by Ib Melchior
The jeep negotiated a sharp curve. Ahead the road was straight. In the far distance a column of vehicles could be seen approaching.
Don rammed the gas pedal to the floorboard. The jeep literally flew down the road. . . .
He didn’t see the little group of men with the bike turn down the forest path into Schönsee forest. . . .
The Hut
Erik smiled pleasantly at the young Werewolf girls.
“Suit yourselves.” He shrugged. “I only wanted you to be a little more comfortable.”
With deliberate contempt one of the girls spat on the floor. It was a melodramatic, childish display, and yet a chilling gesture of insolence and defiance.
Krueger smiled a thin smile.
“I am afraid my secretarial staff does not think very highly of American officers,” he said.
“In that case their taste is not as good as yours, General. I understand you are very fond of roses.”
Krueger regarded his adversary attentively. A look of speculation crept into his eyes.
Erik recognized it. It was the how-much-does-this-man-know look. He racked his brain to dredge up every scrap of information he’d wrung from Plewig. What else? If only he’d let the guy ramble on. . . .
“And, of course, Armagnac,” he said with nonchalance. “Now there I agree with you. It’s great. Too bad it looks like you’ll have to go without it for a while.”
Krueger watched him with a faint smile.
“You seem well informed on my personal tastes,” he observed. Almost imperceptibly he moved his head.
Erik didn’t miss it. He’s listening, he thought. He’s beginning to wonder why we stand here bullshitting. I can’t lose him now! Aloud he said:
“Of little importance, General. I agree.”
He made himself comfortable on the edge of the fireplace.
“Frosting on the cake. Of course, the more significant details are more interesting. I had quite a fascinating talk with a certain gentleman recently. I believe you know him. Reichsamtsleiter Manfred von Eckdorf?”
For the first time Krueger couldn’t hide the flicker of surprise in his eyes.
“Von Eckdorf?
“Yes. Just before he died.”
The Road to Schönsee
Don skidded his jeep to a halt diagonally across the road, blocking it, forcing the oncoming column to stop. He saw with satisfaction that it was an I & R platoon convoy. Armored cars. Top firepower. A jeep came racketing to the front of the column and screeched to a stop. A first lieutenant jumped from it before it was fully halted and strode toward Don. Two GIs covered him with their tommy guns.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the lieutenant shouted angrily. “Get that fucking jeep out of here!”
Don faced him urgently.
“Lieutenant! I’m a special agent. CIC—Counter Intelligence. I’ve got a buddy back there in real hot water. I need your men. Follow me. Immediately!”
The lieutenant stared at him. Then he grinned.
“CIC, huh? The ‘Christ I’m confused’ boys! Real true to form, aren’t you?”
“Cut the clowning! Just get moving!”
The lieutenant didn’t budge.
“Not so fast! First we’ll find out who can order whom to do what!"
His manner suddenly turned sharp. “Let me see your credentials!”
He held out his hand.
Don could taste the bile of frustration. He cursed under his breath, but he knew the officer was right.
He dug for his ID. . . .
The Hut
The five Werewolf prisoners stood staring at Erik.
It had become a growing effort for him to sustain his air of confident composure. How long had it been? It seemed like forever. He could feel the moisture of anxiety ooze in his armpits and trickle down his sides. He knew that little traitor sweat beads would be forming on his forehead, but he wouldn’t dare wipe them off. He could only pray that the prisoners would not see them. He fought to keep his voice conversational.
“The Reichsamtsleiter was most informative,” he said. “At this very moment, General, our troops are moving in on your operational units. It’s the end of the Werewolves.”
Krueger’s steady eyes watched him pensively.
“Perhaps,” he said. He turned his head to one side to listen. This time he didn’t bother to cloak his action. “Perhaps not . . .”
Erik looked at the prisoners closely. There had been a subtle change. He was acutely aware of it. Familiarity breeds contempt, he thought. That’s what’s happening to them. They’re getting used to the whole goddamned situation. The shock is wearing off. They’ll start to do some serious thinking now. . . .
One of the girls slowly took her hands from the back of her neck and clasped them in front of her. She glared at Erik with open challenge. He debated if he should call her on it. He decided to ignore her. But he knew the rules of the game were beginning to change.
Where the hell was Don?
Krueger turned to him.
“Your comrade has been gone a long time, has he not?” he asked quietly.
To Erik it was the most chilling, the most ominous question he’d ever heard.
He felt control slipping through his hands. . . .
His bluff was about to be called.
The Road to Schönsee
Lieutenant Larry James examined the CIC credentials in his hand. Seem okay. He handed them back to Don. What a snafu operation, he thought with annoyance.
Don turned toward his jeep.
“Let’s go!”
“Hey, look. This is an I & R platoon. We got a hornets’ nest of stiffened SS resistance to deal with. We—”
Don whirled on him.
“Do you question my identification?” he snapped sharply. “My authority?”
“Hell, no. Don’t get your balls in an uproar. But there’s a whole damned panzer division up there, headed for the mountains. We can’t just up and follow you. I’ve got my orders.”
“I’m countermanding those orders! Right now!”
“Look here—uh—what is your rank?”
“My rank is confidential. But I can assure you, Lieutenant, that I’m not outranked now! Let’s go! That’s an order!"
He turned on his heel and strode quickly to his jeep.
“Okay—it’s your funeral.”
Don called over his shoulder.
“And contact Major Evans, Harold J., on your radio. Corps MPs. Tell him where we’re headed.”
He gunned his jeep and barreled off down the road toward Schönsee forest. . . .
The Hut
The very atmosphere in the little hut was charged with suspense. Krueger’s penetrating eyes had narrowed. There was a calculating look on his face as he studied Erik.
“Exactly what are we waiting for?” he asked, a new edge to his voice.
“My partner is talking with one of your men, General. Plewig. Josef Plewig. Your personal orderly,” Erik informed him. He had to get them to listen to him again. He had to! “We want nothing overlooked once we leave here.”
At the mention of Plewig’s name, Krueger’s face darkened. The others started. They glanced quickly at one another. Krueger softly exclaimed:
“Plewig . . .”
“Verräter!” Schmidt spat the word. “Traitor!”
“Don’t be too hard on him, Captain,” Erik said. “He merely saw the utter futility of your whole operation. . . .”
Suddenly Krueger interrupted him, his voice sharp with a new ring of authority.
“Schmidt. Have you heard any sounds of activity outside the last few minutes?”
Erik stood up, at once alert. His gun was pointed straight at Krueger. It did not waver.
“No talking between you!” he ordered curtly.
“Nein, Herr General.” Schmidt ignored him.
“I thought not.”
Erik cocked his gun. The click was abnormally loud to his ears. He was committed. All the way.
He was past the point of no return. . . .
“I warn you,” he said, startled at the harshness in his voice. “Don’t make a move!”
The Werewolf prisoners tensed. Five pairs of hate-filled eyes bore into Erik. The girl next to Krueger looked flushed. The general glanced at the gun in Erik’s hand.
“How many rounds does a Colt revolver hold?” he asked pointedly. “Six? Could you kill us all? Before—”
“You’ll be the first!”
Krueger shrugged.
“No matter.”
With a chill of awe, Erik knew he meant it.
Slowly Krueger began to let his arms sink down from their position behind his neck. The others followed suit, never taking their eyes off Erik.
Erik moved his gun until it was pointed squarely at Krueger. Now that the chips were down he felt deadly calm, wholly alert. He was no longer bluffing. Now it was a matter of survival.
Suddenly the Werewolf girl with the hidden gun exploded into a blur of action.
With a hoarse animal cry she whipped her hands down, aimed her tiny weapon at Erik and fired.
But in the same instant, during the split second it took for the girl to get a firing grip on the small gun, Erik dropped to one knee, his own gun never wavering from Krueger. With his left hand he reached for a low wooden milking stool standing near the fireplace, and with the same uninterrupted motion hurled it straight at the girl’s legs. The single bullet fired by her shrieked past Erik’s temple, slammed into the fireplace, gouging stone chips, ricocheted off with a piercing whine to embed itself in the wall behind him at the exact moment the heavy stool crashed into the girl’s shins. With a groan of pain she went down, her second shot boring into the floor before her.
So startlingly fast had the action been that the other Werewolves were just beginning to react when Erik, his gun and eyes inexorably fixed on Krueger, called out:
“Hold it!”
His voice was deadly with icy control.
Tour general dies!” His eyes for an instant flicked to the girl huddled on the floor, her eyes bright with pain, her gun still clutched in her hand. “And you will kill him, if you don’t drop that toy pistol! Sofort! Right now!”
The girl shot a glance at Krueger, then she turned her eyes back to Erik; eyes that were terrible to behold.
For an eternal second the group of Werewolves remained tensely motionless. If they rush me, I’ve had it, Erik thought with curious detachment. Then, with a half-whispered oath of frustration and impotent rage, the girl dropped the Lilliput gun on the floor. The sound was thunder.
She struggled to her feet.
“Kick it over here,” Erik ordered. “Careful!”
The girl obeyed. The little gun skittered across the rough floor, followed by everyone’s eyes except Erik’s.
He stood up.
The five Werewolf prisoners glared at him. They were like taut, malevolent coils. Waiting. Waiting for the moment of unspoken decision in which to rush him, the moment that had to come. It was just a matter of time. Damned little time. And time was the only thing he couldn’t control with a gun.
“Put your hands back on your heads,” he ordered sharply. “All of you! Face the wall!”
They did not move.
Erik’s gun was aimed steadily at Krueger. He brought up his other hand. Carefully he gripped the gun with both hands, extended it slightly and sighted straight down the barrel, pointed exactly at Krueger’s forehead.
“Now!”
There was not a sound. No movement—and then the prisoners slowly began to move away from one another, their eyes riveted on Erik, steadily widening the area he had to command.
He was losing the last tenuous shreds of control. . . .
He was suddenly aware of something else. A distant dull roar of many motor vehicles, shaking the quiet of the forest, growing louder and louder. The noise of cars grinding to a halt; the clanging of half-tracks, the rumbling of trucks mingled with shouted orders and the sounds of many men.
It was the most beautiful symphony of sounds Erik had ever heard.
His gun began to shake in his hands; he brought it down to rest against his abdomen; it was still aimed straight at Krueger.
The general suddenly seemed to collapse a little within himself. His arms fell uselessly, forgotten at his sides, and he bowed his head in bitter resignation.
Suddenly the door to the hut crashed open. Don and Lieutenant James came rushing in. Don was at once at Erik’s side.
“Erik!”
Erik managed a crooked grin.
“Talk about the marines!” he said.
He replaced his gun in his shoulder holster. He knew his hands were shaking. He didn’t try to hide it. His throat felt constricted and tight as if he were about to cry; his eyes suddenly smarted. He didn’t trust himself to carry the whole thing off with the show of nonchalance he’d like. He barely managed:
“Just—give me a minute. . . .”
And he left the hut.
Alone.
He had endured a lifetime. A lifetime that was all of nine minutes long. . . .
Outside the hut he leaned against the wall. He closed his eyes for a moment. He took a few deep breaths and felt the tenseness gradually leave him. At least he wasn’t shaking anymore. . . .
All around him the men of the I & R platoon were deploying, ringing the pasture. Erik watched. The quite forest clearing had suddenly become the scene of mercurial activity. U.S. Army vehicles converged on the pasture in a cacophony of noise: jeeps, half-tracks, armored cars, weapons carriers. GIs were fanning out on the double, rifles at port arms. At regular intervals they dropped to the ground, facing the forest, guns ready. Others surrounded the hut. The whole operation took place at top speed with the maximum organization and efficiency of a crack combat outfit.
Erik saw it all. But he didn’t see a little incident that happened on one of the several trails leading from the clearing. . . .
A small group of farmers came hurrying down the path away from the pasture, so suddenly swarming with GIs.
One of them, pushing a tireless bicycle loaded with an old rucksack, wore a dirty leather cap.
Krauss.
The expression on his face was one of urgency and alarm as he pushed the old bike rapidly along the narrow trail.
Suddenly, around a bend in the path, two U.S. Army vehicles came tearing down the trail headed straight for the group of farmers. The lead vehicle was a jeep, an officer sitting next to the driver; the other vehicle was a weapons carrier packed with MPs.
The farmers scrambled off the narrow path out of the way of the oncoming vehicles. The old bicycle slipped from Krauss’s grasp and rolled under the wheels of the jeep. Metal clanged against metal, and both the bike wheels spewed out behind the jeep, twisted out of shape. The jeep and the weapons carrier screeched to a halt. Krauss dashed to the mangled bike and the old rucksack lying next to it. He reached it at the same time as the officer from the jeep. Both men stood staring at the rucksack. It had split wide open. From the torn canvas spilled a handful of ammunition and two Luger pistols. . . .
Erik did not see this. If he had, it would have meant nothing to him.
Don came from the hut and walked up to Erik.
“Am I glad to see you!” He felt like touching his friend. But he didn’t.
“Not half as glad as I was to see you!” There was no doubt that Erik meant it.
“How the hell did you do it? What happened?”
“One more minute . . . I tell you, one more minute and I’d have had it.”
Don shook his head in mock wonder.
“And you’re the guy who never wins at poker!”
He grew sober.
“What now?” he asked. “We got the old man, but we still don’t know where the rest of the Werewolves are. I wouldn’t know where to begin to look.”
“I think I know how to find out.” Erik looked thoughtful. This whole case has been one damned bluff from the start. Why stop no
w? I’ll get Krueger to show us.”
“You nuts? That old bastard wouldn’t show you right from left!”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t. Not if he knew he was doing it.” He started for the door, then stopped short. He stared toward the far end of the clearing.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed. “Look who’s here.”
From a forest path a jeep emerged, followed by a weapons carrier crowded with MPs. The jeep had a mangled bicycle slung over the rear seat. Standing up next to the driver like a conquering Caesar was Major Evans, herding a small group of men before him, hands on heads.
“Oh, him,” said Don. “I invited him.”
“How nice of him to come. And bringing his own farmers!”
Erik entered the hut, followed by Don. Lieutenant James and a couple of his men were guarding the prisoners. Erik walked up to the I & R officer. His manner was one of assured command, his voice loud enough for all to hear.
“Okay, Lieutenant,” he announced briskly, “we’re ready to round up the rest of them. Have your men fall in and follow us.” He turned toward the Werewolves. “Detail four men to take the prisoners back to Corps.” He looked directly at Krueger. “Except you, General Krueger. You are coming with us.”
He drew his gun and motioned with it toward the door.
“Let’s go!”
For a brief moment Krueger stared at him, then he turned and walked to the door. His bearing was surprisingly military and dignified despite the simple farmer’s clothes he wore. Erik stopped him.
“Remember, General,” he cautioned pointedly. “No tricks. We are right behind you!”
Without a word Krueger walked on. He didn’t turn around to see if the Americans were following him. If he had, he would have seen the broad wink Erik gave Don. But he marched straight from the hut and headed across the pasture.
Erik and Don were right behind him. . . .
Grafenheim
The Area of Werewolf Unit C
1309 hrs
The black-and-white paint of the diagonal stripes running down the signpost was peeling badly. The sign itself, cut in a crude arrow shape, read: GRAFENHEIM 4 KM.