Order of Battle

by Ib Melchior

  “Then how do you explain that you don’t know that one hundred eighty men is full company strength, not half?”

  Plewig suddenly grew rigid. Chilled. He stared at the American—suddenly the real face of the enemy. He felt the blood drain from his face, powerless to stop it. Desperately he cast about in his swirling mind for a way out. A believable explanation. Anything . . .

  “I—I—”

  But the chase had begun. There would be no letup until the quarry had been run to ground.

  Erik snapped at him:

  “The company machine gun complement is nine—not twelve.”

  Don suddenly joined the charge. Startled, Plewig’s eyes darted toward this new source of attack.

  “The 73rd Division’s personnel is Bavarian. You are a Rhinelander. How come?”

  “Major von Wetterling was killed in France. Long before you said you served under him. Explain!”

  The questions came like quick hammer blows.

  “How could he have been your CO on the Russian front when he was dead?”

  “You say so right here!”

  Erik slammed his hand down on the Plewig notes. Plewig looked frantically from one to the other. Automatically he’d snapped to attention—an instinctive effort to seek strength in the comforting familiarity of discipline. He tried to wet bloodless lips with a suddenly dry tongue. Little beads of sweat began to form on his forehead, and a tiny artery in his temple started to beat and beat and beat. . . .

  The two CIC agents hammered relentlessly at him.

  “Who was really the battalion CO?”

  “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Your company has only one AT gun. Why did you say two?”

  “Because you never were an engineer!”

  “Because you lie!”

  Plewig was terrified. He could feel the two pursuers snap at his mind. His world was crumbling. He did not know where to run. He had to face his tormentors. He had to make a stand. . . .

  “No!” he cried. “No!”

  Erik stood up with explosive abruptness. He thrust the papers at Plewig.

  “This is the truth?” It was a terrifying shout.

  Plewig stood rigid.

  “No . . . yes! . . . That is . . . I . . .” His words trailed off.

  There was sudden and complete silence in the room. Plewig was acutely aware of the rapid, rhythmic surge in his ears. Erik threw the papers on the desk. Quietly he sat down. His voice was tired, disinterested, and he didn’t look at Plewig when he finally spoke.

  “It’s no use, Plewig. We know you’re lying.”

  Don waved a hand at the scattered papers.

  “Too many little errors in your phony military history, my friend.”

  Erik looked up at Plewig.

  “It’s impossible to memorize every little detail, isn’t it?”

  He sounded almost kind, a little regretful. He raised his voice.

  “Sergeant Murphy!”

  Murphy at once appeared at the door.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You may remove the prisoner, Sergeant. Section 97, Article 4.”

  Murphy drew his .45. He looked alert, ready for trouble. Plewig started. He looked toward the two CIC agents at the desk. They had apparently lost all interest in him. They were looking over some papers. He cleared his throat. He suddenly felt he had to get their attention at any cost. Murphy motioned with his gun.

  “Let’s go,” he ordered curtly.

  Plewig took a step toward the door. He stopped. With a visible effort he brought himself under control. He turned toward Erik.

  “Excuse me, Herr Hauptmann.”

  Erik looked up impatiently.

  “Well?”

  “What—what happens to me now?”

  Erik looked slightly surprised.

  “What happens? I’m sure you know the International Articles of War, Plewig. And we are at war.” He contemplated the German for a moment, then he shrugged.

  “You are obviously not what you pretend to be, so you must be a saboteur. Or a spy. In a combat area. Since you’re not in uniform, you can’t be considered a prisoner of war under the Geneva Conventions.”

  It was a dismissal. Erik returned to his papers. Plewig ran a nervous tongue over his lips. The silence hung like an oppressive fog in the room. Motion had died. Time swam endless in his mind. . . .

  At last he said:

  “Then I . . . ?”

  Erik looked up briefly.

  “You will be shot.”

  It was a completely prosaic statement.

  Don said, “That’s all. Take him away.”

  Again Murphy gun-gestured.

  “Come on!”

  Plewig’s eyes opened wide.

  “No! Wait! Please . . .”

  With a show of irritation Erik threw the papers on the desk.

  “What now?” he snapped.

  Plewig looked from one to the other. He was obviously deeply torn. His drawn face showed the strain on his mind. Then suddenly the words rushed out:

  “If I talk, Herr Hauptmann? If I talk?”

  Erik’s expression did not change. But he felt the quick surge of excitement. It worked again! Calmly he studied the German before him.

  “What have you got to say?” he asked.

  “If I tell you what I . . . if . . . I talk. Will you let me go?”

  Erik frowned.

  “We make no bargains. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  He had been run to ground. Suddenly the enormity of it all hit him. He, Plewig? He stood mute.

  “Well?”

  “There’s no such thing as a friend!” The motto was suddenly sharp in Plewig’s mind. “If your mission is at stake, attack him. If need be kill him!” His thoughts were a black whirlpool. The Himmler motto. It didn’t say anything about your own life, did it? No. If he did talk, he could save his life. If he did talk, all right, some of his comrades might be caught. Killed. He’d tell the Americans only what he had to tell them to save his life. As little as possible. To save himself. His own mission. Well, wasn’t that what they said? Your comrades are expendable? Wasn’t it?

  He looked steadily at Erik.

  “I am a Werewolf” he said.

  The effect on the three Americans was instantaneous. If Plewig had not been filled with anxiety about himself he might have caught it. Murphy’s mouth dropped open. Don suddenly coughed on his cigarette smoke. Erik looked startled. It was the first time any interrogation subject had said: “I am a Werewolf!” He had a flash urge to laugh. It sounded so ludicrous, coming from a frightened little blue-eyed clod-kicker like Plewig. He quickly regained his composure. He managed to look bored.

  “So you’re one of them,” he observed, unimpressed. “Just another Werewolf. You won’t have much to tell us we don’t already know.”

  Plewig was taken aback. Confused. He suddenly noticed his palms were sweaty. Funny. He never had sweaty hands. He stared at Erik. He didn’t know what to say. Erik deliberately got up from the desk and walked over to him.

  “Did you think you’re something special because you call yourself a Werewolf?” There was scorn in his voice. And disgust. “You’re nothing but a garden-variety terrorist. A saboteur. A spy. Take your pick. It all adds up the same.”

  Plewig felt betrayed. His plan wasn’t going to work. They weren’t even interested in the Werewolves. Didn’t they know, for God’s sake? Quickly he said:

  “Perhaps I can tell you things you don’t know.”

  Erik regarded him coldly, skeptically. He said nothing.

  “I was with them from the start,” Plewig went on. “When Heinrich Himmler himself ordered the first school for guerrillas and Werewolves set up. In Poland. In 1943 . . .”

  Don half rose in his chair.

  “Nineteen forty-three! We weren’t even on the continent!” He sounded incredulous. Erik quickly broke in:

  “What were your duties?”

  “At first I was the general’s persona
l driver,” Plewig answered quickly. Perhaps he could still get them interested enough to save his neck. Without giving too much away.

  “General Krueger,” he continued eagerly. “Karl Krueger. He was only a colonel then.”

  He stopped. He’d play it by ear. Pick out unimportant items of information. Easy . . . easy . . .

  “Go on!”

  “He was the commandant of the school, Herr Hauptmann. And he’s in command of all the Werewolves now. Under SS Obergruppenführer Prützmann himself. And he works very closely with Axman, the Hitler Youth leader. I was his personal orderly. He likes to live well, the general does. He likes the very best French Armagnac. And flowers. I took care of his flowers for him, too. He likes roses very much. . . .”

  Erik interrupted him sharply. He knew that game too well. Talk a lot and say nothing.

  “Stick to your military duties,” he ordered. He went back to sit on the edge of the desk. He didn’t look at Don. He wondered if Don felt the same excitement inside as he did. He was sure of it. But they couldn’t let on that they were learning anything new. Or important.

  Plewig had regained some of his confidence. It was really only a matter of how much he had to tell. He decided to go as far as necessary.

  It really couldn’t do much damage. It was too late. The Werewolves couldn’t be stopped now. He clicked his heels smartly.

  “Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann,” he said. “When the school was moved from Poland to Thürenberg in Czechoslovakia in September 1944, I was put in the training cadre. To train Werewolves. It was called Unternehmung Werwolf—Operation Werewolf.”

  “Where are these Werewolves now?”

  “All the ones that were graduated and left the school—about seventeen hundred, I think—I don’t know where they are.”

  “So far you’ve told us exactly nothing, Plewig!” Erik sounded angry. “What do you know?”

  Plewig tensed. Careful! He couldn’t afford to antagonize the American. Not now.

  “I know that the general received orders to move from Thürenberg into Germany and set up his HQ camp. In April. Early this month.”

  “Purpose?”

  “They’re supposed to start operations after being overrun by the Americans.”

  “After they’re behind our lines? Undetected?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What sort of operations?”

  Plewig hesitated. Here it was. He hadn’t wanted to reveal everything. At least nothing important. But he couldn’t stop now. Not without the Americans knowing he was concealing something. He couldn’t risk that. He was vaguely aware that his conduct by now was geared only to save himself. He didn’t know how it had happened. He pushed it out of his mind.

  “Assassinations,” he said slowly, “of high-ranking Allied officers. Blowing up ammunition dumps, and equipment and gasoline depots. Especially gas and oil depots. Bombings of barracks. Murders. Things like that.”

  Erik and Don glanced at one another briefly. Their faces were grim. Plewig continued. He was eager now to show them that he was really cooperating. They know everything anyway, he thought.

  “They have agents out. All over. They speak English. Some of them are war wounded. They’re lining up targets for them.”

  “Like you?”

  Plewig nodded solemnly.

  “I was supposed to be an outside agent. But I didn’t want to. Believe me, Herr Hauptmann. I’d much rather just have taken care of the general.” He was pleading now. He was convinced he was fighting for his life.

  “ ‘The war is lost,’ I said to myself, ‘and I don’t want to be a Werewolf. Even if Goebbels says it’s the duty of every man and every woman.’ I do not want to kill Americans, Herr Hauptmann. Believe me. . . .”

  Erik looked at the man in silence. There was a time to let them talk. Just talk. It made it easier for them to talk about the really important things later. And sometimes useful information did spill out.

  “I listened to them, Herr Hauptmann. I had to. Like that important man from Berlin. He came to Thürenberg. He made a speech to us. I remember what he said.”

  He started to quote, concentrating hard. Pompous, stilted words.

  “ ‘It is the victor of the last battle who is the victor of the war,’ he said to us. ‘We are losing a battle now,’ he said. ‘Enemy troops are overrunning our sacred, Aryan fatherland.’ ”

  Plewig hurried on. He had found something he could talk about safely.

  “And he told us that two years ago, after North Africa and Stalingrad, the Führer already knew that the first battle would be lost. And he planned the next one. The decisive one. The one that would give us final victory. And he told us that the Werewolves were going to win that victory. . . . Please, Herr Hauptmann. I’ve told you a lot about them. They’re important, the Werewolves! They wouldn’t have sent someone important all the way from the Führer’s headquarters in Berlin, if they weren’t. . . .”

  Some little insignificant synapse in Erik’s brain was suddenly stimulated. Important man from Berlin. He tensed with anticipation.

  “Who was it?” he asked quickly.

  Plewig looked at him with his candid blue eyes.

  “Who, Herr Hauptmann?”

  “That important man from Berlin.”

  “Oh, him. He was a Reichsamtsleiter, Herr Hauptmann. Very important.”

  “His name?”

  Plewig thought for a moment.

  “Von Eckdorf. Reichsamtsleiter Manfred von Eckdorf. I remember. He was very important!”

  Erik felt a quickening of his pulse. He was aware that Murphy was staring at Plewig. Von Eckdorf!

  “Why was he at Thürenberg?”

  Plewig suddenly looked stricken.

  “I don’t know, Herr Hauptmann.”

  “What did he have to do with the Werewolves?”

  “Please believe me, I don’t know. He talked with the general.

  And he looked everything over. He was a very important official!”

  Erik looked searchingly at Plewig. The man was telling the truth. His fright at displeasing his interrogator was not faked. He had been drawn in too deep now. He’d spill everything. Erik believed him. And he was suddenly convinced that the whole Werewolf story was true as well! However fantastic. However corny and unbelievable. Von Eckdorf had been tied to the Werewolves in some way. And von Eckdorf had died by his own hand in a farmhouse only twenty miles away. Rather than be forced to talk!

  Plewig was telling the truth!

  The German was alarmed. He didn’t know how to interpret his interrogator’s intense scowl.

  “Please, Herr Hauptmann,” he implored, “believe me! I was not going back to them. I was going home. I really was! To the Rhineland. I’ve told you all I know! I—”

  Erik interrupted.

  “When were you last in contact with the Werewolves?”

  “Five days ago. On the twenty-fourth.”

  “And they’re supposed to become active after we have overrun their positions?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is their first target?”

  “I don’t know but—”

  The “but” flew out without thought. Plewig stopped suddenly. He looked trapped. Scared. Erik stood up. He faced the German squarely.

  “Well? Out with it!”

  Plewig swallowed. It seemed difficult. He said:

  “I do not know their first target, Herr Hauptmann.”

  Erik glared at him.

  “But . . .” he said significantly.

  He had no choice. He cursed himself. He’d let his own damned mouth run away with him. So easy. And now he had to give them the last piece of important information he knew.

  “But the Führungsstab—General Krueger’s command group”— he spoke slowly—“Sonderkampfgruppe Karl—has standing orders. One priority mission . . .”

  He hesitated.

  “Come on! What’s this ‘priority mission’?” Erik’s voice was harsh.

  Plewig wet his lips.r />
  “To . . . to kill . . . An assassination . . .”

  “Who?”

  “Your—Supreme Commander.”

  “Eisenhower,” Don exclaimed. Somehow it became a whisper.

  For a moment there was stunned silence in the room; then Erik resolutely strode to the big wall map behind the desk. Briskly he turned to Plewig.

  “Plewig! Over here! Show me the position of Krueger’s camp.”

  Plewig went to the map. He studied it. The symbols and markings were unfamiliar, but he oriented himself easily. He turned to Erik apologetically.

  “I do not know their exact location, Herr Hauptmann, but it is somewhere in this little forest—here.”

  He planted a blunt finger on the map.

  Erik looked. At the desk Don exclaimed:

  “Holy shit! It’s—”

  He stopped short. Erik turned to him. He looked grave.

  “I think we’d better take a ride. Right now!”

  0832 hrs

  They hustled Plewig from the building. They’d decided to take their informant along to Corps Forward CP—as a sort of ace in the hole, just in case they had trouble convincing the brass that his story was true; and there’d be time to get more information out of him on the way. They realized that the case was too big for them to handle by themselves. They had to have tactical aid. A lot of tactical aid!

  Murphy had brought the jeep to the front, and they hurried Plewig through the little crowd of people already gathering at the jail.

  Krauss, the workman repairing the bomb damage to the building, was mixing cement on a scarred and gritty board on the sidewalk. He doffed his leather cap when he saw the two CIC agents come from the door. He started to put it back on, when he saw Plewig. For a split second he froze; then he turned his face away, a face that suddenly had gone dark and ugly.

  Don took the wheel and Plewig sat next to him, his right hand locked to the handle on the jeep’s side with a pair of handcuffs. Erik sat directly behind him.

  As the jeep took off down the street, Krauss stared after it. Slowly he replaced his soiled leather cap on his head. He kicked the cement mixing board into the gutter—and walked rapidly away.

  Reims, France

  Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Forces

  0835 hrs