The Second Objective

by Mark Frost

  His walkie-talkie crackled to life, MPs reporting in from the other two theaters, each less than a mile away.

  Nothing yet.

  When they drove into Reims, Von Leinsdorf stashed the stolen French ambulance in an abandoned garage in a ware house district near the canal. He ordered Bernie to exchange uniforms with the dead French driver again. While Bernie’s back was turned, Von Leinsdorf killed the second driver with a single, silenced bullet, as if he were finishing some paperwork.

  “We’re GIs again,” said Von Leinsdorf, unbuttoning the driver’s tunic, searching both bodies for cash. “Not a moment too soon. I need to be fumigated. This bogtrotter was in desperate need of a bath. Try to run their damn country properly for them and this is the thanks we get.”

  They dressed in silence. Bernie covered both dead drivers with blankets. Von Leinsdorf emptied the medicine and supplies from the ambulance footlocker into a knapsack.

  “Leave the rest,” he said. “We’ll come back for it.”

  “What time are we supposed to meet?” asked Bernie.

  “Nine o’clock.”

  “It’s only five. What do we do till then?”

  “So many questions, Bernie. I’m feeling a lack of confidence in my leadership. You don’t hear any complaints from them, do you?” he asked, nodding toward the Frenchmen.

  Von Leinsdorf put his black-framed glasses on, straightened his helmet, and opened the back of the ambulance. While his back was turned, Bernie slipped a syringe and a bottle of morphine into his pocket.

  “Should I bring my rifle?” asked Bernie.

  “We’re going to the movies, Bernie.”

  “Who knows? It might be a western.” Bernie jumped down and closed the ambulance doors. He caught a whiff of something foul and sniffed his uniform. “That’s great, now I smell like a fuckin’ dead guy.”

  “We could both use a bit of sprucing up,” said Von Leinsdorf, handing him a forged seventy-two-hour pass. “Put on a happy face. We’re supposed to be on leave.”

  They walked out into the empty street and a steady drizzle as the last daylight faded. Von Leinsdorf consulted a map with a flashlight as they walked until they reached a shopping district, studded with cafés and shops. Other off-duty GIs circulated in and out of storefronts, so they didn’t look or feel out of place. Von Leinsdorf directed Bernie to one of the cafés, where he ordered sandwiches and coffee, in French, paying with francs. They focused hungrily on the food, the first meal they’d eaten all day.

  “It may help that they know about us, Brooklyn,” said Von Leinsdorf. “He’ll have gone to ground. Easier to find.”

  “Find who?”

  “You’re persistent,” said Von Leinsdorf, admiring his sandwich. “I’ll give you that.”

  Their table offered a view of an open produce market across the street. Von Leinsdorf kept staring in that direction. Bernie saw he was watching a plain young woman browsing through the market with a shopping bag.

  “Follow me in a couple of minutes,” said Von Leinsdorf. “And, Bernie, don’t make me come back for you.”

  Bernie watched him cross the street and enter the market. He moved down an aisle, a preoccupied shopper checking out vegetables, and then bumped into the young woman. Her bag fell to the floor. All apologies, Von Leinsdorf bent to help her retrieve the items that tumbled out. Within moments he’d engaged her in conversation, taken the bag from her hand, and paid for her groceries at the counter. Bernie finished his sandwich, took what remained of Von Leinsdorf’s with him, and followed them as they left the market.

  Von Leinsdorf carried the woman’s bag as they strolled down the street. When another burst of rain fell, he opened the umbrella she carried and held it over her head as she arranged a scarf around her hair. He maintained a respectful distance from her, holding the umbrella at arm’s length, unthreatening and polite as a shy young suitor. Bernie shuffled along on the opposite side of the street, shoulders hunched, rain beating down on his helmet, about twenty yards behind them.

  Two blocks later they stopped outside an apartment building. Bernie leaned back into the shadows of an alley across the street. He tried to formulate a plan, but he felt emptied out, cold, and miserable, and his mind refused to offer any clear ideas. From their body language and gestures, it was clear the woman was inviting Von Leinsdorf inside. He refused, she insisted, he agreed, as if it was the only gentlemanly thing to do, then waited while she fished out her keys and opened the door. Von Leinsdorf threw a glance back at Bernie—he knew exactly where he was standing—and followed her inside.

  A minute later a light turned on in a window on the third floor. Drapes were quickly pulled across the window, muting the glow. Bernie glanced at his watch: 5:35. Three minutes later, Von Leinsdorf appeared in the doorway again and waved Bernie over. Bernie trotted across the street to join him.

  “Come on, hurry,” said Von Leinsdorf, closing the door after him. “Keep quiet. Up the stairs. No one’s seen us yet.”

  Bernie followed him up creaking stairs to the third floor and through the apartment door he’d propped open with a matchbook. Von Leinsdorf closed and locked the door as soon as they were inside. The furnishings looked more prosperous than the building’s exterior suggested, tasteful and modern.

  “This’ll do for us,” said Von Leinsdorf. “This’ll do quite nicely. Would you like a cup of tea? She’d just put on the kettle.”

  “Where’s the bathroom?”

  “Through that door, off the bedroom.”

  Bernie opened the bedroom door. The woman lay on her back on the bed, legs sprawled, one shoe kicked off, lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling. She’d been strangled with the peach-colored scarf she’d worn on her head, still taut around her neck. Pooled blood had turned her face a bruised shade of scarlet; small capillaries had burst around her protruding eyes. Bernie covered her with a blanket, numb inside, then moved to the bathroom. He closed the door and turned on the faucet, the first running water he’d encountered in days.

  The room’s austere plainness seemed unreal. A sink, a toilet, hand towels, a bar of soap. The woman who’d used them lay dead, less than ten feet away. He caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror and for a moment didn’t recognize what stared back at him, his face black with grime, eyes that belonged to an older, hollowed-out man. As he washed his hands, clots of dried blood dropped onto the porcelain, streaking red when they contacted the running water.

  Von Leinsdorf was waiting with a hot cup of tea when he returned. “This’ll bring you back from the dead, Brooklyn. Quite the scrounger, this one. She even had sugar and real cream in the icebox.”

  Bernie took the cup while Von Leinsdorf parted the curtains and looked down at the street. Bernie sat on the sofa, sinking into the cushions, and took a sip of tea. The strong, bitter taste sent a shiver through him. He watched Von Leinsdorf, only a few feet out of reach. His free hand reached down to the syringe in his jacket pocket.

  Stick him, and go find help. Make sure the Americans take him. They can make him talk, get the target out of him. They have to. Is it enough morphine to put him under? Will he kill me before it takes effect?

  He realized Von Leinsdorf was talking to him.

  “Our evening began with real promise, but I soon realized there was no future for us,” said Von Leinsdorf, glancing at the bedroom.

  “What’s that?”

  “She had another man in her life. His clothes are in the closet.”

  “Whose clothes?”

  “You know, I never had a chance to ask. Anyway, treat yourself to a bath, then put on a fresh outfit; you’re right, you do smell like the grave.”

  “And wear what? We’re supposed to be soldiers.”

  “That’s the beauty of it, Brooklyn. Her gentleman caller was a GI. His uniform’s in the closet. Freshly laundered by his little French whore. A sergeant in the quartermaster corps.”

  He held up a khaki dress cap and twirled it on his index finger, looking at the sergeant’s insignia
.

  “Not overly ambitious, was she?” said Von Leinsdorf. “For a camp follower. No doubt she shacked up with some of our boys before the Yanks showed up with better cigarettes.”

  “Maybe she saw you as a promotion.”

  “Frankly, it wasn’t a face for an officer’s pay grade. I’ll fix us something else to eat. I paid for those groceries after all. Finish your tea.”

  Von Leinsdorf moved toward the kitchen. Bernie stared down at an issue of Life magazine on the table beside him. General de Gaulle was on the cover, posed heroically, staring into the distance at some idealized future for France, or at least for de Gaulle. Bernie heard a clock ticking somewhere, far louder than it should have sounded. An alarming sense of dislocation swept through his chest; his heart skipped a beat; his body flushed with heat. He banged the teacup down on the table and staggered to his feet. De Gaulle’s face began to wobble. The lines of every object in the room swam in front of his eyes; the air turned rubbery. Von Leinsdorf was beside him in a moment, taking his arm.

  “Don’t fight it, Brooklyn,” he said, his voice distorting. “I put something in the tea. You’ll sleep a few hours. Can’t have you running off while I’m at the cinema. I’ll come back with the others, if they’re there. That’s a good fellow. After all, you could use the rest.”

  Von Leinsdorf eased him back down onto the sofa. Bernie was out by the time his head hit the cushions.

  The first show ended at eight-thirty, a wave of GIs spreading out from the theater into the surrounding bars and restaurants. The rain had passed through, and the night air warmed slightly under a lowering cover of clouds. Curls of fog spun in off the river, obscuring the square. Carlson and the rest of the men stationed on the ground scanned the faces of the exiting soldiers as they moved toward their evening’s pleasures, while Grannit watched from his observation post. No one spotted his “Lieutenant Miller.”

  A brief lull in street traffic followed before uniforms began to trickle into the square again, lining up for the nine o’clock show. Grannit poured himself another cup of coffee. Ole and the five supervising MP sergeants returned to the apartment for a final briefing.

  “Keep your men out of sight until the crowd builds in again,” said Grannit. “Stay outside, watch the street. When they’re about to start the show, button it up, put a hat on every exit, inside and out. Five minutes into the picture we kill the projector, bring up the house lights, announce we’ve got a security situation. Then we’ll do it by the numbers. Bring ’em out row by row to the lobby, check IDs one at a time.”

  “What if anybody bolts?”

  “Take ’em down,” said Grannit. “If they draw a weapon, shoot ’em.”

  Grannit followed them downstairs. The fog had grown so thick he could no longer make out any faces from the window.

  The American deserter William Sharper had spotted the MPs at a border post, abandoned the jeep, and led his squad into France the previous night on foot. After spending the night in a barn, they hitched a ride that morning with a middle-aged French farmer, who seemed thrilled to lend a hand to the American war effort. Before they reached the main highway, Sharper strangled the man and dumped his body in a field. Sharper put on the farmer’s clothes, took his wallet and agricultural road pass, and drove his load of chickens into Reims. His other three men hid in the back with the birds. Sharper knew the city well enough to get them to the farmer’s market, where they abandoned the truck and blended into the city.

  By mid-day, Sharper had found the cinema that he’d suggested for their rallying point. Taking his men to a nearby brothel, he instructed them to play the part of randy soldiers on leave from the front, their easiest assignment yet. He paid for eight hours’ time with the four girls in the house and the squad spent the rest of the day upstairs, getting laid, resting, and sleeping. Sharper put so much American cash on the table the madam agreed to wash their uniforms while they relaxed. She thought it odd that the Americans didn’t ask for any wine or liquor, but dollars had a way of easing her curiosity.

  At eight-thirty, Sharper and his men set out for the cinema, less than three blocks away, in their freshly laundered uniforms.

  26

  Reims

  DECEMBER 19, 8:40 P.M.

  Von Leinsdorf walked slowly to the middle of the square outside the theater, on the edge of the gathering crowd. He took out a cigarette and scanned ahead for any unusual police presence. The fog thickened near the waterfront as soldiers lined up in front of the theater box office. Two MPs stood near the entrance to the lobby, but didn’t look out of place. An American soldier materialized out of the fog, suddenly standing next to him, and offered a light for his smoke.

  “Another Judy Garland picture,” the man said, nodding toward the theater. “Louis B. Mayer’s working her like a sled dog. You know she’s not even five feet tall?”

  “I might have read it somewhere.”

  “Just my size. A hot little number, if you like a babe with no waist and the ass of a ten-year-old boy. She do anything for you, Sarge?”

  “She’s no Marlene Dietrich,” said Von Leinsdorf.

  “Are you kidding me? Marlene Dietrich’d eat her like a chicken leg, spit out the bone.”

  Von Leinsdorf moved forward, trying to shake the man, but he fell into step alongside, holding out a hand. Short and fidgety, the man wore a corporal’s stripes and pounded a wad of gum while he smoked.

  “Eddie Bennings, Corporal Eddie Bennings, how you doing to night?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “A free night in France, fresh air, no bullets in the forecast, what could be so bad? I see you’re with the quartermaster corps.”

  “That’s right.”

  Looking ahead through the fog, Von Leinsdorf spotted William Sharper leading his three men into the theater lobby past the MP at the door.

  “My line, too. Came in today from Belgium. Makes you appreciate the peace and quiet down here,” said Bennings. Then, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial level: “My battalion does a lot of business with the quartermaster corps.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “And we’re always looking for a good man to do business with—you going in to see the picture?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me spring for the tickets, my treat—you shouldn’t have to stand on line, Sarge.”

  The persistent little man was starting to attract Von Leinsdorf’s interest. “What sort of business?”

  “I’ll get the tickets, we’ll have a chat. See if you’re interested. Meet you in two shakes.”

  Von Leinsdorf moved on to the front lobby doors and waited as Bennings jumped the ticket line.

  Bernie opened his eyes to a cat rubbing its face on his chin and purring. When he started awake, the animal vaulted off his chest into the kitchen. The room spun violently when he tried to stand. He lurched forward, tumbling over a table and vomiting as he hit the floor. Rolling onto his back, he took deep breaths, opening and closing his eyes, waiting for the ceiling to stabilize. As his fractured thoughts reassembled and he remembered where he was, he raised his watch into view and waited for the hands to float into position. 8:40.

  “Shit.”

  He pulled himself to his feet, made his way into the kitchen, stuck his head under the faucet in the sink, and ran cold water over his neck until his head began to clear. Taking a quick look around the apartment, he spotted Von Leinsdorf’s GI field greens lying in a heap on the bedroom floor. The khaki dress uniform that had been hanging in the woman’s closet was gone.

  He remembered that Von Leinsdorf had mentioned the movie house was near the canal. A memory of the city map swam to the surface. He headed for the door.

  Eddie Bennings handed Von Leinsdorf his ticket and they entered the lobby, blending into the crowd.

  “Looking for somebody?” asked Bennings.

  “Thought I saw someone I knew.”

  “You want a soda, popcorn or anything, Sarge?”

  “No thanks.”
<
br />   “I never got your name.”

  “Dick Connelly.”

  “Okay, Dick. You want to talk about my proposition before the picture or after?”

  “Now’s fine,” said Von Leinsdorf, scanning the lobby over the man’s shoulder.

  “As I was saying, we work with a lot of guys in the quartermaster corps. It’s a first-class arrangement.”

  “Can you be slightly more specific?”

  Bennings lowered his voice again and talked out of the side of his mouth, like a gangster.

  He’s seen too many Jimmy Cagney pictures, thought Von Leinsdorf.

  “In the area of surplus supply and demand. Daily necessities. A drink, a smoke, a taste of home, whatever. We scratch their back, they scratch ours; everybody gets healthy, including the average GI who all he’s looking for is a little relief.”

  Von Leinsdorf spotted Sharper standing near a door to the theater, his three men walking in just ahead of him.

  “You want me to set it to music for you?” asked Bennings impatiently.

  “I think I get the idea,” he said. “Would you excuse me for a moment, Eddie? I want to say hi to my friend.”

  “Hope I haven’t offended you, Sarge.”

  “You’ve got a little larceny in your heart, don’t you, Eddie?” said Von Leinsdorf with an admiring smile.

  “Troubled times. Is that such a terrible thing?”

  “On the contrary. It’s a character reference. I’ll be right back.”

  Von Leinsdorf took one step toward Sharper, when Bennings grabbed him by the arm.