by Ib Melchior
He lifted her head. He called her name. Again. And again. She did not respond. Her lifeless face only stared unseeingly up at him.
He pressed his lips to hers in a desperate attempt to breathe his own life into her. . . .
But she was dead.
He sat on the floor. He cradled her head in his arms. He raged with frustration at the world.
“Anneliese,” he whispered in anguish. “Anneliese . . . You didn’t have to do that. You didn’t have to do that. . . .”
The door burst open. Don and Pierce came running into the room. They stopped dead just inside.
“What happened?” Don’s shocked voice was hushed.
Slowly Erik let the girl down on the floor among the chunks of broken porcelain. He stood up.
“She didn’t believe me,” he said tonelessly. He was speaking to no one. “She believed that goddamned Gestapo propaganda.”
He walked to the bed. He picked up the SS Deathhead ring. For a moment he stared at it. Then he looked at the big brass bedstead. It’s ugly, he thought with a sudden chill. Ugly!
Don came up to him.
“Erik—I—”
“Drop it!” Erik interrupted him. “There’s nothing you can say. . . . There’s nothing anyone can say.”
He turned to Pierce.
“Here’s a hot tip for you, Pierce.” His voice was harsh. “The result of my latest interrogation.”
He threw the ring to him.
“Mandatory arrestee. In hiding. Right here in Weiden.”
He turned toward the still body of Anneliese. Nothing is as absolutely motionless as death, he thought. Even lifeless things can move. But not death . . .
He turned back to Pierce. His eyes were terrible to behold.
“SS Colonel Kurt Leubuscher,” he said. “He’s all yours!”
The Schönsee-Weiden Road
2343 hrs
Willi approved of the spot selected by Krauss for the ambush. They had a good field of fire, and the trees cast long moon shadows across the road, perfect camouflage for their special preparations. All they had to do now was wait. . . .
Even though he’d been on the go almost twenty hours straight, Willi still felt keyed up. The officer courier mission early that morning had been perfectly executed. He knew the general had been pleased, and he wondered what had been in the courier’s dispatch case. He hoped it had been something of real importance. Maybe even information leading to Eisenhower’s elimination! The thought excited him.
When the critical problem of Plewig and the American agents was reported to Krueger, Willi had no trouble persuading the general to let him take charge of the planned action. He’d taken only two men, one of them Steiner, who’d returned with him to Sonderkampf-gruppe Karl with the captured documents after getting rid of the courier and his driver. But this time they were all armed with Schmeisser machine pistols. They needed the firepower.
He glanced toward the other men lying concealed in the darkness of the underbrush. Krauss, and Leib from the Werewolf headquarters Sicherungsstaffel, Steiner and he, himself, in the anchor position.
They were ready.
Suddenly he tensed. Faintly in the distance he heard vehicles approaching on the road. At least two. From the direction of Weiden . . .
He cocked his gun.
The two jeeps drove fast. Although only their blackout lights were on, the night was clear enough to see the road perfectly.
Don and Sergeant Murphy were in the lead jeep, Murphy driving. Erik and Sergeant Klein followed, Klein at the wheel. Both vehicles were combat rigged, tops down, windshields lying flat along the hood to eliminate any obstructions to possible quick fire.
Erik sat rigid next to Klein in stony silence. The sergeant had tried to strike up a conversation, but Erik had cut him short. He wasn’t ready for small talk. Not yet. He was sorry. Klein was a good man. He’d apologize later.
He was suddenly conscious of the fact that his hands hurt. He looked down. With some astonishment he realized that his grip on the tommy gun lying across his knees was so tense that his fingers were beginning to cramp. With a conscious effort he relaxed them. He forced himself to think of the action ahead. He stared down the dark road. They were driving close behind Don’s jeep. . . .
Suddenly, without the slightest warning, he saw it. The glint of metal in the air above the road.
An icy chill knifed down his spine. He opened his mouth to scream a warning, and at that instant the lead jeep slammed into it—a thin, strong wire, drawn tautly across the road between two trees at the exact height of a man’s throat, and at a slight angle to ensure maximum cutting power.
No sound had yet come from Erik when the wire struck Murphy and Don. . . .
It was a split second of pure horror. In the eerie light it looked to Erik as if Murphy’s head was instantly and completely severed—or was it his helmet flying off? Don was thrown violently from the jeep. Erik didn’t see him land. In a nightmare flash he glimpsed the hunched-over, seemingly headless corpse of Murphy. slumped over the wheel, as the jeep went out of control and crashed into the ditch.
Instinctively he ducked.
He would have been too late, but the impact force of the two men in front of him had snapped the taut wire with a sharp ping. It curled back in two furious metal whips and a chilling, high-pitched whoosh.
Klein had stomped on the brake, and they screeched to a crash halt up against the lead jeep, hurtling Erik across the dash.
And in the same instant several guns opened fire on them from across the road.
Erik hurled himself from the jeep. He hit the ground. Steel death stitched a deadly pattern in the dirt inches from him. He rolled behind the vehicle. He was surprised to find that he was still clutching his tommy gun. He began spraying the woods across the road with short, vicious bursts of fire. He was dimly aware of Klein also firing from cover of the ditch.
There was a sudden, earth-shaking explosion, and he jerked his head toward the other jeep. Fire from the enemy had hit the fuel tank; the vehicle was a blazing ball of flame. He had a mental flash of Murphy slumped over the wheel.
He kept on firing. . . .
He watched for the muzzle flares of firearms across the road and sent a burst ripping into the shadowy underbrush when he spotted one. He thought he saw a darker shadow thrashing briefly and fired again.
Suddenly it was over.
The shattering noise of the guns had been so all-enveloping that it seemed not to die at once but to roll away like distant thunder.
There was only silence, and the crackling of the burning jeep.
Cautiously Erik broke cover. He was aware of Klein moving from the ditch. His full attention was on the woods across the road.
But the ambushers had gone.
He ran to the blazing jeep. Murphy had been thrown clear. He was lying in the weeds nearby. Erik hurried to him. And looked.
The killer wire had done its job well.
The warm blood was still flowing quietly from Sergeant Murphy’s headless neck. . . .
He heard Klein retch behind him. He fought down his own vomit. He turned away.
Don? Where was Don?
He saw him. He was lying motionless on the ground a short distance away, his head and shoulders hidden by a stump.
Hidden?
He stumbled toward him. His mind shrieked with abject horror. He could take no more . . . no more.
He fell to his knees on the ground.
Don moaned, and stirred.
Erik felt weak with relief. Carefully he lifted Don up. There was an angry red bruise across his forehead.
Klein came over. Carbine in hand, he kept watching the thicket across the road.
Don was clearing. He looked up at Erik and put his hand to his head. He saw his helmet on the ground next to him and picked it up. Across the front of it was a raw, fresh gash, cut into the very metal, where the wire had struck.
Don looked at Erik.
“Guillotine wire?”
Erik
nodded.
Suddenly alarmed, Don looked around.
“Jim?”
Neither Erik nor Klein said anything. Don suddenly smashed his helmet into the dirt.
“The bastards!” he growled, his voice harsh with bitter fury. “The dirty, lousy bastards!”
Erik helped him to his feet. For a moment the two men stood looking at one another across a black abyss of horror and grief.
Erik slowly looked across the road.
“What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?” he said slowly.
He turned back to Don. His face was set in terrible resolve. He said:
“As God is my witness—we’ll make tomorrow worth it!”
Part IV
30 Apr 1945
Schönsee
The Zollner Farm
0511 hrs
The heavy gray light of predawn lay over the Zollner farm, the fields and the forest beyond like gradually clearing sleep coating the eyes at first awakening.
In the farmyard the barbed wire PW enclosure yawned empty, waiting, the steel barrels of the guarding machine guns pointing at nothing. The presence of the dunghill was less intrusive this early in the morning; that would change as the sun began to beat down upon it later in the day. At the farmyard gate a couple of MPs stood guard. Two jeeps with MP drivers were parked just inside. In the front seat of one of them sat Major Harold J. Evans. He looked impatient.
Erik, Don and Sergeant Klein emerged from the farmhouse and walked briskly toward the two waiting jeeps.
Erik felt a twinge of annoyance when he saw Evans. Damned eager beaver! he thought. He would be in my jeep! He turned to Klein.
“Don’ll be with Able Company. At the east boundary,” he said. “I’ll be with Baker Company at the west.”
He glanced at his watch.
“Shouldn’t take them more than about two hours to comb the entire forest.”
Klein nodded.
“If there’s anybody in there, they’ll sure get ’em,” he agreed.
Both Erik and Don whirled at him.
“If!”
“There’d better be!” said Don grimly.
“We’ll be back here as soon as we’ve started the troops off,” Erik said.
“Okay. We’ll be ready and waiting.”
Don walked to his jeep. Erik stopped at his.
“Good morning, Major,” he said. His voice was cold. “Riding with me?”
Evans turned to him.
“I presume you don’t mind?”
Erik didn’t answer. He jumped in the back of the jeep. It occurred to him he should be damned annoyed at the high-handed way Evans had relegated him to the rear seat. But he couldn’t be bothered. Evans twisted around to look at him.
“I hear you had a—a spot of trouble last night.”
Erik felt it impossible to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
“Yes, Major,” he said. “One of your ‘minor incidents.’”
Evans shook his head gravely. “Too bad.” He turned back.
“Yes. Too bad . . .” For a moment Erik stared into the gray light. His eyes were old. There was a dark void in his mind. He deliberately drove all thoughts of Anneliese, of Murphy, deep into it. Obliterated them. For now . . .
He nodded to the driver.
“Let’s go,” he said tonelessly.
The two jeeps started up. Klein cupped his hands and called after them:
“Good hunting!”
Evans snorted scornfully to himself. He couldn’t make up his mind if he felt gratified or annoyed. True, he’d put that insufferable CIC agent in his place. Shown him that an officer rides up front! But he was still trapped in a ridiculous wild goose chase.
Again he gave a snort, this time aloud.
Werewolves! he thought with disdain.
Weiden
0526 hrs
Krauss felt uneasy.
It was still early, but already the streets of Weiden were coming alive with traffic. Even in war the inhabitants of a farming community rise with the sun.
He felt uncomfortably conspicuous as he walked toward the bombed-out house, even though his conscious mind told him he was indistinguishable from the other pedestrians hurrying along. He forced himself not to look furtive as he glanced around before ducking into the cellar of the ruin.
He made his way down the debris-strewn stairs. It was dark. He slowed down.
He didn’t like it. Not one bit. There were too many contacts. It was dangerous. But Heinz knew the communications apparatus. He didn’t. It couldn’t be helped. Not with this devil of a situation threatening the operation. He reached the cellar. For a moment he stood still, listening.
He heard nothing.
He took a box of matches from his pocket and struck one. The sudden flare of the flame seemed intolerably bright, the rasping noise deafening. He peered into the shadows beyond the circle of dim light cast by the burning match. He thought he could see a figure detach itself from the deeper darkness. The match went out.
“Heinz?” he whispered.
“Ja.”
He took a step forward. His eyes began to get used to the gloom. He could make out the form of his comrade.
“We only got one of them,” he said, flat-voiced.
“Verflucht! Heinz spat the oath.
“Steiner was wounded. We had to get him out.”
“Before your mission was completed?”
Krauss felt chilled by the acid coldness in the other man’s voice. He remained silent.
“Who decided?”
“The headquarters officer. Leutnant Richter.” Krauss suddenly felt the need to defend the action. “We couldn’t leave Steiner behind,” he said. “He would have been made to talk. We had to get him out while we could.”
There was a moment’s icy silence.
“Your mission was vital,” Heinz said coldly. “You could have killed him.”
Krauss shivered.
He is right, he thought. He is right.
“What about Plewig?” Heinz demanded.
“He is at their command headquarters. We cannot get to him. Yet.” Krauss was suddenly aware that he was no longer whispering. He lowered his voice. “It is too late anyway. He has obviously talked already.”
“He will pay for it.” There was venom in Heinz’s voice. “What about the Amis? The agents?”
Krauss felt himself go cold. They might hold him responsible. But he wasn’t. That young officer from Krueger’s headquarters. Richter. He had been in charge. It wasn’t his fault they’d failed to eliminate all the Americans. And yet it was he who had selected the place for the ambush. They could blame him. . . .
To hell with it. He wasn’t going to give up now.
“They are at the Zollner farm,” he said.
Heinz drew in his breath sharply.
“The Zollner farm!” he hissed. “But that’s—”
He stopped short.
Krauss took a deep breath.
“I know,” he said tensely. “But we may not be too late . . .”
He hesitated.
“We’ll have to take the chance,” he said. “We. Ourselves!”
Schönsee
The Zollner Farm
0735 hrs
GHÜSS GOTT! TRITT EIN!
BRING GLÜCK HEREIN!
Erik sat at the big wooden table in the Bauernstube of the Zollner farm. He was staring at the old embroidered proverb, stained with cooking-grease, stretched over a wooden frame and hanging above the door. But he didn’t see it. On the table before him were several sheets of blank paper, and he had a pencil in his hand. But he was not writing. . . .
He let his eyes roam the room.
An enormous wood-burning black stove with a pile of firewood next to it; rough wooden benches and chunky chairs; uneven, crude floorboards, every crack and split caked with trampled-down dirt; walls of whitewashed stone, grimy and cracked; soiled, faded curtains in the usual Bavarian print. All of it worn and wasted with years of use.
He was suddenly acutely aware of everything. Every item. He felt utterly out of context. A total stranger.
What the hell am I doing here? he thought. All this. It has nothing to do with me. Nothing . . .
He stared at the paper in front of him. It had been a good idea. Use the time waiting to get a start on the G-2 report. But he hadn’t written one word.
He was completely conscious of the tenseness gripping him. He’d watched it develop as the minutes of waiting had grown into hours. It was the suspense. Suspense has a cumulative effect, he thought. Like X-rays.
He forced himself to relax. Maybe if he got started. The date. That was it. At least he could start by writing the date. . . .
“30 Apr 1945,” he wrote.
He looked at it. It was just a date. A day. Like any other day. So far. Was it going to stay that way?
He suddenly realized that he was straining to hear, listening for any sign of unusual activity outside. He was annoyed with himself. Come on, dammit! Concentrate! he thought. Concentrate on what you’re supposed to be doing.
The door opened and Don came into the room. Erik looked up at him at once.
“Any sign of them?” he asked quickly.
Don shook his head.
“Not yet.” He frowned. “What the hell can be keeping them? It’s eight o’clock. It’s been almost two and a half hours by now.”
“Maybe they ran into trouble.”
“I haven’t heard any firing.”
Erik looked worried. He stared at the paper in front of him. “30 Apr 1945” . . . “30 Apr 1945” . . .
Don was studying the embroidered sentiment over the door.
“Wonder if that goes for us, too,” he mused.
Erik looked up.
“What?”
“That sign.”
He translated aloud:
“ ‘God bless you! Step in! Bring happiness with you!’”
“Hardly. Anyway, we haven’t brought them much happiness.”
“Well, if we haven’t it’s their own damned fault. They asked for it.” Don looked around the room. “Ever think of it? Right here, boy. The cradle of Nazism! Right here in Bavaria. That’s where it all started___”