by Ib Melchior
This was it.
Willi stood on the trail at the forest edge. The hill sloped down in front of him to a small valley, a cove of cultivated fields cutting its lighter greens into the darker colors of the evergreen woods covering the foothills. The trail that had taken him across the Czech border forked at this point. The signpost pointed west, to the left. In the distance, at the mouth of the valley, Willi could make out the village of Grafenheim. The dale itself was little more than one kilometer across. Somewhere, in the woods on the other side, was the area of Werewolf Unit C.
It had been a long trip. Krueger’s HQ at Schönsee was located some 100 or 150 kilometers to the northwest, but Willi thought he must have covered at least twice that distance to avoid enemy held territory, before that damned Volkswagen gave out.
It had been absurdly easy to reach this spot, he thought. No risky infiltration, more like taking a pleasant stroll in this beautiful Bohemian forest. He’d stayed off the roads, of course, and he’d seen no enemy troops at all. The situation must be fluid as hell. He was grateful. It made things a lot easier. Both now and later. But he was also appalled at the signs of collapse he’d seen among the German troops milling about in Czechoslovakia, in the narrowing strip of territory between the advancing American and Russian forces. Time was running out.
Instinctively he touched his breast pocket and felt the slight crinkle of paper. Orders for the commanding officer of Unit C. General Krueger’s last-minute instructions.
He felt a surge of excitement and pride. In a few hours, he thought with the dramatic exaggeration of youth, the course of history will be changed!
He returned his attention to the signpost. He tested it. Yes. It was loose. As advertised . . .
Grabbing it tightly, he turned the sign a full 180 degrees to point directly east.
He glanced across the valley. He knew he was being observed.
He sat down and leaned against the inverted signpost. He waited.
Someone would come for him.
Schönsee Forest
1317 hrs
Generalmajor Karl Krueger marched steadily along the forest path. He had only a few minutes in which to analyze the situation, evaluate it, make his decision and act upon it. Without a single, thought-consuming “if” or “if only,” he accepted the fact that he had been captured. He was puzzled by the manner of the enemy intelligence operation. It made him uneasy. The Americans appeared to have a great deal of information, but their conduct seemed unduly haphazard. He dismissed that thought as being nonessential at the moment. Besides, with Americans one could never know. The paramount issue was how to proceed now, in order to minimize the setback and safeguard the primary mission.
Fact: He, personally, was removed from direct action. However, he could still influence the progress and the scope of the enemy operation. Fact: His HQ unit was immobilized. Regrettable. But there were competent officers with the other units. And Richter carried detailed orders. No reason. No reason at all the mission should not be carried out successfully. It was imperative. There was still a vast number of troops ready to occupy the Redoubt. Time. Time was what was needed. Even hours would count. He made his decision. He would cooperate with the enemy intelligence officers. He would seem to accept defeat. He would retain their interest and attention, limit their sphere of operation to his own area as long as possible. That was already lost. The key mission was still to be mounted.
He came to a trail crossing. Resolutely he turned left. He knew what he had to do. . . .
Erik and Don walked directly behind the German officer. Following them came Lieutenant James, his men deployed in a tight skirmish line behind him. On one flank Major Evans and his MPs were making their way through the woods.
Leaving the forest clearing, Krueger had taken the same path by which Erik and Don had arrived at the hut. Now, with growing realization, Erik looked around. The area seemed disturbingly familiar. There, there at the side of the path was the stack of wood he’d kicked apart less than an hour ago. He glanced at Don. Krueger appeared to be headed for the same part of the forest they’d already searched, tramped all over for hours—and found nothing. He was certain of it. He had a sudden chilling thought.
Was Krueger wise to them? Wise to the trick of letting him lead them? Did he realize they had no idea where the Werewolves were? Was he deliberately leading them by the nose, taking them to a place he knew was safe? Giving his men a chance to escape?
In his sudden apprehension Erik’s eyes darted around. It was the same area. There, on the corner down to the right, stood the big leaning pine tree. The supply tree. And ahead was the forest square planted with the thick stand of spruce trees, all of them between twelve and fifteen feet tall! It was the same damned forest combed by two infantry companies earlier in the day; the same damned spot searched by Evans’ MPs and pored over tree by lousy tree by himself and Don!
Krueger had led them to the only spot in the whole goddamned forest they knew was clean!
He had bluffed the bluffers.
Erik’s mind raced. He had to play the game to the end. There was nothing else he could do. Absolutely nothing.
He turned to look back. Wordlessly he motioned for Lieutenant James to have his men surround the spruce square.
Oh, God—again!
He saw the men fan out. He deliberately kept his eyes averted from Major Evans’. With Don he entered the stand of spruce trees, following closely behind General Krueger. . . .
The boulders in the little clearing in the center of the square looked exactly as they did less than three hours ago. Erik could even see where the thick moss had been flattened on the boulder he’d been leaning against. The mark stood out like a garish billboard.
Krueger stopped. For a moment he stood in silence, staring into space.
“Well?” Erik’s tight voice betrayed his tenseness.
Krueger sighed. “We are here,” he said quietly.
“Don’t give us that!” Don sounded angry. “We’re been here before. There’s not a damned thing here!”
Krueger’s shoulders stiffened. Slowly he turned to face the two CIC agents. He stared at them with icy eyes. Grim-faced, they returned his stare.
“You never did know!” he whispered with shocked incredulity. His face grew dark. He sagged imperceptibly. “You—never—knew.”
Erik spoke harshly.
“What are you giving us?”
Krueger looked searchingly at him, his penetrating eyes cold and distant. He glanced around the clearing. Through the woods Lieutenant James, Major Evans and several of the GIs could be seen converging on the area. Krueger nodded slowly as to a secret thought. Then he faced Erik squarely. When he spoke his voice was once more controlled and calm.
“Feldwebel Steiner!” he called. “Feldwebel Steiner! Antreten!"
He stood still. Waiting.
There was not a sound to be heard. All the men were motionless, staring at the German standing erect, aloof in the clearing. Waiting . . .
Erik watched him. He strained to listen. He heard nothing, but the hackles on the back of his neck prickled the chill of an instinctive warning.
Krueger frowned. Once more he called:
“Steiner!” His voice was sharp with authority. “Antreten! Sofort!
Erik and Don exchanged grim looks.
Nothing . . .
Erik felt bitterly cheated. Only moments ago they’d had it made, and now . . . The old man was giving them the runaround. The game was far from over; it was his move. And dammit, he had not the slightest idea what to do. He glared at the German. He could smell the stink of anger and frustration in his nostrils.
Suddenly every muscle in his body grew rigid. Not six feet from where he stood the ground began to move.
Slowly a square piece of turf raised itself a few inches. Sliding away to one side, it revealed a hole in the ground no more than two feet square.
A man came climbing up from below. He wore the uniform of a German Wehrmacht Feldweb
el. He took a few steps toward Krueger. He limped, but he clicked his heels, came to attention and saluted smartly.
“Zu Befehl, Herr General!”
Dumbfounded, Don stared from the hole in the ground to the man standing at attention before Krueger and back to the hole from which he had appeared.
“Underground!” he said, unable to keep the awe out of his voice. “The whole goddamned installation must be underground!” He turned to Steiner. Curtly he motioned with his gun.
“Get your hands up! On your head! Move!”
Steiner looked questioningly at his commanding officer. His right hand subtly stole toward his belt buckle. Krueger stood stock still. Silent. His eyes averted from the sergeant. The man scowled. Slowly he placed his hands on top of his head. He was fighting for every second, but he had to be careful not to overdo it; not to make the Americans suspicious. He’d delayed obeying the general’s surrender as long as he dared. Long enough to give hurried instructions to the radio operator. Berlin had to be informed. That had top priority. Then the Munich relay station. The other units had to be alerted; new chains of command activated. The Unit C mission safeguarded. He had to keep the Americans out of the dugout long enough for the transmissions to be completed. He had to. He glared coldly at the enemy officer who approached him. . . .
Erik frisked the German noncom thoroughly while Don covered him. The man was unarmed, but in the breast pocket of his uniform tunic he found a few folded papers. He took them over to Don. Unfolding one of them, he whistled softly.
“Hey, I hit the jackpot!” He showed the document to Don. “Look at this. A complete roster of the unit!” He read: “Sonderkampfguppe Karl. Gliederung des Führungsstabes.” He turned to Steiner.
“Is this your unit?”
Steiner quickly glanced at Krueger for guidance, but the general remained silent.
“Well?” Erik demanded.
Steiner gave no reply. Erik stepped up to him.
“Answer me!”
Steiner did not look at Erik. He stared straight ahead.
“I cannot know, Herr Offizier,” he said. There was a trace of mockery in his voice. “I do not know what document the Herr Offizier is looking at.”
Erik shoved the paper in front of his face.
“All right, look!” he snapped. “And talk!”
Steiner glanced at the document.
“Yes, Herr Offizier,” he said. “That is the roster of the headquarters unit.”
Don joined them.
“Terrific!” he said. “All we have to do is call the roster and we’ll know if we’ve got ’em all! How can we miss?”
Erik walked over to Krueger. Soberly he regarded the German Werewolf general.
“General Krueger,” he said quietly. “Order your men to come out and offer no resistance. I want to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. I’m sure you do as well.”
Krueger stood stiffly erect. He made no reply. It was as if he had not even heard Erik. Erik continued:
“It should be obvious to you that they have no chance of escaping.”
Krueger was clearly fighting a battle within himself. His eyes were bleak. He shook his head slowly, heavily.
“I—I cannot do this,” he said. His voice was firm, although a near whisper.
Erik’s first impulse was to give the man a direct order—or else! But he looked at the German officer. He saw the struggle raging within him. And he understood.
He glanced speculatively at Steiner.
The German sergeant glared back at him. Er kann mich am Arsch lechen! he thought venomously. He can kiss my ass, if he thinks I’ll do it!
Erik dismissed the German noncom from his thoughts. It was his job. He looked about him. All around the clearing GIs stood ready. He raised his voice:
“Achtung! Achtung! Kampfgruppe Karl!” he shouted. “Your position is taken! You are surrounded!” He had a sudden crazy flash of déjà vu; it all seemed to have happened once before. . . . “Your commanding general is our prisoner,” he continued. “Lay down your arms and come forward!”
For a long moment all was silent and motionless, as if the entire forest square itself were holding its breath.
Then, cautiously, apprehensively, two men climbed up out of the dugout hole from which Steiner had appeared. One of them, the second man up, was the radio operator. He glanced at Steiner and imperceptibly nodded his head.
Steiner’s stiff shoulders relaxed. His glowering expression turned smug. Automatically he glanced toward the command dugout entrance shaft as if expecting to see someone else emerge.
But the dark hole gaped empty.
He frowned slightly, then suddenly looked away with obvious disinterest.
It was a poor performance, a transparent attempt not to call attention to the dugout. It would have fooled no one.
But Erik and Don were scanning the forest clearing. Neither of them had been watching Steiner.
And then, all through the area, little squares of turf began to move, some of them literally under the feet of the startled GIs. A strange spectacle began to unfold itself. One by one, square holes opened up, and from them emerged a band of sullen, grim Werewolves, clad in a weird conglomeration of mixed uniforms and civilian clothes.
Slowly, grudgingly, unwholesomely they rose from the ground. Like bubbles from a tar pit, Erik thought.
Some of the GIs began to round up the reluctant Germans and collect them in the center of the clearing; others, on orders from Lieutenant James, held their positions, ringing the area. . . .
Pfc Warnecke stood at the edge of the clearing, his back to a clump of spruce trees. He was tense. He hadn’t been allowed to forget the last time he was here. His MP buddies were still ribbing him for tripping and firing his weapon at nothing. Shit! But not this time. If he fired his gun this time, somebody would damn well know he’d been shot at!
He stared with grim determination at the scene before him, ready for anything. . . .
A few feet behind him the ground began to move. . . .
A square of turf stealthily, silently lifted up and began to slide away from a hidden dugout shaft.
Warnecke was unaware of it.
Warily a man’s head appeared in the dark hole, then his shoulders as he started to climb out. In his hand he held a bayonet, honed to razor sharpness. Noiselessly he emerged from the dugout, his eyes riveted on Warnecke’s back. . . .
Warnecke was absorbed in the drama being played out in the middle of the clearing. The I & R platoon officer—what was his name? James, Lieutenant James—was herding a couple of Werewolves toward the growing group of prisoners. Warnecke saw him turn and look in his direction—and suddenly whip up his gun to aim straight at him!
He felt the lightning chill of astonished shock knife through him, and at the instant James fired he hit the dirt!
He felt a heavy weight crash down across his back—and inches from his face a gleaming bayonet blade buried itself a full half foot into the ground.
For a brief moment he lay in uncomprehending shock. Then he felt warm moisture spreading across his hand and arm. He yanked it free and stared at it.
Blood . . .
And he suddenly knew.
With gagging revulsion he rolled from under the dead Werewolf. He stared at the body in horrified amazement. He shuddered. Then he turned toward James.
“Thanks, Lieutenant!” He wanted in the worst way to follow up with some sort of clever wisecrack. He couldn’t think of any. And he knew he couldn’t trust his voice.
“Just watch your step, soldier!” James raised his voice. “That goes for all of you! Watch yourselves! These guys are tricky. Don’t give ’em a chance. Team up! Back to back. Team up!”
At once the GIs moved to seek out partners. Erik turned to Steiner.
“You! How many more dugout entrances are there?”
Steiner looked at him coldly. He shrugged.
“I cannot tell you.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?” Erik snapped angrily.
“I do not know more than one other.” Steiner pointed to an already exposed shaft opening. “No man knows more than his own and one other. It is for security.”
Erik studied the man briefly, then he turned away from him. He raised his voice:
“Achtung! Achtung! he called. “In ten minutes the roster of Kampfgruppe Karl will be called. Any man found hiding after the roster has been called will be shot! I repeat; Any man found hiding after the roster has been called will be shot!”
From a dugout shaft close to Don a man climbed out. He looked around, placed his hands on his head and stared at Don.
Don looked him over. The man wore a wide grin. The bastard thinks it’s all fun and games, does he? Don thought. He felt annoyed.
“What the hell’s with you?” he growled.
The man’s grin widened. He answered in heavily accented English, obviously proud of his accomplishment.
“It is you,” he stated.
Don scowled at him.
“Who’d you expect? Adolf Schicklgruber?” His voice was acid.
“You are lucky to be alive!”
“Can’t argue with that, in general. But why in particular?”
The man looked fleetingly uncertain.
“I do not know what you mean,” he said. “But it is you I saw. Here. This morning.” Don listened with interest. “We saw you. You and your men,” the German continued. “It is only because we have orders to not shoot unless we are discovered that we did not kill all of you. You are lucky that you did not find us. If you had—”
Don interrupted him.
“‘If is a tricky little word in the English language, Buster,” he said dryly. “No telling what it predicts. Look around you!”
The clearing was crowding with Werewolf captives. And still they crawled from the underground shelters. A couple of GIs were hauling a man from a shaft by his collar. Curiously they peered down into the hole.
“Hey, lookit!” one of them called. “They got themselves a motorbike down there! Hot damn!”
Erik had been looking over the papers he’d found on Steiner. He walked up to Don.
“This is dynamite,” he said, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. “Pure dynamite! There are references here to the three other units. The operational units. A, B and C. And there’s a list of outside agents and their areas of operation. Their SOP security setup. Everything!”