Under False Flags

by Steve Anderson

  Frings stepped up as Gamm, wobbling, held him as he clipped the wires, one, then two. Frings jumped down.

  Florian was facing them, clenching the pipe in his teeth, his lips drawn back in horror.

  The two Americans were walking Kreisfeld over. One may have been stout and the other tall, but both slogged through the mud and snow with effort. Both had holstered sidearms. The stout one had a Thompson gun, but it was pointed down, hanging off his bent arm. Kreisfeld had no weapon.

  Frings had his Walther in his lower right jacket pocket, loaded, safety off.

  “Stay here,” he said to Gamm and Florian in English.

  He walked out to the middle of the circle to meet them. The Amis eyed him. They had a little too much flesh on their faces for combat soldiers, and not near enough stubble.

  Kreisfeld flashed a sickly grin. “I have told these gentlemen here what we do,” he said in English, “but they wish to see it.”

  “Uh-huh.” Frings kept his face hard.

  Florian stepped out behind him, his hands hooked onto his belt. “We got orders,” he said, his Ami English dead-on. “Maintenance, see. Fixing that signal wire there; she’s a little too low.”

  The answer was also nonsense, Frings thought—adjusting wires in the middle of a devastating counteroffensive?

  “Yes, sir,” the tall American sergeant said and, eyeing his lieutenant, added: “We were just thinking, since you boys know gadgets and the like you could come on inside, just have a quick look at our wireless set while you’re at it.”

  For too long a moment, no one spoke. Frings had stopped and Kreisfeld stopped and the Americans stood between them, eyeing them, Gamm at the jeep with Florian and his pipe and Mackinaw coat. Kreisfeld moved to the side with a slight step, pretending to look around.

  “Got to get moving, boys, sorry,” Florian said to the Americans. “We’re rapid response.”

  “That’s all right,” the sergeant said. “No one to reach anyhows.” They started back toward the inn, moving faster, having no trouble with the mud-snow now.

  “Tell me something: Are you two alone here?” Frings said to their backs. He could hear his own accent. He didn’t give one shit about it.

  They pivoted, slowly. The lieutenant nodded. “Not for long. Just holding the fort a spell.”

  Frings pulled his Walther. He fired. The first missed. He fired and fired. He shot the sergeant in the head, the lieutenant in the chest. The sergeant dropped. The lieutenant swung up with his Tommy gun and sprayed around in a circle as Frings kept firing, emptying the magazine, the lieutenant’s head bursting open.

  Florian and Gamm froze at the jeep, too green to have hit the deck. The head-shot American lay lifeless, the dark blood pooling out from what remained of his skull. The lieutenant lay in a ball, his gangly arms at such odd angles they seemed longer than his legs. Both dead. Not even a twitch.

  Frings ripped open his Ami field jacket, revealing his German uniform.

  “Geneva Convention,” he said.

  Florian and Gamm stared at the bodies, steaming, and shared a look of horror that combined to glare at Frings in anger. Kreisfeld only gazed at Frings, and nodded.

  “Let’s go.” Frings jogged over to the jeep. “We keep going. We keep it moving.”

  ***

  2:00 p.m., December 16: Lett, Weber and Auggie trudged onward. The day had stayed gray, more snow fell, and they heard German vehicles so had to zigzag their route. They followed a road southwest, stopping often, listening.

  They only had a couple hours before the sun went down and they would have to hole up somewhere. Lett told himself: If they didn’t split up soon, he would leave them during the night. But he needed them safe. He didn’t need these two sorry sacks joining the rest in his sick dreams.

  An American sign read: “Halt! Checkpoint.” They had found a crossroads, a junction with an inn where an American motorcycle and scout car sat parked, the motorcycle covered with snow. Out in the road lay two corpses on their backs, arms and legs frozen at grotesque angles, bent back, pointing up. The heads were blown half away, the remains of brain frosted over. Lett, Weber and Auggie squatted in a roadside trench near the corpses, to decide how to handle the inn some forty yards away—just go around it, or case the joint? Weber downed another pep pill.

  “You there. What are you doing?” shouted a man from the inn, an American.

  Lett, Weber and Auggie lowered their heads. “We’re friendlies,” Lett shouted back. “Trying to find our units. We got scattered—”

  The American showed himself in the doorway. He had a white-striped MP helmet and armband. He shouted over to them: “Question: Who had the most hits last year?”

  “Huh? What’s the big idea?” Weber said.

  The MP turned to others inside. “They don’t know, don’t know it,” he said.

  “Snuffy Stirnweiss!” Auggie shouted back. “Wait, no, it was—”

  “That’s American League,” Weber said. “Stan Musial? Wait, which league?”

  The MP aimed a Colt. Two MPs rushed out past him aiming Thompson guns.

  “Sprechen Deutsch, ja!?” one shouted as he reached the trench.

  “Unfortunately we do,” Weber said in German.

  It was a test, Lett saw. “Wait, no don’t, stop—”

  “Hände hoch!” shouted the other MP. “Stay down! Said, hands up!”

  Auggie raised his hands and began to step up out of the trench.

  The MP pushed the butt of his Thompson gun into Auggie’s gut, knocking him back down.

  Lett and Weber got their hands up.

  “Let them stand,” said a voice. “Let them out.”

  The MPs stood back, letting Lett, Weber and Auggie step up out of the trench.

  The voice belonged to Captain Selfer. He marched out from the inn wearing his fur-collared coat and a new helmet. He smiled at Lett. “Somehow, I just knew you would make it.”

  Selfer had Lett, Weber and Auggie driven back to Archie Archibald’s villa in a heated staff car. They passed scores of American units regrouping after retreat, working to beat the coming darkness. The three were led into a grand room refitted with maps and file cabinets, desks and telephones and wireless sets—S-2’s own war room. The grubby, bone-tired threesome faced Archibald in his version of combat dress—a short Ike jacket and riding pants with glistening boots. All he needed were the chrome pistols. Without speaking, Archie waved them to sit in metal chairs before his large metal desk. Battle maps stood on easels, showing the Germans’ approximate advance that had come within mere miles of the villa before swinging north. Selfer stood to one side.

  Archie sunk into his chair and sighed, squinting at all of them.

  “So. Here we are,” Selfer said to Lett, Weber and Auggie. “The Germans, they took us all by surprise.”

  “They’re mad,” Archie said. “The very thought of it—disguising themselves as good Americans to trick and kill our fine boys. It’s downright criminal. The fifth column.”

  “It’s true, men,” Selfer said. “We’ve now learned the Germans have been running a so-called ‘false flag’ operation—sending out commando teams behind our lines dressed in our uniforms, using stolen jeeps. At that crossroads, for example? They switched the signs. A couple locals saw them do it.”

  “And the swine killed our two Americans there,” Archie said. “Those were artillery men we lost. They could have been me or you,” he added, looking to Selfer. “People are saying these sneaking krauts are out to kill Ike himself. Can you imagine?”

  “Thus the baseball quiz,” Selfer said. “Passwords, trick questions are being implemented all along the line. It’s a strict order now, no one’s immune.”

  “Was it Stan Musial, sir?” Auggie said.

  “Shut up,” Weber said.

  Lett took it all in. Biding his time. On the way back to the villa that afternoon, their driver had filled them in on the bigger picture. The Germans had gathered up all the military punch they had in the West fo
r one last great offensive and thrown it at the weakest points in the American lines. The brass should have known. Intelligence should have known. It wasn’t the dead’s job to know, but as always they were dying in droves for it. It was madness.

  “The good news is, we’ve captured their plans,” Selfer said. “We now know solid clues that give them away . . . One—they travel four to a jeep. We rarely do that behind our own lines, as you know. Two—their jeeps have the slit-style blackout headlamps we don’t bother with up on the line. Three—they put a red stripe on their bumpers, to identify each other.”

  The maps loomed above Archie. He pointed at them. “Second Division caught some of the bastards there, and they’re getting the firing squad.”

  Weber was rocking in his chair; he’d popped more pep pills on the way in. “Meanwhile here in our sector, you haven’t caught any of the bastards, have you? You need your prize catch.”

  “That’s out of line!” Archie shouted. “This is war, if you haven’t noticed. I can hear it from this window.” He pounded his fist on the desk.

  “Sir, they’re rattled,” Selfer said. “It’s understandable.”

  “Not on my watch,” Archie said.

  A knock. Selfer met a man at the doorway. He had a camera and wore a war correspondent armband.

  “The colonel ready?” the war correspondent said. “Really like some photos out by the new tanks, before we lose all the good light.”

  Archie slapped on a shiny helmet. “You three are heading back out. You’ll be guarded till then,” he said and stomped out, the war correspondent following.

  Auggie slouched. “Heading back out?”

  Weber shook his head. “For what now?”

  Lett felt like someone had punched him in the kidneys. He’d guessed at the new plan. They were going to trick the tricksters.

  “Wolf in wolf’s clothing, is that it?” he said to Selfer when the captain came back.

  “That’s right,” Selfer said. “We’ll get you close. Details to come. Dismissed.”

  Weber and Auggie shuffled out. Selfer stood before Lett, halting him, just fingertips on Lett’s elbow. He waited till Weber and Auggie were out in the hall. He showed Lett a casual smile. “Those correspondents outside? Why don’t you come on out? We’ll nab a few candid shots with the Horseback Hero that we can hold for later.”

  “Is that an order?” Lett said.

  “It’s an opportunity. Truth is, those German commando teams are doing us a favor by creating a good panic. On the QT? They’re amateurs, looks like, picked because they were supposed to know some English.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  Selfer held up a hand. “Unlike you? They’re not very good, and only two, maybe three of those jeep teams are loose in this sector. But they’re sure worth their weight.”

  “A wise investment.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  “And a way to make up ground.”

  “Sure. I won’t deny it,” Selfer said.

  “I’ll come out, if you tell me one thing,” Lett said.

  “Shoot.”

  “When did you find out about this?”

  “Come again?”

  “You ignored our report because it didn’t fit. What else did you ignore?”

  Selfer stiffened, and raised his chin. “You’re dismissed,” he said. “Go rest up.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Listen to me,” Lett said. “I want you to listen to me good and well. I will head back out there for whatever you cooked up because I have no choice. But I won’t kill for the likes of you. Not anymore.”

  The door was still open. Selfer walked over and closed it. “Is that fair to your fellow soldiers? You can’t have it both ways, sergeant.”

  “That’s my problem, isn’t it?”

  Selfer smiled again, but it was a different kind, like that of a man watching a bloody cockfight. “You going ‘conscientious’ on us, is that it? Or is this the much-rumored battle fatigue? I must say, I saw quite the opposite in you. You don’t seem like the God-fearing type to me. Listening to nuns. So you were raised Mennonite or what have you. Fair enough. But any Catholic will tell you how well that old game works.”

  Lett shook his head. “I believe in one thing: The Golden Rule.”

  “Ah, yes. The old ‘Do Unto Others.’ I know it well,” Selfer said, and walked out, leaving Lett standing all alone in the war room.

  ***

  Heloise had hidden in her Stromville cellar since the German attacks began, staying close to her aging father Jean. While down there, Jean had told Heloise he knew all about what had happened to her Paul; and if she didn’t want it to happen again, to her and them, she should move the contents of her secret drawer into the cellar where it was safer. He had known about the drawer all along, it seemed. Heloise didn’t protest, and only chuckled in surprise. Jean kissed her cheek. In between bombardments, they had gone upstairs and put the passports, ID papers, and forging supplies into a pouch, which they inserted deep inside a sack of lentils stored in the cellar. Jean had never mentioned her Wendell by name, nor did she, but he knew her plan. When the attacks came nearer, they had taken in the neighbors without cellars, those without houses any more, and anyone else who fit. By the evening of December 16, the booms of battle flashed in the high cellar windows. All had hoped to sleep. They had been trying all day, but they had so little to eat. At one point Heloise had stomped up the stairs and out her front door in her father’s overcoat and boots, glaring at the flashing sky and listening in horror, hugging herself not from cold but from her powerlessness. An American jeep had zoomed by full of bloodied men and almost hit her, sending her back to her front steps. She curled up there a while, fighting stomach cramps. More American vehicles rushed down the main street and in both directions, honking and almost colliding, the men shouting and arguing about which way to flee. Wounded men clung to trucks and tanks with limbs dangling, like so many killed deer. Heloise could only stare, stuck on her steps in pain for so long that the snow on her hair began to freeze. She had worried for her Wendell, but also for the ache in her stomach. For once, she hoped it was hunger.

  She went back down. As night came to the cellar, the booming stopped. A vehicle roared by outside. Another.

  “American,” said a neighbor boy with thick glasses, Ruben. Ruben had been calling out vehicle types since their cellar refuge began, and most welcomed the information more than they were annoyed. “American . . . also American.” Ruben went on like this.

  Jean raised a tall bottle of beer, toasted Ruben, and drank.

  More vehicles roared by. “American.”

  Another roar, this time a deeper sound.

  Ruben looked to Jean, who looked to others, but they could only shrug and shake heads.

  “American. It’s American,” Heloise said. She had no idea, but it would have to do.

  ***

  1130 Uhr, Dezember 17: Kreisfeld was dead. He had died riding in the back seat of the jeep that morning. Gamm thought Kreisfeld was sleeping. He had spoken so little that no one noticed at first. At one point he had leaned forward, folded over as if to fight nausea or stomach pain, and just stayed that way. By the time they noticed, he was hardening up with rigor mortis and freezing through. They had ripped open his overcoat and jacket and found no blood, no wounds. His pulse had quit long ago. He had just stopped. An autopsy might reveal a heart attack or a massive stroke, but Holger Frings knew better. Death would not come soon enough, so the talented Kreisfeld had somehow summoned the old godfather.

  They had needed to secure Kreisfeld, Frings saw, so they had wrapped twine around his waist and tied him off at the seat post to keep him in his spot. They didn’t keep him along for the ride like this because they were humane comrades. They had talked about it: They thought it might look suspicious to be riding around in the jeep that wasn’t full. Their masters in Grafenwöhr had insisted on that. And with all the chaos going on, all manner of GIs needed rid
es. On top of that: Having a dead comrade might win them sympathy from a checkpoint—they could claim they didn’t want to leave a fellow GI out there to be consumed by the snow.

  It was nearly noon. Frings drove them onward, Florian up front, Gamm in back next to Kreisfeld. Over the last day and a half they had changed more directions signs, removed signs for mines, cut communications wires. They had passed abandoned checkpoints and command posts and found little to report back. They had run into no Americans with fight left in them. They had holed up for the night in an abandoned workshop, complete with the jeep. Gamm was their radio man. He had reached Skorzeny’s command post through a hiss of static. The gruff officer on the other end ordered them to press onward, to keep probing. Kreisfeld had been listening in. “I’ve done my duty,” he had muttered. It was the last thing he had said.

  The snow had piled up, covering the mud and trees up high, the flakes thicker, the ice harder. Frings drove yet another fire lane cut through forest like a part in thick hair. They still hadn’t found any radio stations or information posts to sabotage. They could hear bitter battles to the north and south, but in their sector the roads were empty and most crossroads unguarded. Up front, Florian had maps on his lap. They weren’t even sure they were in their sector any more. With the snow it all looked the same. The compass only got them so far.

  “We’re going the wrong way,” Frings said.

  “Shit,” Florian said. “I’m afraid you’re right.”

  Kreisfeld kept leaning onto Gamm, who pushed the corpse back.

  “I know what it is. The signs we’ve seen, they had to be wrong,” Gamm said after a while.

  Then it hit Frings. He punched at the dash, making the gauges jump.

  “What?” Florian said.

  “Another of our jeep teams could have switched them around already. We could have been switching them back, even at that crossroads yesterday. That’s what those Amis there were doing—trying to figure out where in the devil they were.”

  All fell silent, as the jeep rolled in low gear over new snow, crunching along.

  “We’re all responsible. None of us noticed,” Frings said. He shook his head. He had expected this all to go down so differently. They would find themselves amid thousands of fuming American soldiers. They would be found out. Frings would go down shooting, firing from the hip with a gun on each arm like the Americans in their movies, just like his instructors wanted. It could still be done. They only had to keep going west, until they found those who would take them, kill them. The sector be damned.