Top Secret

by W. E. B Griffin

  Schollbrunn, Bavaria

  American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  2105 4 November 1945

  A number of problems that neither Captain Cronley nor First Sergeant Dunwiddie had suspected would arise vis-à-vis grave-digging arose when the test grave was actually dug.

  The first step had been the recruitment of the gravediggers. There were three criteria for selection. First was that there be three diggers, two to dig and one to be a spare. The second was the character of the diggers. They had to be responsible senior non-commissioned officers who could be told what was going on, and who could be relied upon to keep their mouths shut about it now and in the future. Third, the diggers had to be physically up to the task. Digging a hole six feet deep by ten feet long and four feet wide in the shortest possible time was obviously going to require a good deal of physical exertion.

  First Sergeant Dunwiddie marched three such men into the commanding officer’s quarters. They were Technical Sergeant James L. Martin, who was six feet three inches tall and weighed 235 pounds; Staff Sergeant Moses Abraham, who was six feet two inches tall and weighed 220 pounds; and Staff Sergeant Petronius J. Clark, who was six feet four inches tall and weighed 255 pounds.

  “I’m sure First Sergeant Dunwiddie has explained something of what’s going on here,” Cronley began. “But let me go over it again. I’m sure you’ve heard that we caught a man trying to get out of here. You may not know that he’s a Russian, a major . . .”

  He stopped.

  “Why do I think I’m telling you something you already know all about?” Captain Cronley asked. “Specifically, why do I think that Staff Sergeant Harold Lewis Junior has let his mouth run away with him?”

  Everyone looked uncomfortable. No one replied.

  “Before this goes any further, Tiny, get that sonofabitch in here!” Cronley ordered furiously.

  When Dunwiddie hesitated, and looked as if he was about to say something, Cronley snapped, “That was a goddamned direct order, Sergeant Dunwiddie. Get that loose-mouthed little bastard in here. Now!”

  Dunwiddie left the room.

  Well, you really blew that, stupid!

  Officers are supposed to maintain a cool and calm composure, and they absolutely should not refer to non-commissioned officers, no matter what they have done, as “sonsofbitches” or “loose-mouthed little bastards.”

  He became aware that all three non-coms were standing at rigid attention.

  “In case you’re wondering what’s going to happen next,” Cronley said, still furious, “I am going to hand former Staff Sergeant, now Private, Lewis a shovel, with which he will dig graves all day until I can get the sonofabitch on a slow boat to the goddamned Aleutian Islands, where he will dig graves in the goddamned ice until hell freezes over.”

  There was no response for a full minute.

  “Permission to speak, sir?” Technical Sergeant Martin barked.

  After a moment, Cronley gestured and said, “Granted.”

  “Sir, with respect, the sergeant suggests that the captain is going to need four shovels.”

  “What in the name of Jesus H. Christ and all the saints of the Mormon Church from the Angel Moroni on down are you talking about?”

  “Sir, the sergeant respectfully suggests that whatever the captain intends to do to former Staff Sergeant, now Private, Lewis, the captain should do to us, too.”

  After a moment, Cronley said, “You’re all in this together, right? That’s your mind-boggling idiot fucking suggestion, Sergeant? That you’re the Three Goddamned Musketeers of Goddamned Kloster Grünau? All for one and one for all?”

  “Sir, with respect, yes, sir, something like that.”

  After another moment, Cronley said, “Okay, Sergeant. Now tell me what in your obviously warped mind it is that tells you I should do anything like that. It better be good.”

  “Yes, sir. Sir, the sergeant requests the captain consider that the three of us, plus Private Lewis, and First Sergeant Dunwiddie were the only non-coms left after the Krauts kicked the shit out of Company C, 203rd Tank Destroyer Battalion in the Ardennes Forest.”

  “You’re talking about the Battle of the Bulge?” Cronley asked softly.

  “Yes, sir. And after that, sir, we have been sort of like the Three Musketeers, as the captain suggests. Real close. No secrets between us. But, sir, that doesn’t mean we share what we have with anyone else, just with each other. Harold—excuse me, sir—Private Lewis thought we should know about you running that Kraut sonofabitch off when he was tormenting the Russian and he told us. Sir, we wanted him to tell us. So we’re in this deep shit as deep as he is.”

  Cronley looked at him a moment and then said, “Stand at ease.”

  The three moved from attention to parade rest, which was not at ease.

  “If we are going to have an amicable relationship in the future, you’re going to have to start obeying my orders,” Cronley said. “Or don’t you know what at ease means?”

  They relaxed.

  First Sergeant Dunwiddie and Staff Sergeant Lewis came into the room.

  That was quick.

  Dunwiddie had Lewis stashed somewhere close.

  Why should that surprise me?

  Staff Sergeant Lewis marched up to Cronley, came to attention, raised his hand quickly to his temple, and barked, “Sir, Staff Sergeant Lewis, Harold, Junior, reporting to the commanding officer as ordered, sir.”

  Cronley crisply returned the salute.

  “Permission to speak, sir?” Dunwiddie asked.

  “Denied. You just stand there with Sergeant Loudmouth, First Sergeant, while I have a word with the Three Musketeers of Kloster Grünau.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Some of you may have noticed a few moments ago that I said unkind things about Sergeant Lewis, including questioning the marital status of his parents. Not only was I rude to each of you but I used profane and obscene language. I also used blasphemous language to describe our home here in Kloster Grünau. You may consider this an apology.”

  There was silence for a long moment. It was broken by Staff Sergeant Petronius J. Clark, the largest of the Musketeers, whose deep voice would make most operatic basso profundo sound, in comparison, like canaries.

  “Aw, shit, Captain,” his voice rumbled, “Tiny told us you was Cavalry before you got stuck with this intelligence bullshit. We’re Cavalry. We wouldn’t respect an officer who didn’t know how to really eat ass colorfully, like you just did.”

  Cronley turned to Lewis.

  “Tell me, Sergeant, how skilled are you with a shovel?”

  “Sir?”

  “A counter-question is not a reply, Sergeant.”

  “Sir, I expect I’m about as skilled as anyone else.”

  “First Sergeant, load the Three Musketeers and Sergeant Loudmouth and four shovels into an ambulance. We are going off into the night to dig a grave. Make sure we have flashlights.”

  —

  A number of things became apparent almost as soon as they reached a small pasture that was a five-minute drive from Kloster Grünau.

  The first was that a pickax was going to be required. Cronley sent Staff Sergeant Abraham back to fetch two of them.

  The second was that the Army expression “Flashlights go dead just when you need them” was right on the money.

  As soon as Sergeant Abraham returned from Kloster Grünau, he was sent back for a supply of flashlight batteries and a tape measure.

  While he was gone, Technical Sergeant Martin and Staff Sergeant Lewis labored hard, and rather ineffectively, at their digging in the light of the ambulance’s headlights.

  When Abraham returned, Martin and Sergeant Lewis—now working in the faint light of the flashlights—took the tape measure and marked off the length and width of the hole to be dug, using rolls of medical adhesive tape
conveniently found in the ambulance.

  “Stand inside the adhesive tape,” Captain Cronley ordered. “When you get down a little deeper, you’re going to have to work inside the walls of the grave. You might as well get used to that.”

  When Sergeants Martin and Lewis complied, it became immediately apparent that two men could not simultaneously labor to deepen a grave while both were inside the dimensions of said grave. Testing proved this was especially true when one of the gravediggers required the use of a pickax in his labors.

  “Well, we’ll do it like a relay race,” Captain Cronley announced. “First, the pickax man will dislodge the soil. He will then exit the grave and the shoveler will enter, remove the loose soil from the grave, then exit the grave to be replaced by a man with the pickax. Und so weiter.”

  This modus operandi proved far less effective in practice than in theory. Too much time was lost changing laborers. There would be additional lost time as the grave deepened—six feet being one hell of a hole—and the pickax man had to crawl out before the shoveler could climb in.

  A modification of the relay-race method was adopted. Working as fast as he could, one gravedigger would wield the pickax and then shovel the loosened dirt out of the hole. He would repeat this cycle three times. By then, the gravedigger was sweating and panting heavily and had to be replaced.

  He would then be helped out of the grave and, now shivering in the near freezing temperature, be helped back into the field jacket and shirt he had removed to facilitate his pickax and shovel wielding. As he did so, a fresh gravedigger would quickly remove his field jacket and shirt, and then enter the grave to repeat the process. Und so weiter.

  By 2100, it had been determined it was going to take two hours and thirty minutes to dig a grave—much longer than any of them had thought it would—and forty-five minutes to fill it up.

  The burial party then got back in the ambulance and jeep and returned to Kloster Grünau.

  [ SIX ]

  Commanding Officer’s Quarters

  Kloster Grünau

  Schollbrunn, Bavaria

  American Zone of Occupation, Germany

  2145 4 November 1945

  Captain Cronley, First Sergeant Dunwiddie, and Technical Sergeant Tedworth watched as the medic liberally daubed merbromin on the hands of the gravediggers. The topical antibiotic stained the wounds a bright red.

  When Cronley first saw the blisters, he thought it was kind of funny. Enormous, muscular men with delicate hands. Then he got a better look at the blisters and had second thoughts.

  These guys are not only in pain now, but have been in pain since probably after the first five minutes of furiously swinging the pickaxes and shovels.

  And they hadn’t said a word.

  He had then sent for Doc, the medic sergeant, who had been in the NCO club having “a couple of beers,” he’d said, when he arrived a hair’s-breadth from being royally drunk.

  “Doc,” Cronley said, “I was about to suggest a bottle of Jack Daniel’s to comfort our afflicted brethren. Would that be medically appropriate?”

  “Sir, that’s probably a very good idea. What the hell have they been doing?”

  “Field sanitation. Digging latrines,” First Sergeant Dunwiddie answered for him.

  “First Sergeant, get a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the bar, then send our walking wounded to bed,” Cronley ordered. “No. Change of plans. I’ll want a word with them after you leave, Doc.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When the medic had, none too steadily, left the room, Cronley asked, “Why do I think that when Doc gets back to the NCO club, he’s going to say, ‘I don’t know what the captain had those guys doing. They claimed digging latrines, but I don’t believe that. They had the biggest blisters I’ve seen since Christ was a corporal. They were digging something.’

  “And then do you think it’s possible that someone will guess ‘Maybe they’re digging a grave for that Russian that Sergeant Tedworth caught and they’re going to shoot?’ Everyone of course knows about the Russian because of Sergeant Loudmouth.”

  “Oh, God!” Dunwiddie said. “I should have thought about that!”

  “Let me catch up with Doc Lushwell, Captain,” Tedworth said. “I’ll tell him to keep his yap shut.”

  “Thank you, but no thanks. If you think about it, what’s wrong with somebody guessing we’re going to shoot the Russian? If that word gets out—and I think it will—it will come to the attention of the Germans the NKGB has turned. Then they won’t be so surprised when they hear the shots when we ‘execute’ him.”

  “Yeah,” Staff Sergeant Petronius J. Clark boomed appreciatively. “That’s how it would work all right.”

  Then he blew gently on his red merbromin-painted hands and winced at the stinging sensation.

  “Let’s carry that one step further,” Cronley went on. “Sergeant Loudmouth, please present my compliments to Major Orlovsky and tell him I would be pleased to have him attend me in my quarters.”

  “Captain, you going to tell the Russian that we was digging graves?” Sergeant Clark asked dubiously.

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to tell him. What are you waiting for, Sergeant Loudmouth? Go get Major Orlovsky.”

  “With respect, sir,” Dunwiddie said. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “No, Sergeant Dunwiddie, I do not. Go get the Jack Daniel’s and some glasses.”

  [ SEVEN ]

  Staff Sergeant Harold Lewis Jr. and two soldiers from das Gasthaus, as Cronley had called the cell in the basement of the former chapel, led Major Konstantin Orlovsky of the NKGB into the room. Orlovsky’s head was covered with a duffel bag. He had a blanket over his shoulders, held in place with straps. His hands were handcuffed behind him and his ankles shackled.

  Cronley gestured for Lewis to take off the duffel bag.

  “Good evening, Konstantin,” Cronley greeted him cordially. “Some things have come up that we need to talk about. I thought you’d be more comfortable doing so here, over a little Tennessee whisky and some dinner, than in das Gasthaus.”

  Orlovsky didn’t reply.

  “Sergeant Clark, would you be good enough to take the restraints off Major Orlovsky?” Cronley went on. “And then, after he’s had a shower, get him into more comfortable clothing?”

  —

  Orlovsky came back into the room, now wearing the German civilian clothing he had been wearing when Sergeant Tedworth had captured him as he tried to sneak out of Kloster Grünau.

  “First Sergeant Dunwiddie, Staff Sergeant Clark, and I are delighted that you could find time in your busy schedule to join us,” Cronley said, waving him into a chair at the table. “Please sit down.”

  Orlovsky obediently sat.

  “What’ll it be, Konstantin?” Cronley asked. “Whisky? Vodka?”

  “Nothing for me, thank you.”

  “Pour a little Jack Daniel’s for the major, please, Sergeant Clark,” Cronley said. “He may change his mind.”

  “I never change my mind,” Orlovsky said.

  “We say, ‘Never say never,’” Cronley said. “Pour the Jack, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know what’s wrong with that disguise you were wearing?” Cronley said. “If you don’t mind me saying?”

  Orlovsky said nothing.

  “You’re too well nourished, too chubby, for a German. You should have figured out a way to make your skin look gray, for your cheekbones to be more evident. Forgive me, Konstantin, but what you look like is an American trying to look like a German.”

  Orlovsky shook his head in disbelief.

  Sergeant Clark put a glass before the Russian and then poured two inches of Jack Daniel’s into it.

  “Ice and water, Major?” Clark boomed. “Or you take it straight?”

  Cronley sa
w that Orlovsky had involuntarily drawn himself in when the enormous black man had come close to him, then recoiled just perceptibly when Clark had delicately poured the whisky with his massive, merbromin-painted hand.

  Orlovsky was disconcerted to the point where he forgot that he never changed his mind.

  He said, “Straight’s fine. Thank you,” then picked up the glass and took a healthy swallow.

  “I saw you looking at poor Sergeant Clark’s hands. Aren’t you going to ask what he did to them?”

  “No.”

  “Tell the major how your hands got that way, Sergeant,” Cronley ordered.

  “Digging that goddamned practice grave,” Clark boomed.

  There was no response.

  “Aren’t you curious about the phrase ‘practice grave’?”

  “No.”

  “We was digging a practice grave,” Sergeant Clark volunteered. “To see how long it’s going to take us to dig the real one for you.”

  “Quickly changing the subject,” Cronley put in, “how does pork chops and applesauce and green beans sound for dinner?”

  “That would be very nice,” Orlovsky said.

  “Would you tell the cook that, please, Sergeant Clark?”

  “Yes, sir,” Clark boomed, and marched out of the room.

  “I suppose that happens in the Red Army, too,” Cronley said.

  “What?”

  “That senior sergeants like Clark, who have held their rank for some time, develop soft hands. I mean, so that when they are called on to perform some manual labor of the type they were accustomed to perform when they were privates, they’re not up to it. Those hands must really be painful.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Well, we’ve learned our lesson. The next time we dig your grave, we’ll be good Boy Scouts.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The Boy Scouts is an American organization that one joins at age nine, as a Cub Scout, and remains in, generally, until the age of eighteen, or until the Scout discovers the female sex. Whichever comes first. Roasting marshmallows over an open fire is great fun, but for an eighteen-year-old it can’t compare with exploration of the female anatomy.”