Order of Battle

by Ib Melchior

  “Do you know why you are here?” he asked curtly.

  “No, Herr Offizier. I don’t.”

  “Because you are a Werewolf!” Erik’s voice was flat and hard. “A goddamn Nazi Werewolf!”

  The German grew pale. He suddenly looked terrified. Again he tried to turn around to face his interrogator, and again the MPs prevented him from doing so.

  “Nein! Nein, Herr Offizier,” he repeated, hoarse with fear. “I am not a Werewolf!”

  “No? Then what were you doing in that forest?”

  “I am a forester, Herr Offizier. I was just cutting firewood.” He was pleading. “Please, please . . . Let me go. I am just a forester. From Schönsee. I have a wife. Children, Herr Offizier. I am not a Werewolf. . . .”

  Erik cut him off.

  “Quiet! I know you are.”

  Abruptly the old man stopped talking.

  “Where are the others?”

  Oberman licked his dry lips. He was trembling.

  “I do not know anything about Werewolves, Herr Offizier. Believe me! Bitte, bitte, believe me! I do not know—”

  “You lie!” Erik spat the word.

  “No! I swear to you! I do not know!”

  Deliberately Erik drew his Colt from his shoulder holster.

  “Perhaps this will jar your memory, old man!” He jabbed the gun in Oberman’s back. The German started violently and grew rigid.

  “You had better talk! Now!” Erik’s voice was ominous.

  “Please, Herr Offizier. I—I do not know anything! Please!” Oberman’s pitiful pleading was a hoarse half whimper of terror. He fell silent.

  “As you will, old man. You’ve made your choice!” Erik’s voice was loud and harsh with disgust.

  He turned on his heel and walked briskly to the second man. He stopped directly behind him. The old man began to tremble. The MPs took a firmer grip on him.

  “Name?”

  Erik sounded angry, cold, dangerously impatient.

  “Weber, Franz.”

  “You, too, are a Werewolf!”

  Weber was shaking with fear.

  “No!” It was a cry of growing panic. “I know nothing about them! Nothing!”

  Erik stood right behind the German. His mouth was inches from the back of his head. He spoke in a loud, brutal voice.

  “You know why you are here, Weber? You are on trial! Right now! My trial! You are on trial for your life!”

  Weber was mumbling to himself in abject terror.

  “O-o-oh! Mein Gott in Himmel! Mein lieber Gott . . .”

  Erik bore into him relentlessly.

  “Answer me! Where are the Werewolves?”

  “I do not know . . . I do not know . . .”

  “You lie!”

  “No! No!”

  “Dammit, I’m sick and tired of lies! Do you hear?” Erik was working himself into a barely controlled rage. “Out with it!”

  “Bitte, bitte, bitte—I do not lie!”

  Erik raised his gun. He drove it roughly into Weber’s back. The man was rigid in shock, his face distorted with dread. Erik looked drawn, tense, filled with loathing.

  “Talk!” he shouted at the German. “Talk—or so help me I’ll shoot you down on the spot!”

  “I know nothing . . . nothing . . . nothing . . .”

  Erik’s face was haunted. He fought with himself. The old man might be telling the truth. He’d long since learned never to disregard the possibility that someone might not be lying. Such mistakes could be just as dangerous as the consequences of believing a liar. But there was no turning back now. He could not walk off the stage he’d set for himself. The play must go on. The last cruel act must be played out. . . . He rammed the gun into Weber’s back.

  “Talk!”

  But Weber was incoherent with terror. He kept on jabbering:

  “Nothing . . . nothing . . . nothing . . .”

  The shot rang out like a single sudden toll of a thunderous death bell. . . .

  In the same instant one of the MPs holding him clamped his hand over Weber’s mouth. The German stiffened convulsively, then sagged in a dead faint in the arms of the two MPs.

  The bullet had entered the ground harmlessly, inches from his feet. . . .

  In a few strides Erik was behind the third prisoner. The man was petrified with horror. Stark fright dilated his pupils; he breathed in shallow sobs; he had no doubt his comrade was lying dead behind him. The SS would have killed him. Just so! He felt the icy presence of the American officer behind him. His flesh crawled cold.

  “Name?”

  It was an explosion in his ears.

  “Gruber, Rudolf.” A terrified whisper.

  Erik raised his gun to the exact level of the man’s neck. His eyes were riveted on the back of the prisoner’s head. He seemed to be under nearly as great a strain as the German. . . .

  He cocked his gun.

  The click was abnormally loud.

  “Well?” he asked, his voice savage.

  “Ja! Ja! Gruber nodded his head vigorously. “Wait! I talk! Do not shoot! I tell you everything! Do not shoot!”

  “Start talking!”

  “We worked for them, Herr Offizier. We are not Werewolves.” The words came tumbling out. “We only worked for them. As lookouts.”

  “All three of you?”

  “Yes! Yes. We brought them fresh food. Vegetables. And bread. And milk. They are in there. Only, I am not a Werewolf. I—”

  “Where are they?”

  “In the forest. I do not know where exactly. We had to leave the food in a sack under a big tree. They came for it after we had left. But I know the area they are in.”

  “You’re going to show us.”

  Gruber fell suddenly silent.

  “They will kill me,” he whispered.

  Erik turned from him.

  “Sergeant Klein!” he called.

  Klein came running over.

  “Here, sir!”

  There was new respect in the way he looked at Erik. He didn’t seem to notice the harried, drained look on his face.

  “How many men have we got?”

  “Twelve, counting me.”

  “Get them together. Leave two men at the farm to guard the prisoners and assemble the rest here—on the double! We’re going after those Werewolves!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Klein took off. Erik turned to Gruber.

  “And you will show us where to look.”

  The man nodded with dejected resignation. Don stepped close to him.

  “When were you last in contact with them?” he asked.

  Gruber turned to him.

  “I saw them last night. Last night.”

  He stopped. His mouth fell open. He stared in thunderstruck disbelief as his two comrades, Oberman and Weber, were being led past him toward the farm. Both men glared at him with malevolent contempt.

  “Last night, late, I—I saw . . .” He seemed in a daze. “I saw the general himself go into the forest. . . .”

  Schönsee Forest

  0909 hrs

  The search detail moved cautiously down a narrow path into the forest. Don was walking point, led by a pale, fearful Gruber. After them came the MPs, nine of them, moving silently, watchfully along the path in single file, carbines at port arms. A scowling Major Evans followed, and the rear was brought up by Erik and Sergeant Klein.

  Most German woodland is well tended, and Schönsee forest was no exception. Consisting largely of evergreens—pine, fir, spruce—it was laid out in a system of squares, one hundred meters on each side, and was crisscrossed by a network of trails and paths separating the squares. Cut down and replanted at the same time, the trees in any given square were all approximately the same size.

  Erik and Klein were walking side by side.

  “How many of them are supposed to be in there, do you know?” Klein asked.

  “Somewhere between forty and sixty. Maybe more.”

  “Holy shit!” Klein stared at Erik incredulou
sly. To the twelve of us!” He swallowed. “How are they armed?”

  “They’re supposed to have small arms—machine guns—mortars.”

  Klein whistled softly. Unconsciously he took a firmer grip on his carbine. He peered intently into the trees lining the path.

  “Why don’t we get some troops?” he suggested hopefully.

  Erik frowned.

  “We had our chance, Sam,” he said flatly. “Remember? They went through this very forest this morning with a fine-tooth comb. Didn’t find a damned thing. We’d never get troops again. In time.”

  Klein grew sober.

  “No, I guess not.”

  “We can’t even be sure they’re here. Whatever the old man said.”

  “You’re kidding!” Klein looked at Erik with surprise. “You think he told you a lie? At the point of a gun?”

  “I think it’s possible he told us what he thought we’d like to hear,” Erik said softly.

  “Yeah. I see.” Klein grew silent in thought.

  “But if they’re here,” Erik continued, “we’ll have to bluff them.”

  “Bluff them?” Klein looked up in surprise.

  “Sure. Make a big show. It’d be easier for them to believe we are here in strength than that we are crazy enough to go after them with only a handful of men.”

  “You can say that again,” Klein agreed fervently. “You sure can”

  They walked on in silence.

  Ahead Don and Gruber suddenly stopped. They sank to the ground. Don gave a quick hand motion to halt, and the men at once took cover off the path. Erik and Klein moved forward in a crouching run.

  Don pointed to a large pine tree standing at the corner of a forest square where two trails crossed. At some time long ago the trunk had been damaged. The tree grew at an angle out over the path.

  “That’s it,” Don whispered. “That’s the supply tree.”

  Erik studied the terrain. The forest square directly in front of them was planted with a thick stand of spruce trees, all of them between twelve and fifteen feet tall. Shrubbery of various kinds grew between them. The spruce tree square was surrounded by squares covered with tall pines. The trails separating them were overgrown with weeds and grass. They had obviously been little used for a considerable length of time.

  “That’s the tree where friend Gruber and his pals used to leave the food,” Don continued in a low voice. He pointed to the spruce square. “The Werewolf HQ is somewhere in there. He thinks!”

  Erik frowned at the spruce area.

  “We’ll have to—”

  He stopped. He glanced back at the handful of MPs crouched at the trail edges behind him.

  “Well have to surround the area. As best we can. Before we go ahead.”

  “Yeah.”

  Erik turned to Klein.

  “Sam. Listen carefully. That area of spruce trees in front of us is a German forest square.”

  “Sir?”

  “The square is about three hundred to three hundred fifty feet on each side. We’re going to surround it.”

  “The twelve of us?” Klein stared at Erik incredulously.

  “Yes.”

  Erik’s voice was curt. He knew it sounded ridiculous. But what the hell else could he do? It was a real screwed up situation. He was forced to take actions he damned well knew were foolhardy. Or admit failure.

  He couldn’t do that. It was too important.

  Was it? A flash of doubt raced through his mind. Did he refuse to give up because he was honestly convinced there was real danger? To the army? To Ike? Or did he refuse to admit failure for his own selfish reasons? To show up that bastard Evans? To keep from having to face the consequences of his own misjudgment? He felt angry with himself for letting the thought intrude. Angry because he didn’t have a decisive answer. He made himself sound coldly efficient.

  ‘Take all the men. There’ll be ten of you. Take the path to the right and go all around the spruce square. Position the men so they can see each other. There’ll be about one hundred feet between each man. Take your own position last.”

  He pointed to the trail crossing ahead of them.

  “On that corner. We’ll be in the fir trees facing the spruce area. Signal us when everyone is in position. Got it?”

  “Right!”

  “Okay. Take off.”

  Erik looked at his watch. 0927 hrs. He was aware of having looked only seconds before. Where the hell was Klein? He stared toward the trail crossing to his left. Nothing.

  He was crouched behind the upturned root of a fallen tree. A short distance to his right he could make out Don, and next to him Gruber, trying to melt into the ground. Behind them Evans was squatting close to the safe cover of the massive trunk of a tall pine.

  Erik looked at his watch again.

  0928 hrs.

  What the hell was keeping Klein? They couldn’t have run into trouble.

  Could they?

  He strained toward the trail crossing.

  Nothing.

  Then—suddenly—a furtive motion. Instinctively Erik’s hand moved toward his gun. His eyes were glued to the shrubbery at the crossing, trying to penetrate it. And then he saw the hidden figure.

  It was Klein.

  He waved. Erik waved back. He saw Klein turn and wave to the man next to him. He waited. He knew the men down the line would relay the signal. He knew they’d be settling down behind their cover, bringing their weapons into firing position, trained on the spruce area.

  He waited.

  He looked toward Don.

  Don nodded.

  Erik took his gun from its holster. He stood up. His armpits suddenly felt moist. He took a deep breath.

  “Ge-ne-ral Krue-ger!” He shouted the name at the top of his voice. “General Krueger! Ihre Stellung ist umzingelt! Your position is surrounded! Lay down your arms and come forward!”

  He waited.

  He listened.

  There was not a sound to be heard from the spruce area. Again he called:

  “General Krueger! You are surrounded! Come forward! You have two minutes. Resistance is useless!”

  Once more he listened intently. There was no answer, no movement. The silence was oppressive. The only sound audible to his straining ears was the buzz of an unconcerned insect; the only motion, a few dead leaves sent scurrying like startled crabs across a roadway by a sudden gusty breeze. He motioned to Klein to stay put, and in a crouch he ran over to Don.

  “I’ll try once more,” he said, his voice grim. “If there is still no answer, you know what well have to do.” He felt oddly numb.

  Don nodded soberly. “Yeah. But I’m not much for it.”

  “Neither am I.”

  Erik turned once more toward the spruce area. Once more he called:

  “Krueger! Come forward! We are aware of your position! We know of your organization! Come forward! You are surrounded!"

  And once more the wait . . . and the silence.

  Erik sat down beside Don. Evans came up to them. His face radiated a smug I-told-you-so.

  “Well?” he asked with oily forbearance. “Are you ready to listen to reason and call it quits?”

  Erik turned away from him deliberately. He did not trust himself to get into an argument with the MP officer. Not now. Both he and Don ignored the man. Evans reddened.

  “You still insist on continuing this—this nonsense?”

  Don turned to Erik.

  “Guess it’s up to us,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Erik nodded. Evans controlled himself with a visible effort. “Very well,” he said, his voice grating venomously. “But I warn you. I’ll see you busted for this! I’ve been in the MPs a long time. I haven’t been wrong yet!”

  He turned on his heel and stiffly stalked back to his place of safety.

  Don stood up.

  “Okay,” he said. “We’d better get off our butts. Might just stumble on something. I never heard of anyone doing it sitting on his ass.”

  He bec
koned to the nearest MP, who came running up. He motioned toward the cowering Gruber.

  “Keep an eye on buster, here,” he said. “We’ll be back—I hope!” He turned to Erik. “Well?”

  “After you, Alphonse!”

  Erik drew his gun from its holster. It suddenly felt ridiculously small. Ineffective. He had a quick impulse to trade it for a carbine, but he at once dismissed the idea. He knew this gun. He was used to it. He knew what he could do with it.

  The two CIC agents were at the edge of the trees. They glanced at one another—and entered.

  From his hiding place across the trail the German forester, Gruber, stared after them, as if expecting them to blow up any second. . . .

  Half an hour, dammit! In two minutes it would be half an hour since he saw the two CIC agents go into the spruce area. Klein shifted his weight. Not because of discomfort; he was getting worried. There’d been no sound from in there, no sign of life. For a moment he took his eyes off the forest square in front of him. He glanced down the trail to his left. He could make out the man nearest to him, kneeling behind a bush. Waiting. In the pine trees to his right he could see the old Kraut, guarded by another of his men. And Major Evans.

  The MP officer was standing up, close to a big pine tree. Klein saw him look at his watch. He seemed impatient.

  Klein had a sudden chilling thought. The major was ranking officer now. In fact, the only officer, now the CIC agents had gone into the spruce area. What if he should decide to take command? Right now! There was obviously no love lost between him and the two CIC guys. Suppose he decided to do something narish? Like ordering him, Sam Klein, to round up his men and march them back to Corps. Write off the whole damned deal as a flop. Leave the two other guys on their own in there. What the hell would Sammy Klein do then? He couldn’t refuse a direct order, and he sure couldn’t take off just like that. Oi schtarb! Why couldn’t he be back at Corps making out duty rosters? Yeah, he should be so lucky. He saw the major turn toward him.

  Suddenly he tensed. His head snapped back toward the spruce area, his eyes intent upon the trees. He’d seen it. Something. Movement.

  His hands tightened on his carbine.

  There! Again.

  He brought his carbine up and sighted toward the surreptitious motion. Across the sight the figure of a man appeared, coming through the dense spruce.