The Second Objective

by Mark Frost

  Bernie gripped the handle of the shovel, leaned out from under the stairs, and waited. The woman groaned, her breath rising and falling in a ragged rasp. He edged forward until he caught sight of her heaped form in the edge of the light. Bernie took a deep breath.

  The woman jolted to life, scrabbling along the ground at him like a rabid dog, the cleaver in her hand, gibbering incoherently. Bernie stumbled away from her until he slammed into another door. It crashed open behind him and he fell back into a narrow room lined with shelves on either side. The woman crawled after him. He kicked the door shut with his foot; it slammed into her face and bounced off, but she kept coming. Bernie crabbed backward, pulling down shelving between them. Glass jars exploded on and around her as she advanced. The room filled with noxious smells; he didn’t want to know what was in those jars. He jumped to his feet, made his way around the shelving to the right, saw another door ahead, and threw himself at it. The door flew open. He slammed it shut and bolted it just as she drew herself up and threw her mass at the other side. The entire wall shuddered. She shrieked and hit it again, then went quiet.

  Bernie looked around. He was back in the first room he’d entered. He peered through the door to the hallway. He could see the stairs. He glanced at the casement window he had broken, but didn’t think he could climb through it in time.

  Bernie made a break for the stairs, and she came running out of the darkness, cutting off his angle. He tried to leap up to the third stair, caught his toe on the edge, and landed hard, facedown on the stairs. She closed in behind him, the cleaver going up in her hand. Bernie turned, whipped the shovel around, and the cleaver scraped down along its shaft, sparks flying, metal ringing on metal. He swung the shovel back the other way and struck a glancing blow to the side of her head, but she shook it off and kept after him.

  Bernie pulled himself up onto the next riser, parried another blow from the cleaver, then jabbed the blade at her fleshy mass to keep her at bay. She knocked the shovel aside and brought the cleaver down again, missing Bernie’s hip by two inches, splintering the wood of the riser as he rolled out of its way.

  Bernie swung the shovel again, but couldn’t put much weight behind it. The blow struck her in the ribs and she hardly seemed to notice. She pinned the handle under one arm, turned her body, and wrenched the shovel out of his hands, letting it fall. Bernie turned and crawled frantically up the stairs.

  Someone stood in the open doorway at the top, silhouetted. He saw an arm point toward him, holding a pistol. Bernie threw himself flat on the stairs, turning his head away, and from the corner of his eye he saw her nightmare figure lurching up the stairs behind him, the cleaver high in the air. Then came the sharp report of the gun, twice, three, four shots, echoing harshly.

  The bullets stopped the woman on the stairs, blossoms of blood spreading across her chest. She looked at Bernie in disbelief, wobbled in place, gave a soft, low groan, crumpled, and collapsed off the side of the staircase, hitting the concrete floor with a heavy crunch.

  Bernie felt a hand on his shoulder. He raised his head up to look.

  “Jesus Christ, Brooklyn,” said Von Leinsdorf. “I leave you alone for a minute, look what you get yourself into.”

  “What the fuck. What the fuck.”

  Von Leinsdorf continued down the stairs. He walked into the room at the end of the hall where she’d stashed the bodies. Moments later, Bernie heard another shot.

  16

  The Bridge at Amay

  DECEMBER 17, 4:30 P.M.

  Grannit downshifted sharply, the gearbox of the Willys grinding in protest, fishtailing the rear tires around the hairpin turns. They’d taken ten minutes to drive up the hill. Going down, they reached the river road in five.

  As they accelerated toward the bridgehead, they could see the other jeep parked alongside the checkpoint. All four passengers were still in their seats. An officer in the back was talking with the sergeant in charge of the bridge.

  “Don’t you want to slow down a little, Earl?” asked Carlson.

  Grannit looked at him, annoyed. “Do you want to drive, Ole?”

  “Just thought you’d want to come in slow so we don’t tip ’em off.”

  “You want me to pull over so you can drive?”

  “No.”

  “Why don’t I just stop right here and you can take us in at the right speed?”

  “Forget it. Sorry I asked.”

  “Jesus, you’d make coffee nervous.”

  Grannit hit the brakes before they made the final turn and reached the bridge emplacement ten seconds later. Grannit gave a casual wave to the sergeant as he pulled in front of the other jeep, cutting off their way forward. A captain in the passenger seat of the second jeep turned to look at them with a wave and a friendly smile.

  “Everything okay, Sergeant?” asked Grannit.

  “This is Captain Harlan,” said the sergeant, turning to the new arrivals. “Did I get that right, sir?”

  Harlan nodded. Grannit hopped out of the jeep and saluted.

  “How are you doing today?” Harlan asked Grannit, returning the salute. “Where you fellas from?”

  None of the four men appeared unduly nervous. Two wore their boots without leggings, like the dead German they’d found at the crossing, and one lacked a regulation belt. Only one man wore a unit patch on his shoulder. Keeping an eye on their movements, Grannit casually moved around their jeep. He noticed that the lettering on their hood looked freshly stenciled, showing no wear and tear. Four spare jerricans were tied to the back.

  “We were near Liège this morning,” said Grannit, taking out a pack of cigarettes. “Where you coming in from, sir?”

  “We were in Holland yesterday, Eindhoven. Signal Corps, Third Armored. Orders to move came down in the middle of the night. It was hell just getting everybody on the road.”

  Grannit tried to light a cigarette, deliberately mistiming his roll of the flint. “See any Krauts on the way down?”

  “We sure didn’t. Guess the heavy stuff’s still to the east, huh? Is it really as bad as they’re saying?”

  “Where you guys headed? Hey, you got a light?” asked Grannit.

  Captain Harlan fished out his silver Zippo. “They said they wanted the whole outfit in Malmédy by to night. Our CO told us to divert west and head down to Bastogne. We’re looking for the turn to get us back on the highway, just stopped to ask directions—”

  As the captain held out his lighter, ready to flick it on, Grannit grabbed his hand and took it from him. He pulled his .45 with the other and held it inches from the captain’s head.

  “Have your driver toss the keys to my partner,” said Grannit.

  On the other side of their jeep, Carlson pulled his handgun and covered the driver. The sergeant and his platoon stepped forward, training weapons on the other men in the jeep. None of them moved.

  “What’s this all about? What’s the problem?” asked Harlan.

  “Do it,” said Grannit.

  The driver looked at his captain, who nodded, then pulled the keys from the ignition and threw them to Carlson.

  “You want to think about what you’re doing, Lieutenant?” said Harlan. “Don’t make yourself any trouble—”

  “Climb down, all of you. Leave the weapons. Get on the road, hands and knees.”

  The men in the jeep obeyed.

  “Don’t do something you’ll regret, Lieutenant,” said Harlan. “There’s obviously some kind of misunderstanding. I know tensions are running high—”

  “Put your sidearm on the ground and slide it to me,” said Grannit.

  Captain Harlan did as he was told. “You want to check our ID again? Our pay books, what? We already showed our trip pass to these fellas; what more do you need?”

  Grannit holstered his Colt and yanked the cover off the captain’s Zippo. A small glass vial of clear liquid had been packed in next to the saturated wadding. Grannit pulled it out and took a sniff.

  Bitter almonds.

  H
arlan saw the glass vial in Grannit’s hand, and his eyes betrayed him.

  “Sprechen Sie deutsch, Captain?” asked Grannit.

  Von Leinsdorf helped Bernie up the stairs and set him on a sofa in the front parlor. He locked the door to the cellar and closed the blinds before turning on a light. He laid out an assortment of cold K rations and opened two bottles of ale he’d found in the kitchen. Bernie drank and ate greedily.

  “How badly are you hurt?” asked Von Leinsdorf.

  “I’m fine,” said Bernie, his voice scratchy and hoarse. “Everything’s working. She never got a piece of me.”

  He met Von Leinsdorf’s eyes and didn’t look away, to make sure he was believed. Leinsdorf appeared satisfied. He leaned back in his chair, threw a leg over its arm, and lit a cigarette.

  “I lost you in that fog,” he said.

  “An American patrol pulled me out of there,” said Bernie, biting into some crackers and cheese. “Tree knocked me on my ass.”

  “Never seen pea soup like that before, even in London. At least it let me get our jeep back.” Leinsdorf tapped down a cigarette on the face of his wristwatch and watched Bernie wolf down the rations. “Where’d they take you?”

  “Baugnez.”

  “You were in Baugnez?”

  “Yeah. Just before the tanks got there.”

  “That was our main column. Oberstürmbannführer Peiper’s command, the First SS Panzer Division. Die Leibstandarte. You know who they are, Brooklyn?”

  “Hitler’s bodyguard.”

  “Five thousand men. The most elite regiment in the army. Spearhead of the invasion.”

  “Is that why they don’t take prisoners?”

  Von Leinsdorf leaned forward. “You saw what happened?”

  “Saw it, fuck, we were thrown in with ’em, I nearly got killed.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Brooklyn, why didn’t you tell them who you were?”

  “I tried. Happened so fast I never got the chance. I saw you outside but couldn’t get your attention. I made it into the woods when they started shooting.”

  “So you remembered this place.”

  “Regular four-star hotel. How’d you find me?”

  “Not because I was looking. I met our Abwehr contact at that café. He said they left the package for us here this morning, so I came to find it. Lucky for you, old boy.”

  “So is it here?”

  “I was about to take a look when I heard you romping around with your girlfriend. Christ, what a ghastly beast. What was she doing down there?”

  Bernie shrugged, trying to deny the memory, but Von Leinsdorf read something on his face.

  “You’re not going to tell me she dragged those bodies here for...delicatessen purposes—”

  “I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Neither do I. But it makes you wonder about that meal she served us the other night—”

  “I don’t want to talk about that either.”

  “La spécialité maison: Frau Escher’s secret recipe.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Her husband never joined the army,” said Von Leinsdorf, trying to suppress a laugh. “That must have been him in the display case.”

  “It’s not fucking funny,” said Bernie, finishing his ale. “I could have ended up in a sausage.”

  “That’s why we’re always rushing through here on our way to France. No one comes to Belgium for the food.” He tried to restrain himself and broke up even harder.

  “Shut up!” As the alcohol hit his system, Bernie felt himself give in and slide over into laughter.

  “Which explains her interest in poor old Preuss,” said Von Leinsdorf. “That wasn’t lust, it was hunger.”

  “There was a lot to love—”

  “And she wanted to bring out the ‘wurst’ in him.”

  Bernie fell over on the sofa and banged his fists on the table until he rolled onto the floor. Both laughed until they had tears in their eyes.

  “Oh shit,” said Von Leinsdorf, drying his eyes.

  “Fuck,” said Bernie.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck. God damn it.”

  “So what do we do now?” asked Bernie when the laughter finally subsided.

  “I’m going to find that package,” said Von Leinsdorf, getting to his feet and searching the room.

  “You make contact with corps command?”

  “No. I talked to some of Peiper’s men. They say Skorzeny and the rest of our brigade’s stuck near the border.”

  “What’s holding them up?”

  “Logistical problems, across the entire front. We’ve broken through but can’t get troops to the front. Half our divisions are still into Germany.”

  “What happened?”

  Bernie followed him into the kitchen, where Von Leinsdorf rifled through the cabinets.

  “Final shipments of fuel didn’t arrive, so they’re scavenging for gasoline. There’s too much traffic for these country roads and the weather’s turned them to skating rinks. The Americans blew some key bridges as they fell back; others can’t bear the weight of the tanks. Now the roads are so congested the fuel can’t get to the forward positions. Aside from that, everything’s going splendidly.”

  “Snafu.”

  “Snafu is right. But Americans keep surrendering every time we make contact. Over ten thousand on the first day alone. Entire divisions.”

  “That’s why they don’t want prisoners. So they won’t get slowed down. That’s why those prisoners were shot.”

  “Maybe.”

  “You have any idea how the Americans are going to react when word gets out about that?”

  “This is war. Happens all the time.”

  “Not to Americans it doesn’t.”

  “It’s the nature of the beast. On the Russian front neither side takes prisoners—”

  “I got news for you, this isn’t Russia, and your trigger-happy pals in the Waffen-SS can’t go around killing American prisoners with impunity—”

  “Take it easy, Brooklyn—”

  “Take it easy? You know what this does to our chances if we’re captured in these uniforms? If there was ever any doubt about a firing squad, forget it. We’re in deep fucking water, both sides are shooting at us, we’ve lost half our squad—”

  Von Leinsdorf moved into the workroom behind the kitchen and kept looking.

  “The first thing they teach you in the military: Plans are only useful until the moment you meet the enemy.”

  “Here’s a plan: Why don’t we head back to Germany? I’m serious. If our brigade’s not even across the border yet, what the fuck are we doing? Let’s ditch these uniforms and get out of here.”

  “You’re talking about desertion.”

  “That’s just a word. It doesn’t mean anything. Nothing means anything out here, it’s just fucking chaos, and from what I’ve seen all it does is make people crazy. We’re not going back to that bridge, are we?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I don’t see any point in getting killed for nothing, do you?”

  “It wouldn’t be for nothing, Brooklyn,” said Von Leinsdorf. “You’re forgetting. We have a second objective.”

  Bernie’s heart thudded in his chest. Von Leinsdorf opened the cabinet where the woman hid her radio, reached to the back, fished around, and lifted out a large envelope. He opened it and looked inside.

  “And now that we have these, we can get on with it.”

  “Why? What’s in there?”

  Von Leinsdorf showed Bernie four high-level U.S. Army security passes for Supreme Allied Headquarters.

  “What did we need ’em for?” asked Bernie. “You already gave us one of these before we came over the line.”

  “There was a mistake in the printing,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Our document team misspelled a word, but it wasn’t discovered in time. These are the corrected versions. We can’t use the old ones.”

  “Use them for what? Why are we even talking about this? Let’s get the hell ou
t of here.”

  Von Leinsdorf grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close. “I can be your friend, Brooklyn. In spite of our differences, after what we’ve been through I like to think that I am. But don’t suggest that again.”

  Von Leinsdorf released him and put the passes back in the envelope.

  Friend. That wasn’t a word Bernie had ever used in relation to Erich Von Leinsdorf. There had been moments when he felt they could get along, even stumble toward some understanding of each other, and the man had just saved his life. But the question stuck: Did their mission demand this violence from him—seven killed now in two days—or give him an excuse to indulge it?

  “This other objective,” said Bernie. “You going to tell me what it is?”

  “Why should I trust you, Brooklyn? Do you trust me? After Schieff and Preuss, I don’t think so.”

  “Guy gets the sniffles around you, he ends up with a bullet in the head.”

  Von Leinsdorf pointed an emphatic finger at him. “They endangered our mission. Nothing else matters. We don’t need them now anyway.”

  “What does that mean? You need me, so I get to live?”

  “Put it any way you like,” said Von Leinsdorf. “I can’t complete the assignment without you. Go pack up the jeep, I’ll use the radio.”

  Once Bernie left the room, Von Leinsdorf used the radio to contact his other squad leaders, Gerhard Bremer and William Sharper. Both squads had evaded capture through the first days of the invasion and picked up their corrected SHAEF security passes from the Abwehr. Von Leinsdorf told them that they were to move south into France, as scheduled, and pursue the Second Objective.