Order of Battle

by Ib Melchior

  ‘They might have. . . .”

  “Even if they weren’t in that damned square where Gruber thought they were, they could still be somewhere around here. After all, he did point out the supply tree.”

  He looked earnestly at Don.

  “Look. I hate to go back to Streeter looking like a couple of empty-headed—and empty-handed—idiots. Suppose we could find a supply dump? Or even a trace of one?”

  “Yeah. We wouldn’t look quite so stupid. If we could prove those damned Werewolves had been here, we’d sure blunt Evans’ hatchet!”

  “And there’s more to it than that. If we can prove the Werewolves do exist, we can take steps—”

  “Right. Beef up security—”

  “Streeter said, ‘Stick with it!’”

  “So we stick!”

  “We stick! We’ll take the jeep. Cruise around the area. We’ll use that square of spruce as our pivot point. Maybe—just maybe something’ll turn up. . . .”

  Weiden

  1129 hrs

  The battered bicycle leaning against the shrapnel-pitted wall of the bombed house had no tires. A heavy chain had been passed through one of the wheels and locked to the frame with a massive padlock. The debris of broken masonry had been partially cleared away from the stone steps leading to the cellar below the ruins, leaving a narrow path down into the darkness.

  The two men talked in urgent whispers.

  “You know what to do.”

  Heinz shifted his weight to his good leg. The lame one ached.

  He’d been too active. It was this damned Plewig business.

  “Unit B,” he continued. “Five-man operational group. Emergency orders.”

  He felt a sudden stab of pain in his left arm. It happened. Even though the arm, severed at the shoulder, lay rotting somewhere in North Africa. It used to startle him. Now he tried to ignore it. He peered at the other man with his good eye.

  “Understood?”

  “It is understood.”

  Krauss was uneasy. He had a vague feeling that the situation was getting out of hand. All because of those two verfluchte American Gestapo agents. He felt like spitting on the floor, but Heinz might not understand.

  “As fast as you can. Krueger must be warned.”

  “And the American agents?”

  “Impossible. For now. The forest and the farm were swarming with Ami troops.”

  Krauss’s apprehension grew.

  “Then one cannot know. . . . They might—”

  Heinz interrupted harshly.

  “They may search as much as they wish. They will find nothing.”

  He paused. He put his weight on both legs and stood straight, facing Krauss.

  “The rest is up to you. You will be held responsible.”

  Schönsee Forest

  1227 hrs

  It seemed to Erik that the hundred-meter forest squares were getting bigger and bigger as the jeep crawled past them along the narrow path, but he knew it was only his growing frustration deceiving him.

  Don was at the wheel. The trails were heavily overgrown in some places and he’d engaged the four-wheel drive for maximum traction at the slow speed. They’d been cruising along for over half an hour, and Erik estimated they’d covered three to four miles. They’d stopped repeatedly to investigate various spots that might serve as concealment for supplies, any kind of supplies: fallen trees, boulders, mounds and depressions, heavy clumps of brush, piles of dead branches, any conceivable hiding places.

  They’d found nothing.

  Erik scanned the woods intently as the jeep slowly crept on. They were on the path three squares removed from the pivot point. The timber was taller and less well kept here. Erik pointed to a small pile of cut firewood stacked at the side of the path. Don stopped the jeep and Erik jumped off. He went up to the stack of wood. He looked it over carefully. He picked off a few logs and then kicked the stack apart.

  Nothing.

  Without a word he climbed back into the jeep and Don drove off again.

  Ahead the path dipped into a short downgrade. At the bottom the trees stopped at a small clearing. Erik pointed to it; he made a “cut” motion across his throat. Don killed the jeep motor. Quietly they coasted down the slope almost to the open field below. Don stopped the vehicle and both men got out. Cautiously they crept to the edge of the clearing, taking cover in the underbrush.

  Before them stretched a typical Bavarian forest pasture planted with alfalfa. An overgrown wooden fence badly in need of repair surrounded it. About fifty feet from the forest edge, where Don and Erik crouched in concealment, stood a small timbered hut. There were no windows or doors in the wall facing the trees, only the back of a crudely made stone fireplace climbing up the side of the hut and ending in a squat chimney. A pile of cut wood was stacked next to it, and a big scarred chopping block had an ax stuck in it at an angle. The area looked drowsily deserted.

  For a few moments Don and Erik observed the scene in silence.

  Suddenly Erik stiffened. He touched Don on the shoulder and pointed toward the hut.

  Don squinted. He frowned. He turned to Erik with a puzzled look.

  “The chimney!” Erik whispered. “Watch the chimney!”

  Don stared.

  And he saw it.

  Rising from the squat chimney was the quiver of hot air. No smoke. Only the peculiar characteristic effect of rising heat, making everything seen through it shimmer like a mirage.

  “Got it,” Don whispered. “Hot air! Someone’s in there!”

  “Or was. Recently.”

  Don contemplated the hut.

  “Could be just farmers. . . .”

  “Careful not to make smoke?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Erik nodded. He bit his lip. Then his face twisted into a wry grin.

  “Shall we make like Dick Tracy?”

  “Why not. Pruneface, here we come!”

  Both men drew their guns and checked them. Don glanced at Erik. He gave a short nod.

  At once the two men broke cover. Noiselessly, in a zigzag run, they sprinted from the forest across the clearing toward the hut; Erik to the left, Don to the right.

  Erik ran easily. Fast. The distance to the hut suddenly seemed alarmingly greater than he’d thought. He was vaguely aware of Don reaching the opposite corner of the shack and disappearing from sight. And then he was at his end of the hut, running past a shuttered window. One part of his mind blazed with the hope that the place would be swarming with Werewolves, the other coldly realized the folly of such a hope.

  He shot around the corner to the front of the hut. His pounding heart skipped a beat. Don. He was not there! And then he saw him as he came racing around the far corner.

  There was another shuttered window. And a door. Closed. The two men stopped before it. They listened.

  There was not a sound.

  Erik took a firmer grip on his gun. He looked at Don—and nodded.

  At once Don aimed a crushing kick at the wooden door. With a splintering crash it burst open. . . .

  Erik was through it before the thunderous noise had died.

  In a lightning flash his eyes and mind took in the scene confronting him: the hoes, spades, rakes sticking up from a big, dirty barrel leaning against the knotted wall planks in a corner of the hut; the large iron pot in the fireplace, the bright, smokeless fire; the big roughhewn table—and the five people sitting on stools around it, eating soup from plain bowls, their eyes riveted upon him in frozen shock . . .

  He was aware of Don at his side. He had a quick feeling of protection, like a cat whose back is safely snuggled against a familiar shelter. He stared at the group around the table. All of them were clad in ordinary Bavarian clothes. Three young girls in blouses and dirndl skirts. A cripple, his right arm and right leg in steel-and-leather braces. An old man in gray kneebreeches, a coarse green shirt and a gray Bavarian jacket with carved bone buttons.

  Farmers . . .

  Something
collapsed within him, leaving a bleak void. It had been their last chance. There was nothing left to do now. Somewhere along the line they’d muffed it. He was still convinced the Werewolves existed. Just as Plewig had revealed once his cover had been broken. But now . . .

  He felt drained. Deflated. He was tempted to give in to his feeling of failure, but something nagged the edges of his mind, something elusive that teased to be remembered, something he was missing. . . .

  Plewig. Something Plewig said . . .

  He looked searchingly at the group around the table—and suddenly he knew. Suddenly he could hear Plewig’s voice: “Some of them are war wounded.” War wounded . . .

  The cripple!

  And the old man?

  Only seconds had gone by. The Germans were still staring at the intruders in stupefaction. Erik barked an order, his voice sharp and authoritative:

  “General Krueger! You are coming with us. Get up! Now!"

  The scrape of the wooden stool on the rough floor was like the rumble of a giant landslide as the elderly Bavarian farmer at the table automatically half rose from his seat—and stopped dead in midmotion!

  For a full four seconds the strange tableau vivant held frozen as the two groups of figures stared at one another in mutual abysmal astonishment.

  Then Krueger sat down heavily as he suddenly realized his inadvertent admission of his identity.

  Erik’s heart drummed wildly as if to make up a hundredfold for the single beat it lost when the old farmer stood up. He and Don had bagged the Werewolf general himself! With a bluff! He shot a quick glance at Don. Fine. Don was watching the Werewolves, a grim, set expression on his face.

  Erik felt a surge of triumph. They’d done it! Dammit, they’d done it! They’d been proved right. Evans be damned. The Werewolves were exactly where he and Don had said they’d be! They had the general himself to prove it!

  The general . . .

  And suddenly he was staring cold reality in the face.

  If that Bavarian farmer was indeed General Karl Krueger—if he was the Werewolf general—he would not be far from his headquarters. His Werewolves would certainly be nearby. Forty? Sixty? What did Plewig say? Crack troops. Fanatics. Armed to the teeth. They’d be all around. . . .

  They were in the middle of the hidden Werewolf lair. He and Don.

  Alone.

  Only one thing could possibly save their necks. His instinctive bluff had worked on the general. He had to keep it up. He had to turn it into one hell of a big-assed bluff!

  His mouth was dry; his palms moist. Hell of a mixed-up reaction, he thought, with the detached incongruity of an uninvolved observer. He had an overwhelming desire to lick his lips. He didn’t. He knew how clearly such little unconscious actions betrayed nervousness. Uncertainty . . .

  And if he’d ever needed to appear utterly confident and self-assured, now was it.

  “Up!” he barked. “All of you. On your feet!”

  He gestured with his gun.

  “Over against that wall. Hands clasped behind your neck! Move!"

  They moved.

  Krueger first, then the three young girls and finally the cripple lined up at the wall next to the door, never taking their eyes off the two Americans covering them with their guns. The hate seething in their eyes was almost tangible, especially in the girls’. They might have been pretty, Erik thought. But they were not. Their faces were marred by the hate. Only Krueger’s penetrating blue eyes seemed without emotion as he regarded Erik and Don steadily.

  “Turn around!” Erik ordered. “Lean against the wall with both hands. Legs apart.”

  The five prisoners obeyed.

  The crippled man had difficulties; he seemed to lose his balance, and the girl next to him quickly took his arm to steady him, helping him into the awkward position. Before she turned to lean against the wall herself, she shot a withering glance of contempt at Erik and Don.

  It had been a small diversion. It had drawn the eyes of both Don and Erik for only a couple of seconds.

  But it had been enough.

  As the girl standing next to Krueger and farthest away from the cripple turned toward the wall, she quickly fumbled at the waistline of her skirt. Deftly she extracted the tiny Lilliput automatic from a small pocket hidden in the lining; she palmed it, unseen, in her right hand, then placed her hand on the wall and leaned against it.

  Erik covered the prisoners as Don frisked them. The girls endured the search in venomous silence. Don joined Erik.

  “They’re clean,” he said.

  He followed as Erik walked toward the fireplace out of earshot of the prisoners, who stood off balance against the opposite wall.

  “Okay,” Erik said, his voice an urgent whisper. ‘Take off!”

  “You crazy?” Don took his eyes from the Germans to cast a startled glance at Erik. “We’re right in the middle of the whole damned Werewolf nest! I can’t leave you here alone!”

  “Two are no better than one!”

  “We can take them along. . . .”

  “We’d never get out alive. Go get help, dammit! Fast! I’ll keep bluffing.”

  For a few seconds Don stared at his friend, stared at him as if he’d never seen him before. He felt trapped. He knew Erik was right. He knew they had to have help. And he knew he couldn’t stay behind. His German wasn’t good enough to pull off the bluff. It had to be Erik’s game. But just leave him? . . .

  Without a word he turned and walked from the hut.

  Erik was alone.

  He stared at his prisoners lined up at the wall. Five of them. Five backs. Five Werewolves . . . God, he never knew five were so many.

  Leaning against the wall, they looked tense, coiled, ready to explode into action. Were they?

  He didn’t move. Neither did the prisoners. The silence was absolute. Time itself, oozing on, was quiet. As quiet as a mouse pissing on a blotter, he thought. He used to think the expression hilarious. He didn’t now.

  He glanced at the gun in his hand. Colt .38 special. The sum and substance of his superiority. No. Not quite. He did have an ace in the hole to back up his bluff. Knowledge. Knowledge his prisoners didn’t know he had. It was about time he started to use it; he thought he could feel the Werewolves getting edgy. . . .

  Suddenly the silence was destroyed by the distant sound of a jeep starting up and racing away.

  Erik was genuinely shocked.

  God! he thought with cold alarm. Is Don still here? He’s been gone minutes and minutes already! What the hell’s the matter with him?

  He saw the Germans react to the unexpected sound. He knew he couldn’t allow them to start thinking. He had to counteract. Now!

  He forced himself to calm down. It had been only seconds since Don left the hut. He forced the strain from his face, the tension from his hand, gripping his gun. He knew he had to appear composed and confident.

  “All right,” he said easily. “You can turn around now. Just keep your hands behind your neck.”

  The five prisoners turned slowly to face Erik. They stood glaring at him. With a show of supreme unconcern he sat down on the edge of the stone fireplace.

  “I hope you are not thinking of doing anything foolish,” he said pleasantly. “The entire area is surrounded by troops, moving in on this hut.”

  He smiled at Krueger.

  “We knew we’d find you here, General.”

  He watched them for a reaction. There was none. He knew they were still sizing him up, evaluating the situation. He had to keep talking. Keep showing them how much he knew about them. Make them think he knew much, much more. Keep them from thinking and appraising their position correctly.

  “In fact,” he continued, “we know quite a lot about you. And the whole Unternehmung Werwolf. You’ve been with the organization a long time, haven’t you, General? Two years, isn’t it? By the way, did you like your quarters in Poland any better than the ones in Thürenberg? In Czechoslovakia?”

  He kept talking. And watching. Th
ey were listening to him. They had to be wondering. But they were good. They did not betray their reactions.

  “Incidentally, General.” Erik’s voice took on a confidential tone. “Your horses, all one hundred and twenty of them, they’re all being rounded up. Since they were Wehrmacht property, they are, of course, the property of the United States Army now.”

  One of the girls quickly glanced at Krueger; then immediately caught herself and stared straight ahead. The general’s expression did not change.

  “It’s quite a haul, all told,” Erik commented quietly. “Quite a blow to your superior officer, SS Obergruppenführer Hans-Adolf Prützmann, I’d imagine, losing Sonderkampfgruppe Karl like this.”

  He looked straight at Krueger.

  The German officer returned his gaze. His lips drew back in a tight smile. He inclined his head almost imperceptibly.

  “I congratulate you,” he said, his voice firm and even. “We had not expected to hold out forever, but we did not look for capture this quickly.”

  He looked toward the crippled man, then back to Erik.

  “Will you permit my executive officer, Hauptmann Schmidt, to sit down? His leg cannot support him for long.”

  Erik nodded.

  “Of course. Sit down, Captain.”

  Schmidt drew one of the stools to him and sat down, his braced leg sticking out stiffly. The others watched him. The girl next to Krueger made a small move with her hand behind her neck, her eyes fixed on Erik.

  “The girls,” Erik asked. “Are they administrative personnel? Or are they trained for field duties?”

  Krueger made no answer. Erik nodded to the girls.

  “You may take your hands down,” he said. “Clasp them in front of you.”

  The girls glared at him defiantly.

  None of them moved.

  The Road to Schönsee

  The jeep came hurtling down the narrow forest path, slammed around the corner onto the road without slowing and raced toward the little town of Schönsee.

  Don was tensed over the wheel. As he sped past, he hardly noticed the small group of men walking on the road shoulder in the direction from which he had came. They were carrying farming implements. One of them, who wore a dirty leather cap, was pushing a bicycle, an old rucksack strapped to the handlebars. The bike had no tires.