Order of Battle

by Ib Melchior

  “We better get that stuff back to Corps right away.”

  Erik nodded.

  “We’ll take the general along. Evans and James can handle things here.”

  “Anyway, James can!” They walked over to Krueger.

  “Please come with us, General,” Erik said. “We are leaving here.”

  Krueger looked at him.

  “I have one request.” He spoke with quiet dignity.

  “What is it?”

  “My uniform is in the executive dugout.” He glanced down at his Bavarian farmer’s clothes with faint distaste. “I request permission to change.”

  Don pulled Erik aside. He spoke urgently.

  “Watch it, Erik. He was caught in civvies. You know the rules.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s tricky!”

  “Look. The guy’d probably feel a lot better if he could face our brass in uniform and not dressed like some cruddy fanner. What’s the difference? The record’ll show he was taken in civvies. Besides, if we grant him his request now we can put him a little in our debt. Might make him more apt to cooperate later on.”

  Don was not convinced. He shrugged reluctantly.

  “Okay, it’s your neck.” He grinned. “Guess you’re so used to having it stuck out you can’t stop!”

  Erik smiled. “I’ll go down there with him. I want to take a look around before we take off anyway.”

  He called:

  “Warnecke! Over here!”

  The MP came trotting up. Major Evans joined the group. Erik turned to Warnecke.

  “You come with me,” he said. “We’re going down into the general’s dugout.”

  He started for the entrance to the executive dugout. Evans stopped him.

  “If you’re going down there,” he said, “I want to go along. I want to see this Werewolf layout.”

  Both Erik and Don turned to him.

  “Major!” Don exclaimed with mock surprise. “I thought you didn’t believe in Werewolves!”

  Evans reddened. But he kept his silence. Erik motioned to Krueger.

  “Okay, General. Let’s go.”

  Krueger nodded. Briskly he started toward the shaft.

  Erik’s attention never left Krueger as he followed the Werewolf general down into the command dugout, yet he was able to get a good picture of the ingenious installation.

  In the square “planter tray” forming the “lid” to the entrance shaft grew the same grasses and weeds as on the surrounding forest floor. When in place, resting on the four massive corner posts of the shaft, exactly level with the ground, it was virtually impossible to detect. Erik could attest to that.

  The shaft itself had a permanent ladder built onto one side. It was some ten feet deep and shored up with rough planks.

  Erik joined Krueger at the bottom of the ladder. The dugout itself was lighted by several naked bulbs strung along the wooden ceiling, seven feet high. He looked around.

  He was in a room he estimated to be about eight by six feet. The shaft entrance was located in one corner. Immediately to the left was a crude double-decker bunk. Weapons crates, ammo and grenade boxes lined the walls, which were made of unfinished lumber. Like being inside a giant packing crate, he thought.

  Two open doorways reaching all the way to the ceiling led to other chambers. Krueger headed for the one at the far left of the shaft chamber. Erik followed. He was aware of Evans and War-necke coming down the ladder from above.

  He glanced into the room on his right as he passed the open doorway. It was about the same size as the first chamber. It, too, had a double-decker bunk, and along the far wall a competent-looking radio receiver-transmitter setup was installed. Here crates and boxes were also piled in every possible place, and along one entire wall rows of stacked batteries loomed heavily. Power, Erik realized, for the radio and for the sparse dugout illumination.

  Krueger entered the third room. It was the size of the two other chambers combined and quite obviously his own quarters and those of his immediate staff.

  Two double-decker bunks formed an angle in the near right corner. One of them, standing against the right wall, had a curtain which could be drawn across it. Erik briefly wondered if it was Krueger or his female staff members who required the privacy.

  Facing the open doorway was a table strewn with papers and books. Behind it and on the left wall large area maps had been tacked up. Even here crates and boxes took up all available space. Several automatic weapons were stacked against one of the bunks.

  Krueger walked to an open clothes rack standing against the far wall. His boot steps sounded hollow on the wooden planks.

  Drainage system below the flooring, Erik’s mind registered. Probably leading to a sump pit.

  He looked up. In the ceiling where the open doorway joined the two areas he saw an air vent fan. It was not working. He couldn’t help being impressed. The air vents from this dugout and from the others as well had to run up through the trunks of the trees growing on the dirt roofs. Only way they could remain undetected.

  Krueger turned toward Erik. He waited.

  Erik went to sit on the corner of the table. Evans entered the room. He looked around, trying just a little too hard to seem unimpressed. He went over to inspect one of the wall maps, as War-necke took up position in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, cradling his carbine in his arms.

  “Go ahead, General,” Erik said pleasantly. “Sorry I can’t give you more privacy.” He indicated the stacked weapons. “I wouldn’t want you to succumb to temptation.”

  Krueger smiled a small, wry smile. He inclined his head slightly.

  “Of course.”

  He turned to the clothes rack, selected a uniform and laid it on the bunk. He began to shrug out of his Bavarian jacket.

  Erik watched him. He felt good. The operation was paying off after all. Everything was going his way. Idly he began to riffle through the papers on Krueger’s desk. He’d gather them all together. Take them back to Corps. You never knew what you might find.

  Krueger was unbuttoning his vest. Erik let his eyes roam the chamber.

  “Tell me, General, the other units—are they underground, too?”

  Erik’s manner was disarmingly informal. He gave the impression of simply making small talk.

  Krueger seemed not to hear him, but he stiffened slightly.

  “Oh, come on, General,” Erik bantered. “We have all your records!”

  Krueger was removing his coarse peasant shirt. He sat down on the bunk and began to take off his boots. He glanced up at Erik with his special little smile.

  “Yes. They are,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “So your outside agents fed you information. You’d pick the targets and send your orders to the operational unit nearest to it. They’d mount a force of Werewolves, make the strike, and disappear back into their cozy little homes away from home in the ground.”

  “That was the plan.”

  Krueger was pulling off his heavy woolen socks.

  “And Ike?” It was a casual question.

  The German officer faltered imperceptibly. Then he quickly continued to undress.

  “Ike?” His tone of voice had the exact inflection of polite curiosity. No more.

  “The Supreme Allied Commander. General Dwight D. Eisenhower to you.”

  “I do not know what you mean.” Krueger sounded distant. There was an unmistakable tone of dismissal in his voice.

  Erik smiled. He was amused.

  “Oh, come now, General,” he said good-naturedly. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  He looked at Krueger.

  “The assassination,” he supplied helpfully. “Did you really think you could get to him?”

  Krueger said nothing. He stood up and turned his back to the Americans. Erik waited. He’d give the man a little time to think. To realize how completely his entire operation had failed. He looked at the German officer. He was amused to see that the Werewolf general wore long u
nderwear. But then it must get cold in that damp, unheated dugout. He didn’t blame the man for wanting a bowl of hot soup in front of a nice warm fire. He let his mind dwell on the scene in the hut. Krueger must have felt quite safe when the first search of the forest by the infantry failed to discover the Werewolf installation. Safe enough to leave the dugout and go to the hut. Erik grinned to himself. He sure owed a lot to a bowl of soup!

  Krueger had almost finished getting into his uniform. Erik began to gather together the papers from the general’s table. He glanced only perfunctorily at them as he picked them up.

  Krueger was buttoning his uniform tunic. He turned back toward the others. Above the right breast pocket of his field-gray tunic gleamed the silver Hoheitsabzeichen, the German eagle clutching a swastika; above the left was an impressive row of ribbons representing both military and Nazi decorations. The second buttonhole down boasted the red, white and black ribbon of the Iron Cross. The transformation from Bavarian peasant to Wehrmacht general was startling.

  He looked up at Erik—and froze. Despite his instant effort to conceal his sudden concern, his face twitched in silent alarm. For a moment he stood immobile, staring at the American and the papers in his hand, the uniform buttons forgotten.

  Erik glanced at him, and Krueger at once averted his eyes and continued to button his tunic.

  Erik just caught the last flicker of Krueger’s look of alarm. It was enough. At once he felt the surge of alertness whip through him. Something just happened. Something he missed!

  He contemplated the German thoughtfully. Did the man seem more tense? Or, rather, more deliberately relaxed?

  He tried to catch Krueger’s eyes, but the general avoided his. Did he make a point of doing so?

  Erik was puzzled. Uneasy. Something was going on. Something he’d better figure out. And fast! His mind raced. He stared at the German. Standing erect, Krueger looked straight at Erik.

  “I am ready,” he said calmly.

  Erik stood up. He returned Krueger’s direct gaze. He suddenly felt himself in a duel, a duel of emotional control, of unspoken action and reaction, and he realized with dismay that he didn’t even know the stakes! He only knew it was a duel he had to win.

  He was abruptly aware that he was crumpling the papers in his hand. He glanced at them—and barely managed not to betray the thought that lanced into his mind.

  He flexed his shoulders in a gesture of relaxation.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  He threw the papers on the table with a show of indifference.

  As he did, he shot a glance at the Werewolf general.

  And he caught it!

  Krueger’s eyes flicked momentarily toward the papers on the table, then returned at once to stare blandly at Erik. It was barely perceptible, but the man’s face had lost some of its tenseness. Krueger looked relieved.

  It was the documents that concerned him!

  Erik whirled back to the table. He grabbed the papers and held them out to Krueger.

  “What’s in these documents, General?” he demanded, his voice suddenly hard as flint

  He watched for Krueger’s reaction. He almost missed it. A slight widening of the eyes; an almost undiscernible drain of color; the sardonic smile gone. But the Germans voice was steady, unhurried when he spoke.

  ‘Take them along. Read them.” He shrugged with unconcern. “They are reports. Daily reports . . . Routine.”

  He dismissed the subject and started toward the door.

  “Hold it!” Erik snapped. “Stay right where you are!”

  Krueger froze. Erik began to study the papers in his hand.

  “I’m suddenly curious to see what kind of routine a Werewolf follows. I think I’d better find out. And not later . . . Now!”

  He began to examine the documents, one by one. He read fast. But he let nothing slip by. He was certain he’d find something.

  Krueger glared at him. Beneath his bushy brows, his cold eyes glittered with icy fire. The muscles in his lean jaw corded as he unconsciously bit down hard. All of a sudden his taut body seemed charged with barely bridled violence. His eyes darted from Erik to Evans standing at the wall map. The MP officer was watching him warily. He quickly glanced toward Warnecke. The man stood in the open doorway. His gun was in his hand, ready to use.

  Suddenly Krueger’s eyes widened. At once he shifted his gaze back to Erik. With a show of bored irritation he turned, took a couple of steps toward the bunk and leaned against a corner post. Warnecke followed his move closely, his attention wholly focused on the Werewolf general.

  He was completely unaware of the soundless, furtive movement in back of him. . . .

  On the far wall of the entrance chamber behind him, a small section of the shoring planks, its outline undetectable among the natural cracks and joints of the rough boards, was slowly, silently being pushed out and cautiously placed on the floor below.

  Moving with molasses motion, a man, crouched in the exposed opening, noiselessly lowered himself into the room. From his belt he drew the black steel of a .08 Luger and took careful aim at War-necke’s back. . . .

  The seconds seemed eternal. Krueger could contain himself no longer. He permitted his eyes to flick toward the dim entry chamber behind Warnecke. He froze. His mind raced wildly.

  Damn the man! He’ll kill any possible chance we have of using the escape tunnel if he fires that gun! he thought in desperation. I must stop him!

  He forced himself to look at Erik. He forced himself to make his voice sound casual.

  “Your friends up there,” he said quickly, glancing up at the ceiling. “Will they not get impatient if you stay down here reading all those reports? They are, as I told you, of no consequence.”

  Erik did not answer. He had a sinking feeling as he read on. The papers were routine. Duty rosters. Schedules. Regulations. They were of no consequence. But dammit, he’d decide when to stop reading, not some goddamned German! With angry annoyance he put the paper he’d been reading aside and doggedly started on the next one.

  And suddenly his every nerve end chilled. Here it was! What he’d been so certain would be there! His eyes devoured the words on the document in his hand. . . .

  The Werewolf crouched behind the unsuspecting Warnecke instantly understood the general’s warning. Quickly he put the gun away. He reached up to the visor of his Wehrmacht field cap. He yanked sharply at the rim. It gave way, and from the visor he pulled a four-inch-long curved knife blade. It was razor sharp. . . .

  Erik looked up in excitement from the document in his hand.

  In that instant the Werewolf made his move. He leaped upon Warnecke from the back, and with one swift slicing motion he cut his throat.

  Warnecke’s death cry died aborning in a hideous gargling groan, the convulsive expulsion of air spewing bright red droplets of blood from the gaping wound as he collapsed.

  The instant Warnecke went down Evans whirled on the assailant, gun in hand. But the Werewolf had anticipated just that. With a well-aimed kick he sent the gun spinning on the floor. . . .

  In the same instant that the man had leaped to attack Warnecke, Krueger hurled himself upon Erik, taking him completely by surprise. With the incredible strength of desperation he held him in a viselike, painful judo grip, preventing him from drawing his gun and coming to the aid of Evans, who, weaponless, confronted the Werewolf assassin inexorably advancing on him.

  Erik struggled desperately in Krueger’s grip. He felt the bone in his arm beginning to snap.

  “Erledigen! Schnell! Finish him!” Krueger spat out the words.

  Evans backed against the table. He shot a quick glance behind him, searching for a weapon.

  And he found it.

  He grabbed a pencil lying half hidden among the papers and, grasping it like a knife pointed away from him, made a vicious stab toward the stomach of the advancing Werewolf. The man instantly drew up. He pulled his stomach back. In so doing he leaned slightly forward. . . .

  Evans’
stab had been a feint. Without a break in his fluid, powerful motion, he jabbed the sharply pointed pencil deep into the man’s exposed jugular vein.

  For a split second an incredulous look of surprise and mortification winked in the man’s glazing eyes; he knew in that instant that he had been tricked, but he had been powerless to repress his own reflex action.

  The force behind Evans’ jab was so great that the pencil snapped off in the flesh of the Werewolf. Already-dead fingers plucked at the blood stained stub and the man tried to shriek his agony as his life spurted from him.

  Before he hit the floor Evans had retrieved his gun. He whirled on Krueger.

  “Enough!” he called sharply. His eyes flicked briefly toward the body of Warnecke. “I’d love to have to use this, you bastard!”

  Krueger at once released Erik.

  Erik stared at the dead Werewolf. He was deeply shaken. He could feel the bitter bile rise in his throat. He fought it down. It left his gullet burning and raw. He turned to Evans.

  Thanks!” he said. “And thank God you knew that good old OSS standby!”

  Evans glanced sourly at the broken pencil on the floor.

  “The pencil?” He shrugged. “We do have some basic training in the MPs,” he said sarcastically.

  Erik took a deep breath.

  “Well, thanks anyway.”

  Evans gave him a cold look.

  “No thanks necessary—uh—Larsen. I was protecting my own skin.”

  Erik knelt by Warnecke. But he knew he was dead. He gathered the documents from the table. Then he looked at Krueger.

  The Werewolf general stood stiffly erect. The faint, wry smile was back on his lips and in his eyes. He returned Erik’s angry stare calmly.

  Erik nodded at the doorway.

  “Get going!”

  Krueger made a slight bow. The perfect Prussian Junker officer. He walked toward the ladder.

  Erik’s bleak eyes followed him.

  A game, he thought bitterly. He acts just as if it were a goddamned game. He made his move and lost. No one can blame him for that, can they? No, sir. He’ll try again, of course. Isn’t that what it’s all about? One great, glorious game played out by gentlemen officers? Shit!