Order of Battle

by Ib Melchior

  Suddenly there was the sound of a muffled shot from the attic.

  Erik bounded up the last few steps and kicked open the door. He threw himself back, flat against the wall. Nothing happened. Not a sound. Not a movement.

  Warily he peered into the attic. He turned, motioned to Murphy and stepped through the door.

  The body sprawled on the dusty floor looked grotesquely out of place among the old pieces of broken furniture and wooden chests that ringed the attic.

  Anna Hoffmann’s brother was dead.

  Slowly Erik walked over to him and looked down. The dead man’s staring, unseeing eyes looked back at him from a blood-spattered face. Crazily pushed-out teeth forced his torn lips apart. From one corner of his mouth the blood flowed steadily, unhurriedly, to form a pool on the floor, pushing the dust before it.

  Erik felt drained. Death had come so swiftly; the taking of life so easy. . . .

  Almost too easy, he thought angrily. I hadn’t planned to kill him. Somehow he felt outraged at the face of death. It seemed obscene. Life should not be that quickly erased. That easy to take away. It ought to be more—defiant.

  Murphy joined him. He stared at the body.

  “Holy shit,” he whispered. It sounded almost like a prayer. “He—he stuck his gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.” He was shaken.

  Erik knelt down beside the dead man. He wrested the gun from his fingers. Then he suddenly turned over the dead hand.

  “No wonder he couldn’t let himself be seen by us,” he said. He touched the palm of the dead man’s hand. It was soft. It was full of blisters, some of them newly broken.

  “Yeah. Some farmer!” Murphy concurred. “His hands must have been as soft as a baby’s ass!”

  Erik frowned. He knew he’d made a discovery, and he struggled to capture its full meaning. It eluded him. He examined the gun. He whistled in astonishment.

  “What do you know,” he said, impressed. “Ehrenwaffe.”

  “Ehren—waffe?” Murphy cocked an inquiring eye.

  “Means ‘honor weapon,’ ” Erik explained. He straightened up and gave the gun to Murphy. “It’s a Walther 7.65 millimeter. Look at the ornamentation on the steel. All hand carved. It is given by Hitler personally to special friends, high-ranking Nazis.”

  Murphy was inspecting the gun.

  “Yeah. His name’s on it.” He pointed to a small plaque on the butt of the gun. “What’s it say?” He showed it to Erik.

  “It says: ‘To Reichsamtsleiter Manfred von Eckdorf. Faithfully, Adolf Hitler.’ ”

  Murphy looked down at the dead Nazi.

  “A very useful gift,” he commented thoughtfully. He looked back at Erik.

  “But I don’t get it. Why kill himself? And what was he doing here? That’s no brother of that Hoffmann dame, that’s for sure. Just a big shot Nazi hiding out? Afraid to face the music? Or what?”

  Erik shook his head soberly. He’d wanted answers to his questions. And all he got was a whole list of new questions more puzzling than ever. He sighed. He had his work cut out for him. It would be a cold day in hell before that woman, Anna Hoffmann, and her daughter would come up with any answers.

  “Beats me,” he said.

  He stared at the dead man. Hitler’s right hand? he thought. Well, maybe not quite . . .

  He felt disturbed, uneasy. As if he were missing something.

  2042 hrs

  It was dark when Erik and Murphy finally drove up to the Weiden jail. The street was deserted. The half-finished repair job of Herr Krauss, the workman, looked like an open wound on the building, waiting to heal.

  Erik had taken care of loose ends. The Hoffmann women were in custody; the body of Reichsamtsleiter Manfred von Eckdorf had been sent to AIC for positive identification. Erik and Murphy had searched the Hoffmann farm thoroughly—and found nothing. Anna Hoffmann had finally admitted that the dead man was a stranger to her and to her daughter. He’d shown up at the farm about a week before, asking to be allowed to hide there as a member of the family. He’d threatened them with dire consequences if they gave him away, they maintained. Erik did not believe them.

  But whatever von Eckdorf’s reasons were for being at the Hoffmann farm, he no longer could do anything about them, one way or another.

  Erik dismounted from the jeep slowly. He was bone tired.

  “See you in the morning,” Murphy called. He grated the jeep gears and took off for the motor pool. For a moment Erik stood in silent thought, then he started for the front door of the jail. The single naked bulb suspended over it cast only a limited pool of dim light directly in front of the entrance.

  He almost missed it—the faintest scraping sound coming from the black shadows to his right.

  He whirled toward it and stood balanced in a crouch, gun locked at his abdomen.

  “Come out of there,” he ordered. “Easy—real easy.”

  A figure dimly made out, huddled at the base of the wall, stirred and stood up.

  “Into the light! Move!”

  The figure walked toward the pool of pale light. Erik slowly pivoted with the move, his gun trained straight at the shadowy form. Suddenly he could make out who it was.

  “Anneliese!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  The girl stood quietly in the light. She clutched an old piece of hand luggage wrapped with a leather strap in front of her. Her cheeks were streaked with dried tears. In her rumpled dirndl skirt and blouse she looked both vulnerable and appealing. Erik put his gun away. He stepped up to her.

  “What are you doing here?” he repeated.

  “I was waiting.” Her voice was small. “For you.”

  He felt his insides tense up. “What is it?”

  “I—I can find no place to go. There is no room for me anywhere.”

  She was fighting valiantly to blink away the tears brimming in her eyes. She looked down. A single tear broke loose and rolled down her cheek.

  Erik stared at her. He felt drawn to her. Strongly. Needfully. And he felt the chill of guilt. He ached with the conflict that raged within him. He was fully aware of the harrowing memories the girl brought back to him, memories that threatened to devour him. But for once he refused to bury them and he repelled the impulse to run away and retreat into his shell. He forced himself to look straight at the girl. She was so much like—her.

  Baraville, France. Seven months ago, that’s when it happened. She, too, had had tears in her eyes, but they’d been tears of joy.

  Erik and his CIC team had entered the little French village on the heels of the assault troops that took the town.

  Tania was just twenty. She was Ukrainian, brought from her native land to labor for her conquerors in a strange, faraway place when she was only seventeen. Her happiness at being freed was boundless. Years of pent-up misery, humiliation and despair miraculously and instantaneously changed into a wellspring of joy, and delight—and love.

  Erik was entranced with the girl and her inexhaustible exuberance. It had been a long time, and Tania was eager to give of her overwhelming gratitude and her love.

  They were together. Their hunger for one another had the fervor of desperation and profound need. His, to cling to sanity through tender closeness, an abandonment in passion. Hers, to give of herself without limit, with no thought of time or place.

  And throughout that one night Erik loved her. Loved her with his every embrace, his every thought. Tania.

  The next day the Germans counterattacked.

  It was a seesaw battle, and the Germans drove the Americans from Baraville. They held the village for less than twenty-four hours. The front rolled inexorably toward the Rhine, and Baraville once again fell to the American troops.

  Erik returned.

  It was a hectic time. He had little opportunity to give any thought to his Ukrainian girl.

  And then she walked into his office.

  Tania.

  Horribly mutilated. Punished by the vengeful SS troops when they learned she�
�d given herself to the enemy. With malignant brutality they had reduced her to a nonwoman, making certain she’d never love or be loved again. Because of him.

  Because of him! Because of him . . .

  Since then he had felt that he’d never be able to hold a woman in his arms again. Rationally he could argue that he was not to blame. That’s what his conscious mind understood and accepted. But not his so much more exacting, so much more punitive subconscious. He was not allowed to forget Tania. . . .

  Erik looked steadily at the young girl standing before him. Anneliese. Somehow he felt calmer. He was suddenly aware of her despondency.

  “Don’t worry, Anneliese,” he said. His voice had lost its tenseness. He smiled at her. “There’s got to be someone who can put you up. We’ll see.”

  “I am not from here,” she said quietly. “They do not want me.

  I have nowhere to go.” She looked up at him with her huge, tear-bright eyes. “Unless—” She stopped.

  Erik made up his mind.

  “You can’t stay out here,” he said resolutely. He started toward the door. “I hope you don’t mind spending the night in jail.”

  Anneliese gave him a little smile.

  “It is where you stay, yes? I do not mind. . . .”

  A makeshift blackout curtain had been hung over the window in the Interrogation Room. A cheery fire in the potbellied stove cast a warm, flickering glow across the wooden floorboards.

  “You can put your things here,” Erik said. He did not turn on the light. “We’ll find a place for you to sleep.” He looked at her. “Perhaps one of the cells . . .”

  Anneliese held on to her battered suitcase. She returned Erik’s look.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “But I do not think I should like to sleep in—in a cell.”

  Erik felt confused, unsure of himself. He felt intensely attracted to the girl. He wanted her. The realization astounded him. His nightmare memories seemed to have faded. They were still there, but he could look at them, face them without being obsessed. He wanted to take the girl in his arms, crush her to him, lose himself in her warmth, her softness, her woman scent. He wanted to love, and forget everything else. But could he forget? Could he? . . .

  He took a step closer to her. Her face shone with promise, as the soft, shimmering light from the fire played light and shadow across her expectant features. She looked infinitely lovely and desirable. Erik felt a heaviness pressing in his chest.

  “Anneliese,” he said hoarsely. “There’s no place else for you to sleep, unless . . .”

  Suddenly the door flew open and Don came barging in. He flipped on the single glaring light bulb and took in the situation at a quick glance.

  “It’s about time,” he growled. “What the hell kept you?”

  Erik stepped away from the girl.

  “I ran into a little trouble.”

  “So I see.” Don glanced at Anneliese.

  “Took time to straighten out.”

  “She part of it?”

  “No.” Erik felt vaguely resentful. “She’s got no place to go. She’ll sleep here tonight.”

  Don brightened.

  “And I’ve got just the place for her,” he announced cheerfully. “Your bunk!”

  Erik glanced quickly at Anneliese. She was looking at the floor. He turned to Don angrily. Don held up a hand in mock defense.

  “You won’t be needing it, my friend. Not tonight.” He slapped the bunch of papers he held in his hand. “We’ve got a little trouble right here.”

  “So what’s new?”

  “Joe!”

  “Joe?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got him on ice. That Kraut we had write out his life story. Josef Plewig.” He grew sober. “Erik—the guy is lying in his teeth!”

  Erik was at once attentive. He took the papers from Don and frowned over them. Anneliese was watching the two men. Her face was grave. She didn’t move. She stood quiet, as if unwilling to call attention to herself.

  Murphy appeared in the open door.

  “Anything else?” he asked. “Me, I’m ready for some serious bunk fatigue.” He spotted Anneliese. His face lit up happily. “Gu-te a-bend, Fräu-lein,” he pronounced in laborious and atrociously accented German.

  Anneliese acknowledged his greeting with a little awkward smile. Erik looked up from the papers.

  “We’ll have to check this whole fairy tale with the OB book.”

  “But good!” Don nodded agreement.

  Erik turned to Anneliese.

  “You can stay here tonight, Anneliese. In my room.” He felt a strange mixture of regret and relief.

  “Thank you.”

  Erik turned to Murphy.

  “Show her where it is, will you, Jim?”

  “With pleasure!” Murphy reached for the girl’s suitcase. Reluctantly she gave it to him. “Come on, honey.” They started to leave. Don stopped them.

  “And, Jim.” He looked at the young sergeant with mock concern. “You do look as if you could use that bunk fatigue you mentioned. Better get it.” He grinned a sardonic grin. “Pleasant dreams!”

  Murphy snapped to attention. He clicked his heels a couple of times in exaggerated Teutonic fashion and saluted elaborately.

  “Yes, sir! At your orders, sir!”

  With great dignity he ushered the girl from the room.

  Erik walked to the table. He picked up a heavy volume. The Order of Battle book.

  “Come on, Don. Let’s catch us a spy!”

  Werewolf Headquarters

  2309 hrs

  Waffen SS Lieutenant Willi Richter was out of uniform. He felt vaguely uncomfortable. His civilian jacket and open shirt disturbed him.

  Ill-tempered, he pushed a crate marked STIELHANDGRANATEN 24 closer to the wall. The positions prepared for General Krueger’s headquarters were far less roomy than had been specified. Typical army incompetence, he thought with disgust. Boxes and crates were stacked along the wooden walls, weapons and equipment lay everywhere. It was difficult to move around in the cramped quarters. And they’d had a lot of trouble with the motorcycles. He wondered if the operations units had the same problem. It was not efficient.

  He entered the small radio room. A man in civilian clothes was seated before a shortwave set. He was wearing earphones and writing on a pad. Glancing at Willi, he held up a hand for silence.

  Willi leaned against the wall, watching the operator. The man was listening attentively. After a while he sent a short acknowledgment. He tore off the message he’d written and gave it to Willi.

  “Munich,” he said laconically.

  Willi glanced at the message. Then he read it through with mounting excitement. At last! he thought. Jetzt geht’s los! It begins! He hurried off.

  General Krueger’s personal quarters occupied the largest room of the installation. Here, too, equipment and weapons, boxes and crates were stored against the walls. The general himself was sitting at a large table spread with maps when Willi entered. He was wearing his Bavarian clothes. Willi still wasn’t quite used to seeing his commanding officer in civvies. Some of the officer’s military authority seemed to be gone. He looked rather like a nice, quite ineffectual old man, Willi thought. He had to keep reminding himself that he knew better. He handed the message to the general.

  “A message, Herr General!” He had trouble keeping the excitement out of his voice. “From Hans-32, over Munich.”

  Krueger took the message. He read it. It was short and to the point:

  AMERICAN OFFICER COURIER LEAVING FOR U.S. ARMY

  HEADQUARTERS AT SCHWARTZENFELD 29.4—06 HOURS.

  MAY BE CARRYING IMPORTANT PRIME TARGET INFORMATION.

  HANS-32.

  Krueger scribbled a note on the message. He handed it to Willi. “Have this sent at once,” he ordered. “Unit B. They’ll take action.”

  Willi came to attention.

  “Herr General!”

  Krueger looked up at him.

  “Yes, Richter?”
r />   “Herr General. I should wish to have the honor to lead this first action of the Werewolves!”

  Krueger studied him.

  “Unit B is capable of carrying out the mission, don’t you think?”

  “Of course, Herr General.” Willi thought fast. He had to be part of this. His whole body was tense with the need for action. “May I submit the following, Herr General?” he said quickly. “The area of the action is between here and the location of Unit B. I would need two men from there. We could rendezvous near the place selected for the ambush. The risk of discovery prior to action would be dispersed, and minimized, sir.” He looked straight at Krueger. “My English is fluent, and I would be able to bring the general a firsthand report on our initial mission.”

  Krueger contemplated the earnest young man standing before him. The kind of officer he’d need. The kind of officer Germany would need to be victorious. Perhaps to survive. Young. Eager. Dedicated. Perhaps this kind of zeal ought to be rewarded, he thought. He smiled to himself. So like the way I used to be.

  “Einverstanden, Leutnant Richter,” he said. “Very well—the mission is yours.”

  Willi clicked his heels. He felt a surge of excitement.

  “Make your own plan of action. And report back as soon as the mission is carried out”

  “Jawohl, Herr General!”

  Once again he clicked his heels. He hurried off. He looked at the paper in his hand with awe. He felt elated. It was the first, the very first order for action given by Sonderkampfgruppe Karl—General Krueger’s Werewolf Headquarters—and he would lead the mission!

  It was the beginning.

  Tomorrow the enemy would learn that the Werewolves were more than a scream over the air.

  Tomorrow!

  Part III

  29 Apr 1945

  The Road to Schwartzenfeld

  0637 hrs

  Emmy Lou was tooling along the road to Schwartzenfeld at a steady 50. Emmy Lou was the young wife of T5 Elbert Graham from Florida City, Florida, and her name was painted boldly—although somewhat unevenly—in white letters on the olive drab front of the jeep just below the windshield. The Emmy Lou back home was a mighty pretty girl, and T5 Graham, working in the corps motor pool, took pride in keeping her namesake in top condition. He’d painted the name himself. He felt real proud of “his” jeep; he felt almost affection for it. Emmy Lou. He felt kind of good every time he got in behind the wheel. The smart-ass motor pool sergeant kidded him he’d made the jeep into a sex symbol. What a crock of shit! He just liked driving a neat and sound vehicle. The damned jalopy he’d been driving back home was so old, he pretty near had to apply for upper and lower plates for her. Sex symbol, my ass!