Oh, boy, am I in over my head!
“Does Colonel Mattingly know about this?” Cronley asked.
Tiny said, “He asked if I thought we could handle it, and I told him yes. He said, ‘Take care of it, and let me know what happens.’”
“There is a small chance,” Mannberg said, “that we will be able to determine whom the NKGB has turned before the move to Pullach. But we don’t have much time.”
What the hell is he talking about? “Determine whom the NKGB has turned”? Turned how?
Jesus Christ, he’s talking about his own people!
“Turned” means “switched sides.” He knows that there’s a traitor among them.
But then Gehlen has agents in the Kremlin, so why should the Soviets having agents inside Abwehr Ost be so surprising?
“How’s that going?” Cronley asked. “The move to Pullach?”
The U.S. Army Military Government had requisitioned Pullach, a village south of Munich, and moved out all of its occupants. The Corps of Engineers was preparing it for use by what they had been told was the South German Industrial Development Organization.
The engineers had been naturally curious about why a bunch of Krauts who were going to try to restart German industry needed a place surrounded by barbed wire, motion detectors, and guard towers. But when they asked, they were either ignored or told, “Who knows? USFET wants it built, so build it.”
The engineers did not have the Need to Know that when they were finished Operation Ost—now renamed the South German Industrial Development Organization—would move in.
“They’re ahead of schedule,” Dunwiddie answered. “Maybe we better start to think of not moving until we find out more about who the NKGB has in here.”
Cronley looked at Gehlen. “You have no idea who he might be?”
“No,” Gehlen said. “And it might be, almost certainly is, more than one.”
“I’m not sure we can break the Soviet,” Mannberg said. “Obviously we have to continue his interrogation until we know that it’s fruitless.”
Cronley had a quick mental image, from the Alan Ladd movies, of a bare-chested man tied to a chair, his body bloody and bruised, and his face bleeding from multiple cuts inflicted by the riding crop in the hands of a man wearing a black SS uniform.
“With respect, Herr Oberst,” Dunwiddie said, smiling, “I think you may have to reconsider your boiling pot and the beat of drums.”
Gehlen smiled. Mannberg laughed.
“Perhaps later,” Mannberg said. “There’s still time for us to see if the disorientation is working.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Tiny?” Cronley demanded.
“This guy is terrified of Tedworth, Jim,” Dunwiddie said. “I suggested to Colonel Mannberg that we use this.”
“What did Tedworth do to this guy?” Cronley said.
Cronley had another mental image of a bloody and battered man in a chair being beaten, this time by Technical Sergeant Abraham L. Tedworth. Even more massive than Dunwiddie, he was Dunwiddie’s first field sergeant, his Number Two.
“Captain Cronley,” Gehlen explained, smiling, “there are very few Negroes in Russia—very few Russians have ever seen someone of Herr Dunwiddie’s and Stabsfeldwebel Tedworth’s complexion. Or size. When I commented to Dunwiddie that this chap obviously expected to be put in a pot, boiled, and served for dinner, Dunwiddie said he knew there was such a pot—used to process slaughtered pigs—in one of the buildings. He suggested we fill it with water and build a fire under it, let this chap see it, and see if that didn’t produce the cooperation we needed. I told him, ‘Perhaps later, if the disorientation fails.’”
Gehlen, Mannberg, and Dunwiddie chuckled.
Is that what they call torturing a guy in a chair, “disorientation”?
And now that I think about it, I’m sure Tiny heard from his great-grandfathers, the Indian-fighting Buffalo Soldiers, that the Apaches hung their prisoners head-down over a slow fire to get them to talk. Or just for the hell of it. I’m surprised he didn’t suggest that.
Hell, maybe he did. He’s the professional soldier and I’m the amateur.
“Disorientation?” Cronley said.
“Disorientation,” Mannberg confirmed. “We learned over time that causing pain is more often than not counterproductive. Especially with skilled agents, as we believe this fellow has to be. Disorientation, on the other hand, very often produces the information one desires.”
How about pulling out his fingernails? That would certainly disorient somebody.
“What we did here,” Mannberg went on, “was put this fellow in a windowless cell, in the basement of what was the church when this was an active monastery. We took all his clothing except for his underwear, and provided him with a mattress, a very heavy blanket, and two canvas buckets, one filled with water and the other for his bodily waste. And a two-minute candle.” He held fingers apart to show the small size of a two-minute candle. “Then we slammed the door closed and left him.”
“For how long?”
“At first, long enough for the candle to burn out, which left him in total darkness. And then for several hours. Each time, suddenly, his door burst open, and there he could see—momentarily and with difficulty, his eyes trying to adjust to the bright light—Stabsfeldwebel Tedworth. Then the lights—we improvised the lights using jeep headlights—went out and the door slammed closed again.
“The next time the door opened, he was given his dinner. It was time for breakfast, but we served him what the officers were going to have for dinner. And another two-minute candle. By the time his eyes adjusted to the candlelight, it was pretty well exhausted and went out. He had to eat his dinner in absolute darkness and without any utensils. And, pardon the crudity, but can you imagine how difficult it is to void one’s bladder, much less one’s bowels, into a soft-sided canvas bucket while in total darkness? Are you getting the idea, Captain Cronley?”
Cronley nodded. “How long are you going to keep this up?”
“For another twenty-four hours. Perhaps a bit longer.”
“And then?”
“The interrogation will begin.”
“By who?”
“We’re trying to decide whether it should be Dunwiddie or myself. One or the other. Dunwiddie’s Russian isn’t perfect, but on the other hand, he is an enormous black man.”
“Would me getting a look at this guy interfere with your interrogation of him?”
Cronley saw that Mannberg didn’t like the question.
“I’ll keep my mouth shut,” Cronley said. “I just want a look at him.”
Mannberg looked at his watch.
“We’re going to feed him his breakfast in about an hour. That will give you time to have your supper before you have your look.”
“I’ll take you,” Dunwiddie said.
[ FIVE ]
Commanding Officer’s Quarters
Kloster Grünau
Schollbrunn, Bavaria
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
0705 29 October 1945
When he’d gone to bed, Cronley had had a very difficult time falling asleep. His mind insisted on replaying—over and over—everything that had happened in the past ten days. But eventually, at about one in the morning, fatigue had finally taken over.
When the telephone rang, he was in a deep sleep, and he took a long time to awaken and reach for it.
“Twenty-third CIC, Lieutenant Cronley speaking, sir.”
“That’s Captain Cronley, actually,” the voice of Colonel Robert Mattingly informed him. “You might wish to write that down.”
“Sorry, sir. I was really out.”
“Well, rise and shine, Captain Cronley. A new day has dawned. Duty calls.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get dressed, have a shower
, a shave, and a cup of coffee. Then go out to the road. Order the jeeps sitting there blocking it to move off the road. Whereupon, the road will now resume its covert role as a landing strip. With me so far, Captain? Or do you wish to find a pencil and paper and write this all down?”
“I’m with you, sir.”
What the hell is going on?
“Within the hour, an aircraft will land on the road. You will get in said aircraft and do whatever Lieutenant Colonel William W. Wilson, who will be piloting the aircraft, tells you to do. Got it?”
“Yes, sir. What—”
“It would behoove you to treat Colonel Wilson with impeccable military courtesy, Captain Cronley. He has the reputation for being a crotchety Old Regular Army sonofabitch. Speak only when spoken to. Do not ask questions. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The line went dead.
—
Forty minutes later, Captain Cronley—having showered, shaved, and donned a fresh uniform—stood at the end of the road that, in a pinch, could be used as a landing strip for light aircraft. The two jeeps, both with pedestal-mounted .50 caliber Browning machine guns, which had had the dual mission of protecting the compound perimeter and blocking the use of the road as a landing strip, were now half in the ditch beside the road.
Cronley heard the sound of an aircraft engine, and just had time to identify it as the Argus 240-hp air-cooled inverted V8 engine of a Fieseler Storch, when a Storch appeared. Not from above, but from below. It had to pull up before the pilot could lower the nose and put his gear down on the road.
Kloster Grünau sat atop a hill in what Cronley had decided were probably the foothills of the Alps.
Jesus, this guy must have been chasing cows around the fields!
The Storch, which had U.S. ARMY painted on the fuselage and the Constabulary insignia on the vertical stabilizer, slowed quickly and stopped just past where Cronley was standing. It turned and taxied back down the “runway” to the end—where the road curved—where it stopped again, turned again, and stood there with the engine idling.
Conley realized that the pilot, the lieutenant colonel whom Colonel Mattingly had described as “a crotchety Old Regular Army sonofabitch,” was waiting for him, and probably impatiently.
He trotted down the road, rehearsing in his mind what he was going to do now: come to attention, salute (holding the salute until it was returned), and bark, “Sir, Captain Cronley, James D., reporting to the colonel as ordered, sir!”
He got as far as coming to attention and raising his hand in salute when he saw the pilot’s face. Cronley instantly concluded that the crotchety Old Regular Army sonofabitch lieutenant colonel wasn’t flying the Storch.
The guy in the front seat had the bright unlined face of a newly commissioned second lieutenant.
He looks younger than me. He has to be a second lieutenant.
Cronley dropped the salute, walked up to the aircraft, put his foot on the step on the main gear, hoisted himself up into the cockpit, and said with a smile, “Hi, where’d you get the Storch?”
The words were out of his mouth before he noticed the three silver oak leaves—one on each shoulder and a third on his collar point—pinned to the uniform of the guy who had the bright unlined face of a newly commissioned second lieutenant.
“Shit!” Cronley said.
“I have been led to believe, Captain,” Lieutenant Colonel William W. Wilson said, “that you have had some experience with Storch aircraft.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sufficient experience for you to be able to get into the backseat without assistance?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please do so.”
Cronley climbed into the backseat and closed the window-door. He had just located the seat belt and was putting it on when the Storch began to move.
Moments later it was airborne.
Jimmy looked around where he was sitting. The rear seat had the basic controls—stick, rudder pedals, throttle, airspeed indicator, altimeter, and artificial horizon. There was a small panel holding an Army Air Corps radio of a type he had never seen. A headset and a microphone hung to the side.
Suspecting that the colonel was anxious to use the intercom to say a few words about the unusual greeting he had received, Cronley put on the headset.
He rehearsed his reply, drawing on his military courtesy training at Texas A&M. “Sir,” he would say. “Sorry, sir. No excuse, sir.”
Nothing but an electronic hiss came over the earphones for perhaps ten minutes.
Cronley became aware that they were at an altitude of about 2,000 meters, making, according to the airspeed indicator, about sixty knots.
That was cause for concern. In his lengthy flight training in the Storch—almost two hours—Willi Grüner had told him that the Storch tended to stop flying somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five knots.
Unless the colonel watches himself, he’s going to put us into a stall.
The engine coughed and stopped.
Jesus Christ, now what?
The airspeed needle rapidly unwound.
As the Storch stopped flying and went into a stall, the earphones came to life.
“You have the aircraft, Captain,” Lieutenant Colonel William W. Wilson announced.
Cronley saw that the colonel was demonstrating this by holding both his hands above his head.
“Holy shit!” Cronley said, and then Pavlovian reaction took over.
He shoved the stick forward.
If I can get this sonofabitch back up to sixty, maybe it’ll fly!
When he first felt a little life come into the controls, they were at 500 meters, and the needle was indicating 350 when he felt confident enough to try to pull out of the stall.
He came out of the stall moments later and was desperately looking around for someplace where he could—very quickly—make a dead stick landing when the starter ground, the engine started, and the propeller began to take a bite out of the air.
“Why don’t you pick up a little altitude,” Lieutenant Colonel William W. Wilson suggested conversationally over the earphones, “and take up a heading of two-seventy?”
Five minutes later, they were indicating 150 knots at 3,000 meters on a heading of 270.
Cronley took the microphone from its hook.
“Sir, may I inquire where we’re going?”
“Sonthofen. It’s about thirty miles. You’ll know we’re close when I get on the radio.”
Sometime thereafter, Lieutenant Colonel William W. Wilson suggested, “Why don’t you start a gentle descent to five hundred meters?”
Several minutes after that, he announced, “Sonthofen, Army-Seven-Oh-Seven. About three miles out. Request straight-in approach to Twenty-seven.”
“Sonthofen clears Army Seven-Oh-Seven as Number One to land on Two-seven. We have you in sight. Welcome home, Colonel.”
“Tell the man you understand, Captain,” Colonel Wilson ordered.
“I’m supposed to land this thing?”
“Without breaking anything, if possible. Talk to the man.”
Cronley dropped the nose so that he could make out what lay ahead. He saw they were more or less lined up with a runway, around which was a fleet of L-4s, plus two C-47s and some other aircraft Cronley didn’t recognize.
“Sonthofen, Seven-Oh-Seven understands Number One to land on Two-seven,” Cronley then said into the microphone.
“There are two hangars,” Wilson announced. “If you manage to return us to Mother Earth alive, taxi to the one on the right.”
“Yes, sir.”
—
When Cronley had parked the Storch on the tarmac before the hangar, Lieutenant Colonel Wilson climbed out of the front seat and motioned for Cronley to follow him.
A master sergeant approached them and
saluted.
“Say hello to Captain Cronley, Sergeant McNair,” Wilson said. “And then get out the paint and obliterate our beloved insignia that’s on the vertical stabilizer. Our bird has a new master.”
“I hate to see her go,” Sergeant McNair said.
He offered his hand to Cronley and said, “Captain.”
“I am taking some solace in knowing that she has found a new and loving home,” Wilson said, and turned to Cronley. “Let’s go get a cup of coffee. It will take half an hour for the obliteration to dry.”
He led Cronley to an office inside the hangar.
“Close the door, please, Captain,” Wilson said. “I wouldn’t put it past the Air Force to have a spy in here, and we wouldn’t want them to hear what I have to say, would we?”
He added, “Sit,” and walked to a coffeemaker.
There was a framed photograph on the wall, showing an L-4 about to touch down beside the Coliseum in Rome.
Cronley blurted, “I saw that in the newsreels.”
Wilson glanced at the photograph. “Ah, yes. The triumphal entry of General Markus Augustus Clark into the Holy City. I had the honor of being his aerial taxi driver.”
When Wilson saw the look on Cronley’s face, he added, “Oh, yes, Colonel Mattingly told me what you think of Army Aviators. You’re wrong, of course, but young officers often are.”
He let that sink in a moment, and then added, as he handed Cronley a coffee cup on a saucer, “Yes, Captain Cronley, I know a good deal about you—and knew you were out of the mold even before I saw you running up to the Storch in your cowboy boots.”
Shit, I shouldn’t have put my boots on.
After all, Mattingly did warn me he was a crotchety Old Regular Army sonofabitch.
“And while we’re on the subject of being out of uniform,” Wilson said, as he pulled from a metal locker a zippered tanker jacket, to the breast of which were sewn pilot’s wings. “This is one of your prizes for having successfully completed the William W. Wilson course in the operation of the Storch aircraft. The other prizes being two Storches. Treat them kindly, Captain. I have grown very fond of them.”
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