”

  “I’m for it.”

  Erik beckoned to the German. The man had finished dressing.

  He walked over to the table and stood at attention. Erik looked directly at him.

  “Just one more thing, Plewig,” he said slowly. “We want you to write down your entire military career. As much as you can remember. Units—campaigns—dates—commanding officers. The works. Is that clear?”

  Plewig felt a quick pang of alarm. What was that all about? He controlled any show of anxiety. There’s nothing to worry about, he reassured himself. There could be a hundred reasons why the Americans wanted such detailed information from him. His unit. The fact that he was recently fighting the Russians. Anything. They probably just wanted to get as much intelligence for their records as possible. Anyway, he was fully prepared. His confidence returned.

  Erik pointed to a small table.

  “You’ll find paper and pencil over there.”

  Plewig clicked his heels. He went to the table, sat down, selected a sheet of paper, licked the point of the pencil, and with deep concentration began to write. . . .

  Don was at the door.

  “Sergeant Murphy!”

  “Sir?”

  Don nodded toward Plewig, engrossed in his writing.

  “Keep an eye on him. He’s writing the story of his life. Let us know when he’s through. We’ll be in the rec room.”

  Betty Grable, coy and cuddly, smiled over her shoulder. Glamorous Lucille Ball looked radiant, and Ann Miller dazzled with her smile and that wow figure in a sexy bathing suit. Under the array of Yank pinups tacked to one wall some comedian had penciled in large letters: MEMORY AIDS.

  The recreation room held a conglomeration of comfortable furniture obviously gleaned from diverse households. A battered radio stood on a table, and the inevitable potbellied stove had a cheery fire in it and was crowned with a large, softly steaming kettle.

  Don made straight for the radio.

  “Should be about time for our girl friend. A little music from home.”

  He fiddled with the dials. Erik poured black coffee into a couple of canteen cups. He brought one to Don. Out of the jumble of noise and static, a dulcet-toned female voice could be made out. Don carefully tuned it in.

  “. . . and remember, all you lonesome GIs, they miss you as much as you miss them, even though they may be brave and not show you how much in their letters. That is, of course, if they haven’t found someone else! And now a little sweet music from home for my American boys.”

  Don settled down in one of the easy chairs. “That’s it, Sally baby, now you’re talking.”

  The strains of a melodious ballad flowed softly from the beat-up radio.

  “Harry James,” Don murmured. He closed his eyes and just listened. . . .

  A girl was singing, “ ‘You made me love you. I didn’t want to do it—I didn’t want to do it. . . .’ ”

  Erik cradled the warm canteen cup in his hands. He needed to relax. He thought of each of his muscles in turn, starting with his legs, consciously willing them to lose their tenseness. In less than a minute he felt completely relaxed. It was a trick he’d learned from Aunt Birte, when he lived with her. He remembered how startled he’d been when he came home one day to find her stretched out on the floor. “Relaxing,” she’d explained. “Each separate muscle in turn. A few minutes of it is like a couple of hours’ nap.” And it worked. He didn’t even have to lie flat on the floor anymore.

  His thoughts strayed to the girl. She’d looked so—so appealing, lovely, standing with one bare arm raised. Awkward and graceful at the same time. Anneliese, was it? Of course it was. He knew it perfectly well. Did he have to pretend to himself that he’d forgotten? Anneliese . . .

  No! No—he did not want to think of her. He felt himself go tense again. It was no damned good. No goddamned good! He forced himself to think of other things. How difficult it was to stand in a corner and not think of a white rhinoceros. . . .

  He was suddenly and violently torn from his reveries. A blood-curdling shriek sliced through to his awareness. It wailed through the room like the baleful scream of some monster in excruciating pain.

  It came from the radio.

  Both Erik and Don stared at the instrument.

  “Beware! Beware! This is the Werewolf Station! Death to all Americans!”

  The grating masculine voice with its heavy, guttural accent gave way to the measured tones of the “Horst Wessel Lied.” Don and Erik relaxed. Involuntarily both had snapped taut at the sudden scream. Don laughed.

  “Boy, are they corny! But they make me jump every damned time.” He settled back in his chair again. “Let’s listen. They always put on a good show.”

  The door was suddenly flung open, and Hacker and Pierce came hurrying into the room. Hacker looked around quickly.

  “What the hell’s going on? Oh. The Werewolf program. What’re they trying to do? Scare the shit out of us?”

  “Seems to be the general idea,” Don commented. “Have some java.”

  Hacker and Pierce helped themselves. The music on the radio came to an end.

  “This is the Werewolf Station. Beware, Americans! You will never be safe on our holy German soil. Death will be your constant companion!”

  Hacker flopped in one of the chairs.

  “Hell,” he said. “Anything’s better than Pierce, here.”

  “Ve-ry funny.” Pierce looked as sour as ever.

  “Like the dreaded werewolves of the Middle Ages that came out of the night to spread terror and disaster, so shall we, the immortal defenders of Adolf Hitler, spring from the dark to deal destruction and death!”

  Hacker shook his head. “Oh, brother!”

  “Erich von Stroheim in one of his most villainous roles, right?” Don suggested.

  “Von Stroheim was at least a ham,” Erik said. “That guy’s just corny.”

  “Beware, Americans! For it is you who shall feel the death grip of our fangs! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! . . . Beware the Werewolves!”

  Again the marrow-freezing scream rent the air. Don switched the radio off.

  “Who do they think they’re kidding?” he asked. “Who’d fall for that melodramatic horseshit?”

  Erik sipped his coffee. “Probably trying to bolster their own morale.”

  Hacker nodded. “Whistling in the dark.”

  “Could there be anything to it?” Pierce asked soberly of no one in particular.

  “Could be,” Erik answered. “Some fanatic diehards. But I doubt it.”

  “Anyone ever run into one of these Werewolves?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Sergeant Murphy stuck his head in the door. He looked at Erik.

  “You got visitors, sir.”

  Erik frowned. “Don’t tell me . . .”

  “Yep! The Rover Boys.”

  “Shit!” Erik looked disgruntled. He got up. “Well, I guess I’d better go see them.” He turned to Murphy. “And, Jim. Get me the latest OB book, will you?”

  Murphy looked dubious. “Well, I . . .”

  “Even if you have to liberate it from the IPWs!”

  Murphy grinned.

  “Okay. I’ll get it.”

  He left.

  “What’s up?” Hacker wanted to know.

  “Just a hunch. We got this guy from the Rhineland. Wan
ts to go home. His papers are in order; discharge and everything. But—”

  “He doesn’t ring true—that it?”

  “Yeah. We want to check his version of his military career with the facts in the Order of Battle book.”

  “That ought to do it.”

  Erik left the room. Hacker turned to Don.

  “Didn’t take Erik long to line up informants, did it?” He sounded impressed.

  “The Rover Boys?” Don grimaced. “You can have them!”

  One of the thick, greasy lenses of his spectacles was badly cracked, but the squat little man seemed quite unaware of it. Solemnly, silently he stood with his companion, a man of indeterminable age, tall, cadaverous, almost hairless and toothless. The two of them made a sight both grotesque and pathetic as they stood facing Erik in the Interrogation Room, clad in their threadbare striped clothing. KZ’ler, liberated concentration camp inmates. Deadly earnest, they were intent upon him, their eyes burning disturbingly, deep in dark sockets.

  Erik contemplated the papers in his hand. Just like those they’d brought every day for the last week. Two sheets covered with a tiny handwritten scrawl. And in that all but impossible to read Gothic script. He looked at the two men in front of him.

  “Thank you for your report.” His voice was kind. “We’re always glad to get them.”

  The little man bowed gravely; the tall one kept regarding Erik steadily.

  “Please have something to eat with us. Sergeant Murphy will show you. . . .”

  Again the little man bowed.

  Erik nodded. “Auf wiedersehen!”

  The two KZ’ler started to follow Murphy from the room. Erik looked at the papers disconsolately. He sighed. It would take him hours to wade through it all. He flipped a page and glanced at it. Suddenly he tensed. He looked up quickly. The two KZ’ler were just about to go through the door after Murphy.

  “Just a minute!” Erik called. Excitement made his voice sound sharp. The two stopped in their tracks, their shoulders tensely hunched. All at once they looked trapped and terrified.

  Erik walked up to them. They stood motionless. They did not look at him. He held the papers out to them.

  “What does this mean?” He pointed to some words. “ ‘Hitler’s Right Hand’?”

  The two men stared at the floor—frightened, rigid. They made no answer.

  “You wrote it, didn’t you?” Erik was beginning to sound exasperated. He tapped the papers. “Here: ‘In Katzbach, on the last farm on the Regensburg road, hides Hitler’s Right Hand.’ ” He looked directly at the two men. “What do you mean by this? Who is ‘Hitler’s Right Hand’?”

  He made a move toward the men. Without moving they seemed to shrink from him. They trembled. They made no sound.

  Oh, Christ, Erik thought bleakly. Now I’ve done it. I should have known. Those poor bastards. After living so long in those hell holes, they clam up at any note of authority. They retreat into themselves and just take it. What can you expect, when a command, a rough voice, could mean death—or worse? He spoke to them in a low, calm voice.

  “Don’t be afraid. I just want to know what you mean. Who is hiding? Who told you about him?”

  There was no answer. Erik turned to the short man. His voice was patient, soothing.

  “Please tell me. How do you know?”

  He looked away, suddenly realizing that his inquisitive gaze might be frightening to the little man, intimidating him Like a dog used to beatings, growing apprehensive at a steady gaze, he thought. Quietly he said:

  “You don’t have to tell me, of course. Nothing will happen to you if you don’t. But I’d be very grateful if you’d help me. Who is Hitler’s Right Hand? Who told you about him?”

  The little man stared at the ground. He looked clammy with fear. He blinked his eyes rapidly behind his thick-lensed glasses,struggling with himself to find courage somewhere in his tortured, shattered spirit. Finally he whispered:

  “People . . .”

  “What people? Who?”

  The little man flinched, then stood silent, withdrawn into himself, appalled at his own boldness.

  “There’s no need to be frightened,” Erik assured him. “No one will hurt you. Please believe me. Just answer me. . . .”

  But there was no answer. Both men stood mute, cowed—and unreachable.

  Erik watched them with a mixture of compassion and frustration, but he realized there was nothing he could do. He sighed and turned to Murphy.

  “Get them something to eat,” he said wearily. “Then meet me out front with the jeep.”

  “Okay.” Murphy beckoned to the two KZ’ler. “Come along, fellers!”

  His young voice held a surprising amount of understanding.

  He saw her as soon as he stepped outside the door. She was standing in the street at a small wooden cart heaped with boards and tools, in earnest conversation with the German repairman. His first reaction was to walk by her as quickly as possible. But when the two of them looked up and noticed him, the workman touched his dirty leather cap, picked up a tool and turned back to his work repairing the bomb-damaged building. Anneliese watched Erik come toward her. She smiled.

  “Grüss Gott!”

  Erik stopped. He looked at the girl. He forced himself not to think. She was just a girl. Any girl. He felt cold. The gun in his shoulder holster suddenly weighed a ton.

  “Well,” he asked. “Are you all set?” His voice sounded strained to his ears.

  “Yes. Thank you.” She had a lovely, childlike smile. Then she frowned prettily. “I must come back to the military government.” She looked up at him. “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow.” Erik felt trapped. He felt hot anger rise in him. Anger against himself. Dammit, he thought savagely. Isn’t it about time I got over this crap? She’s just someone in trouble. It doesn’t mean a thing. He looked at her with professional concern.

  “What about tonight,” he asked. “Do you have anywhere to stay?”

  The girl shook her head solemnly.

  “I have been trying to find room.” She glanced toward the workman. “Herr Krauss says it will be most difficult. So many refugees are here.” She looked at Erik with her large eyes. “I will find somewhere.”

  But it was obvious she didn’t think she would.

  Erik avoided her eyes.

  “Well,” he said slowly, “perhaps—”

  He looked up as a jeep with Murphy at the wheel came driving up, stopping short. Murphy grinned.

  “Sorry it took so long!”

  Erik quickly climbed in. He turned to Anneliese.

  “I’m sure you’ll find someplace. If not, I’ll see what I can do when I get back.”

  “Thank you.”

  Erik turned to Murphy.

  “Let’s go.”

  Anneliese stood quietly, alone, watching the jeep disappear down the street. There was a little smile on her lips. She glanced toward the workman, Krauss.

  She grew sober.

  The jeep careened out of Weiden on the Regensburg road toward Katzbach. Erik sat silently, Murphy’s carbine across his knees.

  Murphy glanced at Erik.

  “Those two guys,” he commented. “They’ve been trading you reports for a good meal every day. What’s in them, anyway?”

  “Everything—nothing.” Erik looked thoughtful. “Rumors. Their own observations. Fantasies. Gossip. But they’re not just looking for a handout. They’re really trying to help.”

  “But not much use, huh?”

  “We’ve got to check on anything that sounds interesting.”

  “So what’re we looking for now?”

  “Hitler’s Right Hand.”

  Murphy looked startled. Erik grinned.

  “Or whatever other pieces of his anatomy we might find.”

  “Some Nazi big shot, huh?”

  “Could be.” Erik shrugged. “Could be anyone, from a fanner who once chased them away, to Martin Bormann himself!”

  The last farm on
the Regensburg road was just another typical Bavarian farm. A main house directly connected to the stables and a barn. A few sheds, and a big dunghill oozing liquid over the cobblestones of the yard.

  As the jeep with Erik and Murphy came driving into the farmyard, a young girl sitting on a wooden bench at the front door of the house jumped to her feet in alarm, spilling the contents of a sewing basket in her lap out onto the ground. Quickly she ran into the house.

  Murphy brought the jeep to a halt before the house and the two men dismounted. They were walking to the door, when it was suddenly flung open. Erik walked up to the door. Murphy, his carbine at port arms, stayed back a little, unobtrusively covering him.

  The woman standing in the open doorway with the young girl was heavy-set, obviously used to hard work. She glared in silent hostility at Erik. The girl, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, was suntanned, blue-eyed and full-blown, with long blond pigtails wound around her head. She, too, regarded the two men with ill-concealed antagonism.

  Erik stopped in front of the women.

  “Grüss Gott!” he greeted them pleasantly.

  There was no answer.

  Erik turned to the older woman. He spoke in a firm, no-nonsense tone of voice.

  “What is your name?”

  The woman glared at him. Her voice was sullen.

  “Hoffmann. Anna Hoffmann.”

  “Who owns this farm?”

  “My husband.”

  “Where is he?”

  The woman shrugged. “In Russia.”

  Erik nodded toward the young girl without looking at her.

  “The girl?”

  “My daughter. Lise.”

  “Who else lives here?”

  “Just us.” The woman hesitated slightly. Her eyes briefly flickered away from Erik’s gaze. “And my brother.”

  “Where is he?” Erik was not unaware of the woman’s reaction. She nodded toward the woods beyond the farm.

  “Out there. In the woods. He’s a forester.”

  “I see.”

  Erik walked over to Murphy. He spoke in a low voice.

  “Jim. I’ll take a look through the house. The woman comes with me. You keep the girl here.”

  “You bet!” Murphy grinned. “Best piece of ass I’ve seen all week! I’d sure like to be her drill instructor in a little bed calisthenics!”