by Mark Frost
“Talk us through it, George,” said Eisenhower.
“First Army comes at their northern flank. My three divisions from Third Army hit from the south. Long as we hold ’em here they’ll stop dead in their tracks.”
He pointed with his cigar to the bulge on the map that was forming around Bastogne.
“How quickly can they get in there?” asked Eisenhower.
“Two days,” said Patton. “The dumb bastard’s stuck his head in a meat grinder. And this time I’ve got hold of the handle.”
The Road to Reims
DECEMBER 19, NOON
“What other baseball players should I know?” asked Von Leinsdorf.
“What do you mean?”
“Who else might they ask about? Like Dizzy Dean.”
“I thought that’s what you needed me for.”
“In case you’re taking a piss.”
“Well, everybody in America knows the Yankees,” said Bernie. “Love ’em or hate ’em, they win the Series half the time.”
“All right, good, who plays for them?”
“Bill Dickey, he’s their catcher. Great talent. Red Ruffing’s their best pitcher. Spud Chandler’s a good arm. Joe Gordon at second, Phil Rizzuto’s their shortstop. They call him Scooter. Not sure who’s playing third this year—”
“Let’s concentrate on who you do know. What’s your favorite team?”
“Me? Hands down. You’re from Brooklyn, it’s the Brooklyn Dodgers, hands down.”
“All right, so who plays for them?”
“Okay. One guy you gotta know. Biggest name in baseball. Center fielder, Brooklyn Dodgers. Best stick in the game.”
“Who?”
“Joe DiMaggio.” Bernie watched him closely.
“Yes. I’ve heard the name,” said Von Leinsdorf. “DiMaggio. Center field. Brooklyn Dodgers.”
“That’s right.”
Looking ahead on the highway, they noticed a line of American MP vehicles headed the other way, racing north, lights flashing.
“Pull over,” said Von Leinsdorf.
Bernie steered onto the shoulder. Von Leinsdorf steadied his binoculars on the windscreen, looking at the road ahead. When he lowered them he pointed to a dirt road intersecting the highway a short distance ahead.
“Take that road,” he said.
“What’s going on?”
“They’re putting up a roadblock.”
Bernie drove onto the side road, while Von Leinsdorf studied the map.
“Take the first left,” he said. “Runs parallel to the river. We’ll cross farther downstream, come into Reims from the north.”
“What if they’ve got that blocked too?”
“First things first.”
“What happened? You think they found those guards at the border?”
“Just drive, Brooklyn.”
Grannit and Carlson sped down the highway toward Reims. Roadblocks had gone up as ordered. They’d passed three already, but none had stopped any jeeps answering their detailed description.
“You divorced, Earl?”
“What is it with you and this?”
“You said you had a wife. I’m just curious.”
“Is divorce such a fucking novelty?”
“It is in South Dakota.”
“Marriage and police work go together like a match and a gas tank.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
“I’m doing just fine without your sympathy.”
“I got a steady girl back home,” said Carlson, after a while.
“So you said.” Grannit glanced over. “You gonna marry her?”
“I was thinking about it.”
“Tell me you’re not going into police work after this.”
“I been thinking about that, too,” said Carlson. “I’m getting a pretty good feel for it, don’t you think?”
“I got a pretty good feel for falling on hand grenades, but I’m not gonna make a career out of it.”
“Well, what do you think I should do?”
“Marry the girl. Stick with insurance.”
“It’s not like we have that much crime. It’s not like, you know, the murder capital of the high plains.”
Grannit looked at him. “You gonna stay a volunteer fireman?”
“I guess so.”
“So, you feel the need for a thrill coming on, set fire to a barn. You can rush in and put it out yourself. Sell the farmer his insurance beforehand, you win both ways.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Stick with me,” said Grannit. “I specialize in the big questions.”
Carlson laughed, slowing as they approached another roadblock, soldiers waving them down. Because they matched the description of the alert they’d sent out—two Americans in a Willys—it took fifteen minutes to convince the MPs they weren’t the men every GI in France was now looking for.
Bernie and Von Leinsdorf skirted the town of Rethel until they reached an unguarded bridge that took them across the Aisne River and an adjoining shipping canal. A light rain started to fall as they passed a memorial for a World War One battle that took place on the strip of ground between the two bodies of water. The road continued to the southwest, parallel to the canal. When they came within sight of the highway south toward Reims, Von Leinsdorf took another look at the connecting road through the binoculars.
“There’s another blockade,” he said.
“We’ve got today’s password, don’t we?”
Von Leinsdorf glanced down the road. He spotted a French military ambulance outside a roadside café. It was early afternoon, lunch hour.
“Park off the road,” he said, pointing to the right. “Next to those trees.”
Bernie drove toward them. When they got close, Von Leinsdorf stepped on Bernie’s foot, on top of the gas. The jeep lurched forward and crashed into the tree, crumpling the hood, sending up a column of steam.
“What the hell did you do that for?” asked Bernie.
“Leave everything. Follow me. Keep your mouth shut.”
They walked in the rain to the café where the ambulance was parked. Von Leinsdorf rushed inside and spotted the uniformed drivers eating at a table, the only customers.
“Il y est eu un accident,” said Von Leinsdorf, in clumsy, American accented French. “D’une juste la route. Veuillez nous aider.”
The drivers followed them outside, asking questions in broken English which Von Leinsdorf, in his feigned urgency, did his best to avoid.
“Where is it?” asked the driver.
“Nous vous montrerons,” said Von Leinsdorf. “We’ll take you.”
The drivers gestured for them to climb in the back of the ambulance, and they drove back down the road until Von Leinsdorf directed them off to the left, where the jeep had hit the tree. The ambulance stopped a few yards away, and the drivers hurried toward the jeep.
Von Leinsdorf followed and shot one of the men in the back of the head with his silenced pistol. The other driver turned when he heard the pop, saw his comrade hit the ground. When he saw the gun in Von Leinsdorf’s hand, he fell to his knees, pleading for his life, fumbling out his wallet, showing photographs of his wife and children.
“Mon frère, you’re talking to the wrong Nazi,” said Von Leinsdorf, turning to Bernie. “He actually thinks we’re American—would you please just shut the fuck up? Mettez ceux partis. Silence!”
The man went quiet. Von Leinsdorf unscrewed the silencer and showed it to him before tucking it away.
“See? I’m not going to shoot you.”
“What the hell are we doing?” asked Bernie.
“We need one of them alive,” said Von Leinsdorf. Then, pointing to the dead man: “He’s about your size, this one’s a better match for me. Switch uniforms. Hurry up before there’s too much blood on it. Don’t ask questions.”
Bernie knelt to the task. Von Leinsdorf turned to the survivor.
“Enlevez votre uniforme,” he said to him. “Rapide!”
>
The man unbuttoned his tunic. Von Leinsdorf did the same.
“Don’t worry, mon ami,” said Von Leinsdorf, with a reassuring smile. “Je n’vais pas vous tuer. Friends, yes?”
The driver smiled grimly as he dressed. Bernie put the driver’s uniform on, then worked the dead man’s loose limbs into his GI green.
“Don’t put your jacket on him, just lay it over his face. Load everything into the ambulance,” said Von Leinsdorf, slipping on the other driver’s jacket. “Bring back a stretcher.”
The second driver had finished changing into Von Leinsdorf’s uniform when Bernie returned with the stretcher. Von Leinsdorf joked with the driver that the American uniform looked snug around the middle.
“Too many pommes frites, huh? Try them without mayonnaise next time, dummy. Put the dead one in back,” said Von Leinsdorf to Bernie; then he waved at the driver, ordering him to lend a hand. “Aidez-la.”
Bernie and the Frenchman set the dead driver onto the stretcher and slid it in the back of the ambulance. Von Leinsdorf saw that Bernie had stacked the jerricans holding their equipment in the corner.
“Throw a blanket over those,” he said. “Set up another stretcher next to that one.”
When Bernie was finished, Von Leinsdorf pointed the driver at the second stretcher. “Couchez-vous, monsieur, s’il vous plaît.”
Eager to please, the driver lay down on the stretcher. Von Leinsdorf told Bernie to fasten the straps on the man, as he closed the rear doors.
“You know some first aid, don’t you, Brooklyn?”
“A little.”
Von Leinsdorf pulled a bottle from the stores of medicine in a footlocker. “Give him half a syringe, just enough to take the edge off.”
Bernie took the bottle. Morphine. He prepared the syringe, then knelt beside the second driver, who stared anxiously at the needle.
“It’s okay,” said Bernie. “This won’t hurt you.”
“Il ne blessera pas du tout,” said Von Leinsdorf, translating.
The Frenchman tensed as the needle went in, then relaxed as the morphine hit his bloodstream. Von Leinsdorf patted his shoulder.
“But I’m afraid this will a bit,” said Von Leinsdorf.
He touched the silencer to the man’s cheek and pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through his mouth and burst out the other side. Blood spurted, the man screamed and strained against the straps, nearly flipping over the stretcher. Bernie struggled to hold him down.
“Why the fuck did you shoot him?”
“If he’s not wounded, why would we be driving him to the hospital?” asked Von Leinsdorf.
“The other one isn’t.”
“The other one’s dead. Why would we need the siren for a trip to the morgue?”
“Well, you didn’t have to shoot him in the mouth, for Christ’s sake,” said Bernie.
“And have our wounded ‘GI’ spout French at the checkpoint? Think it through. That’s why we gave him the morphine. Reduce his suffering, keep him from flopping off that stretcher. You don’t speak French by any chance, do you, Brooklyn?”
“No.”
“So keep quiet at the checkpoint or I’ll shoot you, too.”
Von Leinsdorf took the driver’s seat, started the ambulance, and steered them back onto the road. He switched on the siren and flashers as they sped past the café. They rounded a curve, following the line of the canal as it turned south, then entered a roundabout, other vehicles yielding when they heard the siren.
South of the roundabout, they approached the American checkpoint. Two MPs stepped into the road, waving them down in front of the guard gate. Von Leinsdorf rolled to a stop. Soldiers were putting up a machine gun emplacement. Other MPs searched half a dozen American jeeps they’d pulled to the side of the road. One MP hurried to the driver’s side of the ambulance, another moved toward the rear. As soon as the soldier reached his window, Von Leinsdorf unleashed an agitated torrent of fluent French, gesturing toward the back, shouting over the siren.
“Okay, take it easy, buddy. Where you headed?”
“Hospital,” said Von Leinsdorf, in broken English. “Reims.”
“What’s on board?”
The other MP opened the rear doors. He saw Bernie in a driver’s uniform, sulfa packet in his hand, working on a badly wounded man, moaning and covered in blood.
“GIs,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Automobile accident. Un d’eux est mort et l’autre est critique. Nous devons nous dépêche!”
The lead MP got the okay from his colleague, who closed the rear doors. Both men stepped back and waved the ambulance through. Von Leinsdorf stepped on the gas as the gate went up, and they sped off.
“How’s he doing?” asked Von Leinsdorf.
“Great. He just asked for a daiquiri.”
“He’s not going to die; it’s a superficial wound. We need him alive. There may be more checkpoints ahead.”
“Ask him how superficial it is.”
“Would you relax? It’s just a Frenchman, for Christ’s sake. Three aren’t worth one German. I don’t know that the going rate for Americans has been established. Do you?”
Bernie didn’t answer. They passed another road sign: REIMS 20 KM.
25
Reims
DECEMBER 19, 7:00 P.M.
Earl Grannit parted the curtains of a second-story window and looked down and across the street at an old, ornate movie palace. Light rain continued to fall, thinning out foot traffic through the small square below. After arriving in Reims in the middle of the afternoon, Grannit and Carlson reported to the commander of the local military police. He placed a twenty-man detachment of MPs under Grannit’s command. Half a dozen plainclothes agents from Army Counter Intelligence arrived an hour later, along with a platoon of regular army. Grannit pulled the entire detail together for a five o’clock briefing and broke down their assignments.
American forces used three movie houses in the downtown area to screen movies for Allied soldiers in Reims. Grannit’s men had all three under surveillance by early that evening. This one, near the old shipping canal that split the city, was the largest and most popular, and seemed to Grannit the most likely for Skorzeny’s men to use as a meeting place. He then commandeered as an observation post an apartment above and across a small square. Undercover men were assigned to circulate through the crowd at each of the theaters. The army detail deployed throughout the neighborhood with orders to stay off the streets until Skorzeny’s men were identified. Once they were inside the theater, the soldiers would drop perimeter roadblocks into place and close the net.
The first show was scheduled for seven o’clock, a glossy Hollywood musical to help enlisted men forget their troubles. Lights on the theater’s marquee remained dark, observing blackout restrictions, but Grannit had ordered that the foyer and lobby lights stay brightly lit so that anyone standing under the marquee could be seen from their post across the street.
Dozens of soldiers from different service branches milled around outside, smoking cigarettes, waiting for friends or dates to arrive. Behind-the-line types, thought Grannit, looking them over. He’d learned that the military was like an iceberg; only the small portion above the surface did the fighting. For every front-line dogface under fire in the Ardennes, there were six clerical types like these filling out requisitions in triplicate, calling it a day, and going to the movies. A police force ran the same way, a fraction doing the dirty work while everyone else cleaned up after them. Maybe it reflected basic human nature, this hunger for bureaucracy and order, and which side of that line you ended up on was a matter of luck. Everybody had a job to do. Some were just a whole lot worse than others.
Grannit scanned the soldiers’ faces with binoculars, searching for the face of the “Lieutenant Miller” that he’d glimpsed for those few moments in Belgium. A sketch of the man, drawn from Grannit’s recollection, had been distributed to everyone in the detail.
“I got a guy bringing over regulation SHAEF passes so I can c
ompare ’em to our forgeries,” said Ole Carlson, standing eating a meal they’d brought in from a local restaurant.
“Good.”
“Think we’ll get to Paris, Earl?”
“I don’t know, Ole.”
“Ever been?”
“No. You?”
“Heck no. I’d love to see it. See Paris and die, isn’t that what they say?”
“I don’t think they mean right away.”
“Anyway, don’t figure I’ll ever get this close again.” Carlson leaned over Grannit’s shoulder to look down at the theater. “I’m heading down there.”
“The meet’s supposed to happen between nine and twelve. That’s not until the second show,” said Grannit.
“I’m supposed to meet the guy with those passes. Don’t want to miss him.”
“While you’re there,” said Grannit, looking through the binoculars again, “go tell that MP swinging his nightstick around in the lobby like the house dick at Macy’s to pull his head out of his ass. In fact, yank that half-wit out of there.”
Grannit pointed the man out to him and Carlson headed for the door. “It would be my pleasure, Boss.”
Grannit trained the glasses down each of the side streets and alleyways that fed into the old cobblestoned square. The neighborhood sported a flourishing nightlife, a number of hole-in-the-wall bars attracting heavy military traffic. Black-market profiteers flourished in an area with so many potential buyers and sellers. He spotted at least two brothels operating more or less in the open. He’d read in Stars and Stripes that in light of the attack in the Ardennes, dancing had been banned in Paris after dark, but young men in uniform still needed to get drunk or laid or both.