Order of Battle

by Ib Melchior

  It was Erik.

  Klein relaxed perceptibly. He was suddenly aware of feeling clammy all over. He brought his carbine down and waited. Erik came up to him. He looked discouraged.

  “There doesn’t seem to be anything in there,” he said, his voice flat.

  “That’s good!” Klein grinned broadly. He looked up at Erik, and his face grew sober. “Bad?” he asked.

  “We’ll have to make absolutely sure.” Erik didn’t seem to be aware of the byplay. “Have your men enter the area,” he said, “at your signal. I want them to go through it and assemble in the center. Tell them to use caution, but I want every tree, every clump of brush searched!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Move in"—Erik glanced at his watch—"in ten minutes.”

  “Right.”

  Klein took off at a dog trot down the path. Erik glanced at Major Evans. The MP officer came striding briskly toward him.

  Without a second look Erik turned and reentered the spruce forest. . . .

  Werewolf Headquarters

  1023 hrs

  Steiner was sweating. It annoyed him. He was aware of the sour-sharp odor rising from his armpits. The others must be, too. But nobody said anything. There was nothing he could do about it anyway, but it made him acutely uncomfortable. Besides, his damned leg hurt. The bullet had gone clean through the fleshy part of his thigh. He was lucky. It hadn’t even nicked the femur. But it throbbed like hell.

  He hobbled toward the radio room. Hell of a time for him to be left ranking noncom. He put his weight a little too heavily on his wounded leg and a sharp pain knifed up his side to stab at his eyeball. Verflucht!

  Still, he was alive. . . .

  When he felt the dull slam of the bullet in his leg and realized he’d been hit, his mind had flashed to the Werewolf credo. He knew in that instant he was a dead man. The others couldn’t burden themselves with a casualty, and they couldn’t leave him behind alive.

  He’d been fully aware of it all, but it had been as if he’d been watching it happen to someone else. He’d been quite calm. The shock of the wound probably . . .

  But then young Willi Richter had ordered Krauss and Leib to support him between them, and somehow they’d made it back. . . .

  He thought of Willi. He owed him his life. He felt grateful to him and at the same time a little contemptuous. The young officer had taken a hell of a chance. Jeopardized the whole operation. It was only luck they hadn’t all been caught. He frowned. What would he have done, had the tables been turned?

  He reached the doorway to the radio room. He leaned heavily against the frame. The operator looked up at him.

  “Take a message,” Steiner ordered curtly. He wet his dry lips. “Caution all units and stations. Enemy search under way Schönsee following Plewig interrogation. No apparent danger of discovery. Maintain strict cover. Postpone all planned operations. . . .”

  He stopped. He suddenly realized the enormity of the decision he had to make. Why the devil did it have to be him! He felt dizzy. He was strongly aware of the odor steaming from his armpits. Fear?

  No, he couldn’t take the responsibility. It wasn’t his job. He just couldn’t. The operation to be mounted by Unit C, it was a last-minute chance. It was imperative. Richter was already on his way. He couldn’t stop it. Not now. Not on the off chance . . .

  He looked straight at the waiting operator.

  “Postpone all planned operations,” he said firmly—he drew a deep breath—"headquarters area only—repeat: headquarters area only—until further orders. Acknowledge.”

  He waited for the operator to finish taking it down.

  “Code it. Send it at once. Through the Munich relay.”

  “Sofort!

  The man began readying his equipment.

  “How many of them are there this time?”

  Steiner shrugged.

  “Thirty. Forty. It doesn’t matter.”

  The operator looked up at him.

  “But if that’s all, we could easily—”

  Steiner broke in sharply.

  “We are following orders. As long as they do not discover us, we leave them alone.”

  “And if they do?”

  Steiner’s eyes were cold.

  “We wipe them out.”

  He turned to leave. The pain in his leg was becoming intolerable. He stopped.

  “The general must be warned,” he said heavily. “There may be plans to change.”

  He put his hand on the wound. Even through the bandage his leg felt hot.

  “We can’t get to him. Now.” He turned to the operator. “As soon as you have sent the message, contact Weiden.”

  Sweat was dripping into his eyes. There was nothing more he could do. He had to lie down. . . .

  Maybe—maybe it was all for nothing, all his worry. They’d never be discovered. Never.

  Still, Sicher ist die Mutter der Porzellankiste! Mother is extra careful with her chest of china.

  Schönsee Forest

  1041 hrs

  The thick moss on the large boulder felt soft and cool against Erik’s back. He forced himself to relax, leaning against it. No good getting too damned tense and freezing up when things began to pop. If. If they did pop. He glanced at Don crouched a couple of feet away, staring intently into the trees.

  It had been nearly fifteen minutes since he’d rejoined Don in the center of the spruce area and they’d heard the three shrill blasts of Klein’s whistle signaling his men to start infiltrating the area.

  He was acutely aware of the rock against his back. He wondered about the boulders. There were several of them, heaped together in the middle of the forest square. From the looks of them they’d been there a long time. Probably gathered there when the square was originally planted. The trees grew a little thinner here, forming a small clearing.

  He searched the trees before him. He knew that Klein and his MPs were making their way through the area toward him, searching, probing, investigating. . . .

  He strained to listen.

  Nothing.

  Where were they? How close? Would they flush anything?

  He moved his back away from the boulder behind him. It was getting hard.

  He glanced at his watch.

  Sixteen minutes.

  And then he saw the first man. Watchfully he came through the trees, moving from one clump of brush to another, his carbine held at port arms.

  And another.

  All around him now the MPs began to enter the little clearing, quietly, cautiously. They looked in silence at Erik and Don and stopped uncertainly.

  Erik sighed.

  Not a thing, he thought, with the impotent anger born of disappointment. Not a goddamnfucking thing!

  The sudden sharp report that slammed against his ears with the force of a physical blow scattered every thought from his mind as it ricocheted from tree to tree.

  A shot!

  Instantly every man in the clearing hit the dirt, his weapon ready.

  Klein came running through the trees into the little clearing.

  Erik felt the flush of action course through him. Here it is!

  Klein came up to the two CIC agents.

  “Sorry,” he said with a sheepish grin. “It was Warnecke’s big feet again. Tripped over a root. Nearly drilled me a third eye!”

  Erik stood up. He suddenly felt exhausted. He looked at the men around him, watching him curiously. He knew what they were thinking.

  “Listen, everybody!” he called in a loud voice. “It doesn’t look as if there’s anybody here.”

  He paused. The men were waiting.

  “But I want to be absolutely sure. I want to know if anyone has been here! I want every clump of underbrush, every thicket searched and searched again. Work your way back out. If there’s anything here I want it found, even if it’s only a used condom! We’ll assemble at the big leaning pine tree in—thirty minutes. Let’s go!”

  The men started to move out. Suddenly a rabbit
leaped from concealment in front of one of them and bounced in a broken run across the clearing to disappear into the shrubs.

  “There goes one of them now!” the man shouted.

  But the laughter was strained.

  Erik stood with Klein and Don watching the men make their way into the woods.

  Don suddenly looked around. He turned to Klein.

  “Hey, what happened to our swashbuckling MP hero?”

  “Major Evans?” Klein grinned. “I guess he buckled when he should’ve swashed!”

  It was a creditable attempt, but it fell flat.

  Sudetenland, Czechoslovakia

  On the Road to Unit C

  1103 hrs

  Willi Richter listened. He frowned. He didn’t like that grating noise coming from the engine in his Volkswagen. It would be charitable to call the car they’d given him merely battered. It was shrapnel scarred; one of the front fenders was smashed flat, the frog-eye headlight ripped off; the spare tire was gone from the front hood. The top was down. Willi doubted if it was in condition ever to be put up again. He was glad it wasn’t raining. He’d been on the road several hours already, and that damned noise had started twenty kilometers back. It sounded as if the whole damned motor would fall out any second.

  Zum Teufel damit! he thought. To the devil with it! He had to abandon the car pretty soon anyway.

  He thought back. . . .

  He’d left General Krueger’s headquarters at 0430 that morning, well before first light, to take advantage of the darkness to exfiltrate the area without placing the HQ in jeopardy. He’d had no trouble at all passing through the American outpost lines, crossing the border and entering Czechoslovakia.

  He’d commandeered the Volkswagen from the first German unit he’d run across with the help of the general’s priority orders, and he’d made his way to the nearest major command post.

  It had taken the devil of a time to raise the Munich relay station and through them get confirmation regarding the transportation arrangements for the task force from Unit C, but he’d finally accomplished it. The trucks would be on the Salzburg road south of Passau at the prescribed time. From there they’d be at their destination in a couple of hours.

  He felt suddenly excited. He was going to be in on the big one!

  Unconsciously he stepped on the accelerator.

  The Volkswagen picked up speed; the motor grated hideously. There was a sharp metallic ping—and the gears locked, sending the car slewing, skidding sideways down the road to an ignominious halt.

  Willi got out. He glared at the vehicle.

  “Scheissdreckl” he cursed. “Shit!”

  He kicked the rear tire in disgust and set out on foot toward the Czech border and the area of Werewolf Unit C just beyond. . . .

  Schönsee Forest

  1114 hrs

  Erik and Don sat under the big leaning pine tree. The MPs were comfortably sprawled in the grass around them. Major Evans sat off a little by himself, still wearing his I-told-you-so expression and contentedly inhaling the smoke of a cigarette. The sun stood high in the beautiful blue spring sky. Birds twittered cheerfully in the trees. Dragonflies whirred impressively in pursuit of tiny insects and a gentle wind whispered softly in the pines. The whole scene was the exact opposite of the bleak mood with which Erik and Don regarded it.

  “Two hours. Two hours we tramped all over that damned piece of real estate. And not a damned thing. Not a sign of them.” Don looked disgusted. “Well, like they say, if all else fails we can always give up.”

  “Very funny!”

  “I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

  “You succeeded.”

  Klein came up to them.

  “The last of the men is back,” he reported. “What now?” He squinted up at the sun. “It’s getting on toward noon.”

  “We might as well go back to the farm.” Don sounded dejected. “There’s not a fucking thing we can do here.”

  He turned to Erik.

  “Erik?”

  “Yeah. Guess so . . .” Erik was staring into space, frowning in concentration.

  “I’m going to hate having to face Streeter.” Don glanced at Evans. “And I hate even worse having to look at the smug puss of that prick Evans.”

  Erik sat up.

  “We’re not out of the ball game yet,” he said.

  He turned to Klein, suddenly resolute.

  “Sam. You and your men take the PWs at the farm back to Corps. Turn the soldiers over to the IPWs and the civilians"—he nodded toward Gruber—"including that miserable little bastard over there, to the CIC for interrogation. Don and I are going to try one more thing.”

  “Right.” Klein stood up.

  “Okay, you guys,” he called. “Gather round. We’re going back.” He pointed at Gruber. “And bring that Kraut over here.”

  The MPs got up and began to gather around Klein. Evans strolled toward Erik and Don. He was carefully breaking his cigarette butt, scattering the tobacco as he walked. There was an unmistakable air of vast self-satisfaction in the way he performed the task.

  Don glanced at Erik.

  “I knew this was coming,” he growled.

  Evans came up to them.

  “So you’re finally coming to your senses,” he said, a thin smile of derision on his lips. “I take it that now you’re ready to admit I was right?”

  Erik got up slowly.

  “Is that how you take it?” he said pleasantly. “Well, we haven’t closed the case yet, Major.”

  “Really?” Evans sounded deliberately incredulous. He looked toward the MPs gathered around Klein. “Well, at least you won’t be wasting anyone’s time anymore, except your own.”

  The implication that that was of little consequence was as subtle as a two-ton truck.

  Don stood up.

  “I don’t think you have any call to refer to this case as a waste of time, Major.” His voice was dangerously low.

  Evans cocked a goading eyebrow at him.

  “No?”

  “No! You heard our evaluation confirmed with your own ears.”

  Evans nodded in the direction of Gruber.

  “You mean that old man?”

  “Exactly!”

  Evans smiled condescendingly.

  “I think we can discount that, don’t you?”

  “Why? He admitted the Werewolves were in here.”

  “Yes. So he did.” Evans pursed his lips in exaggerated thought-fulness. He was enjoying himself immensely. It was about time those insufferable self-styled “agents” were put in their proper place. Methodically he rolled up the paper from his cigarette butt into a small ball. “But,” he continued, “you seem to forget the circumstances under which the old man made that admission.”

  Don glared at him. “Just what are you getting at?”

  “Don’t forget—uh—Johnson, I used to be in law enforcement back in the States, too. There are ways—and there are ways.” He shook his head slowly, regretfully. “I very much doubt if anyone will seriously believe that—uh—confession of his after I inform them how it was obtained.”

  Don threw a quick glance at Erik. Erik looked grim. He said nothing. He had nothing to say. . . .

  Evans went on. “After all, you had the poor fellow scared out of his wits. He would have said anything to save his neck.”

  He looked pointedly from one to the other.

  “I’m afraid—uh—gentlemen, your case is a bust.”

  He flipped his paper ball away.

  “I warned you.” Evans sounded reproachful. “I told you. There’s only one way to conduct a professional investigation. It takes—uh—experience to know how. You haven’t got it.”

  Erik spoke with deliberate quiet.

  “Nevertheless, Major, we’re going on with it.”

  “Suit yourselves.” Evans shrugged. “I shall have to get back to some serious work.”

  “Just a goddamned minute!” Don flared. “If you think you can—”

  Ev
ans whirled on him, his voice suddenly venomous.

  “Don’t growl, my friend, if you can’t bite,” he snapped. “And I’m afraid your bite will be highly ineffectual.”

  He contemplated Don for a brief moment, savoring his superiority, a nasty little gleam in his eye.

  “You don’t like me, do you—uh—Agent Johnson?” he queried.

  ‘That’s correct, Major.” Don’s voice was cold.

  Evans smiled expansively.

  “Well, I’m sorry if you think I’m acting like an SOB, but that’s what they’re paying me for.”

  Don looked straight into his smiling face.

  “They sure are underpaying you, aren’t they?” he commented.

  Evans turned red with rage. Erik had trouble not laughing out loud. The MP officer eyed the two CIC agents maliciously. A note of shrillness crept into his voice.

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay. You’ve crawled way out on that limb. I shall take great personal pleasure in chopping it off.”

  Abruptly he turned on his heel and stalked off.

  Don glared after him.

  “That bastard’s got a mind like concrete,” he growled. “All mixed up, and permanently set!”

  They started after the departing MPs.

  Erik felt oddly keyed up, almost elated. He wondered briefly if it was a reaction to the slump he’d hit when the search of the Werewolf area turned out to be a flop. No, it wasn’t that. He suddenly knew why. He suddenly realized that he didn’t give a hoot in hell about Evans. Or what the man could do to him. He had to go on with the case because he truly believed it was important. Because he honestly felt it had to be done. And not just to save his own neck. Although he freely admitted to himself that he’d like to be proved right. Of course. But that wasn’t the real motive. . . .

  He turned to Don.

  “Don,” he said. “We won’t give up. Dammit! We aren’t licked until we do.”

  “All right,” he agreed. “I’m with you. What do you have in mind?”

  “Okay, here it is. Remember what Plewig said about the supplies the Werewolves are supposed to have?”

  “Sure. Lots of everything. From soup to nuts. So?”

  Erik spoke slowly, deliberately.

  “Isn’t it possible they cached some of the stuff in different places? Somewhere around their bivouac area?”