The Lieutenants

by W. E. B Griffin

  Nevertheless, he would be in this office for the indefinite future, and he simply did not want Adolf Hitler, the Bavarian corporal, staring over his shoulder in an obscene parody of paintings of Christ or photographs of the Pope inspiring the faithful.

  He walked to the wall and unhooked the framed photograph. The photo had been hanging there for some time, and the outline of the frame was clearly visible. He could, he thought, hang a swastika large enough to conceal the frame’s outline. Anything would be better than the Bavarian corporal.

  There was a knock on the open door, and he turned to look at his adjutant, Karl-Heinz von und zu Badner.

  “Der Amerikaner Oberstleutnant Bellmon ist hier, Herr Oberst Graf,” the lieutenant said. Badner, a tall, erect Prussian with sunken eyes, had left his left arm in Russia, and his tunic sleeve was folded double and pinned up.

  “Ask him to come in,” Colonel Graf von Greiffenberg said. “I wish to see him alone.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Oberst Graf,” the lieutenant said, and nod ded with his head for Bellmon to enter. He closed the door behind him.

  “How are you, Colonel?” Von Greiffenberg said. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Very well, thank you, Colonel,” Bellmon said. “May I offer the hope that that isn’t serious?” There was just the slightest nod of his head toward the colonel’s left leg, which, obviously bandaged (and perhaps in a cast), stretched the material of his trouser leg.

  “It is recovering well, thank you,” von Greiffenberg said. “Some muscle damage. A piece of shrapnel. Enough to keep me from field duty, I’m afraid. It has been decided that I am fit enough to command this stalag.”

  “I see.”

  “I regret that I was unable to arrange your repatriation,” he continued. He wondered if Bellmon would react to that, if Bellmon blamed him for still being here, when von Greiffenberg had as much as promised that he would be exchanged.

  “So do I,” Bellmon said, with a smile.

  “It could not be arranged,” von Greiffenberg said. “I made inquiries.”

  “I understand, Colonel,” Bellmon said, and then he gave into the temptation: “I cry a lot, but I understand.”

  The remark surprised von Greiffenberg. It was not the sort of jesting remark a professional German officer would make.

  “You have the material I sent you?” the colonel asked, formally. He did not expect Bellmon to have it. The risk was too great, and disposing of the Katyn Forest massacre evidence would have been simply a matter of throwing it in a fire.

  “Yes, of course,” Bellmon said, as if surprised by the question.

  So he was an officer, an officer who kept his word even when it was difficult to do so, even at the possible risk of his life. Von Greiffenberg decided to reply in kind.

  “I was wounded in the Ardenne Forest,” he said. “I was in command of a Panzer regiment. The plan was to capture Liege and Antwerp, primarily to sever your supply lines, and, it was hoped, to avail ourselves of your petrol and rations.”

  “I see.”

  “The plan, as I saw it, was audacious,” the colonel went on. “It had a fair chance of success.” He watched Bellmon’s face for his reaction. It was not customary for officers to discuss military operations with their prisoners.

  “But apparently, it did not,” Bellmon said.

  “It was necessary for us to alter the plan, and reestablish our lines,” the colonel said, either quoting or paraphrasing the official explanation for the failure.

  “I see,” Bellmon said again.

  “What the plan failed to take into consideration was the capability of your logistic trains, and the limitations of ours. We were, regrettably, unable to maintain the force of the assault as long as necessary. On the other hand, your service of supply was equal to the demands put upon it. I understand that General Patton was able to disengage a six division force, move it one hundred fifty kilometers, and mount a successful counterattack on a six division front, within a total of six days.”

  That was not the official version of a defeat and Bellmon knew it. He took another chance.

  “Do you know General Patton, Colonel?” he asked.

  “I played polo with him—against him—in Madrid, sometime in the thirties,” von Greiffenberg said. “He was at Samur two years before I was there. I believe he and your father-in-law are quite close, aren’t they?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, they’re not,” Bellmon said. “My father-in-law never forgave Patton for going back to the infantry after the first war.”

  “I wondered why Porky wasn’t with Patton’s Third Army, but with Simpson’s Ninth,” von Greiffenberg said. “You’ve answered that question.”

  “I think that’s just the way the chips fell, Colonel,” Bellmon said. “I don’t think personalities were involved.”

  It was the first he had known where Major General Waterford was.

  Von Greiffenberg shrugged his shoulders and went on.

  “Our attack rather seriously drew down our reserves of forces and supplies,” von Greiffenberg said. “A critical part of the plan was to capture Bastogne, a road and rail center. Much of our artillery was expended in an attempt to reduce your forces there. They held out much longer than it was thought they could, and they were ultimately relieved by elements of the 1st Armored Division.”

  “Bastogne did not fall?”

  “After considering the fluidity of the situation,” Colonel von Greiffenberg said, a light but unmistakable tone of bitter mockery in his voice, “the Führer decided that the capture of Bastogne was no longer necessary to the plans for final victory.”

  “And how are the Russians doing?” Bellmon asked.

  “It has been necessary to adjust our lines across the Soviet Union and Poland.” He paused for a moment, then resumed. “I understand it is the Soviet intention to take over this area within sixty days, although I am sure the Führer has plans that will thwart that intention.”

  “If the readjustment of your lines in this area is subject to revision,” Bellmon asked, “are there any plans to insure the safety of the prisoners of war?”

  “My primary duty as commandant of this stalag,” von Greiffenberg said, “is to insure the safety of the prisoners. Generaloberst von Heteen felt it necessary to remind me of that when informing me of my posting. While I have every faith that the Führer will be able to stop the Soviet forces, I have, of course, made contingency plans for the evacuation of this stalag and its prisoners to the west.”

  “How long do you think it will take?” Bellmon suddenly asked.

  Von Greiffenberg looked at him for a moment.

  “You are not very delicate, Colonel, are you?” he asked.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” Bellmon said.

  “Sixty days,” von Greiffenberg said. It was out in the open now. Bellmon obviously knew how the war was going. There was no real reason for him to be “delicate” either. “There is talk of a last-ditch defense in the Alps, but I think that is whistling in the dark.”

  Bellmon pursed his lips, and then nodded, as if what he had just been told confirmed what he already believed. But he said nothing.

  “If it should come to pass that you should fall into Soviet control,” von Greiffenberg said, “it would be very dangerous for you to be found with the Katyn material.”

  “Yes,” Bellmon said, “I’ve thought of that.”

  “I release you from your word, Colonel Bellmon, to deliver them to your appropriate superiors,” von Greiffenberg said.

  “I’ll hang on to them,” Bellmon said, flatly.

  “Colonel, I’ll spell it out for you. If the Russians find that material in your possession, you will die.”

  “Perhaps,” Bellmon said, gently mocking von Greiffenberg’s vaguely Biblical phraseology, “‘it will come to pass’ that I will be freed by American forces.”

  “That is very unlikely, I’m afraid,” von Greiffenberg said.

  “It is often darkest just before the dawn,” B
ellmon said.

  “So the Führer has been saying,” von Greiffenberg said dryly.

  Bellmon looked at him. Their eyes locked. The American and the German smiled at each other.

  (Four)

  April Fool’s Day, 1945

  The commanding officer of Stalag XVII-B, Oberst Graf Peter-Paul von Greiffenberg sent Oberleutnant Karl-Heinz von und zu Badner to fetch Lt. Col. Robert F. Bellmon five minutes after he received the movement order. He spent three of the five minutes in thought, one in prayer on his knees, and one pouring himself and drinking a very stiff brandy.

  The middle-aged sergeant major and the more than middle-aged corporal on duty in the office rose to their feet and came to attention as the two officers entered the outer room of the commandant’s office. The corporal always jumped to his feet and stood at attention when an officer of either army entered the office. Colonel Count von Greiffenberg was a stickler for correct military behavior: corporals demonstrate respect to rank no matter what the army. The sergeant major was normally preoccupied when Wehrmacht officers below the grade of major or American officers of any grade had business in the office. But he rose and stood at attention for Colonel Bellmon.

  “Guten Abend, Oberfeldwebel,” Colonel Bellmon said, in fluent German, acknowledging the sergeant major’s gesture with a crisp salute.

  “Guten Abend, Herr Oberstleutnant,” the sergeant major said. “The Oberst Graf will see you now.” He pushed open the door to Oberst Graf von Greiffenberg’s office.

  “Herr Graf,” he said. “Herr Oberstleutnant Bellmon.”

  Bellmon removed his overseas cap with the silver Lieutenant Colonel’s leaf pinned to its front, and which he had worn in the manner of armored soldiers, cocked to the left. Holding it in his left hand, he saluted again.

  “Come in, please, Colonel,” the commandant of Stalag XVII-B said in English. And then, over Colonel Bellmon’s shoulder: “Du auch, Karl.” The intimate “Du” was magnified by his use of the Oberleutnant’s Christian name. “Und schliesse die Türe, bitte.”

  Wordlessly, Colonel Count von Greiffenberg handed Colonel Bellmon and Oberleutnant von und zu Badner Stubberweg cognac snifters. He picked up his own glass, raised it to his companions, and then drank it down.

  “I am in receipt, Colonel,” the count began, “of movement orders which affect your officers.” He spoke in English as if reciting from memory. “There have been certain temporary adjustments of the line, which make it necessary, in order to maintain the safety of our prisoners, to move them.”

  “I see,” Bellmon said.

  “Perhaps you might wish to examine the map,” Colonel Graf von Greiffenberg said. He gestured—an elegant movement—toward his desk. Both Colonel Bellmon and Oberleutnant Stubberweg tried, and did not manage, to conceal their surprise at this offer. It is the duty of prisoners of war to make an attempt to escape. The most essential equipment in an attempt to escape is a map. Maps are therefore guarded with great care by the captors.

  “If you are in any way uncomfortable, Oberleutnant von und zu Badner,” von Greiffenberg said, “you may withdraw.”

  Oberleutnant von und zu Badner did not hesitate. He came to attention.

  “With the Oberst Graf’s kind permission, the Oberleutnant will remain in the hope that he might be of some small service.”

  “Thank you, Karl,” von Greiffenberg said.

  “It is my privilege, Herr Oberst Graf,” von und zu Badner said.

  “Very well,” Colonel Graf von Greiffenberg said, pointing with a long, well-manicured finger to a point on the map. “We are here, Colonel Bellmon. Specifically, five kilometers from the center of Stettin.”

  Colonel Bellmon nodded, but said nothing.

  “The temporary situation which requires adjustment in our lines,” the count went on, in a dry, faintly mocking voice, as if he were once again addressing a class at the Kriegsschule, “involves certain pressures from this area.” His thin finger pointed toward the direction of Warsaw. “Consequently, I have been ordered to effect a movement, which I am assured will be temporary, to the west, in this direction.” His finger moved west and came to rest on the map near Berlin.

  Bellmon leaned over the map, found the scale, and measured the distance with his fingers.

  “At the moment, Colonel Bellmon, no transport is available for your officers,” von Greiffenberg went on. “It will therefore be necessary for your officers to proceed by foot.”

  “I trust, Colonel, that arrangements have been made to feed my officers,” Bellmon said.

  “I am assured, Colonel,” the count said, “that supplies and vehicles will be provided at approximately this point in our route,” the count said, pointing with his finger.

  “Peter,” Colonel Bellmon said, suddenly deciding to take the risk, “we’re not going to make the rendezvous point with the trucks, much less the Berlin area. Why don’t we just stand pat and let the Russians roll over us?”

  Von Greiffenberg involuntarily looked at Oberleutnant von und zu Badner to see his reaction to Bellmon’s addressing him by his first name. He knew that the young officer was very much aware that he and Bellmon were more than prisoner and captor. But their public relationship had been correct. He didn’t know how Badner would react when the prisoner suggested treason as the only logical thing to do, and he did nothing about it.

  Karl-Heinz von und zu Badner said nothing, and it was impossible to tell from his face what he was thinking.

  “My duty, as I see it, Robert,” the colonel said, “is quite clear. In addition to seeing that you remain in custody, it is to protect you.”

  “Should our positions be reversed, Peter,” Bellmon said, “should the fortunes of war see you in my custody, I would feel precisely the same way.”

  “Yes, I know you would,” the count said. “But I have Katyn Forest in my mind.”

  “The Russians would get to you over my dead body,” Bellmon said.

  “Yes, they would,” the count said. “I have reminded you of that very real possibility before.” Now Badner looked confused. “Colonel Bellmon is rendering the German officer corps a very real service, Badner. I will explain that to you later.”

  “That is quite unnecessary, Herr Oberst Graf,” the young officer said.

  “You’re in command, Colonel,” Bellmon said.

  “Yes,” the count said. “For the moment. Perhaps you noticed, Colonel, that the message made no reference to your enlisted men.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Perhaps the thinking is that it is better to let the Russians have the enlisted men if that is the price for keeping the officers,” the count said. “But in any event, I’m afraid your men are going to have to fend for themselves. Without instructions, I cannot move your enlisted men.”

  Bellmon looked at him for a long moment, trying to read his meaning.

  “It has come to my attention, Colonel, that there is a good bit of neutral power shipping at Odessa,” the count said. Bellmon immediately looked at the map. Odessa was on the Black Sea. He folded his three center fingers, put his thumb on Poznan, and stretched his little finger toward Odessa. The span was too great. He rolled his hand over, so that the palm was up, and laid his fingers flat on the map. Then, against the scale, he repeated the movement.

  “That’s more than 1,700 kilometers,” he said.

  “I understand,” the count went on, “that an effort is being made to protect certain artworks and other treasures from the ravages of war by shipping them from the country in neutral ships.”

  “Oh?” Bellmon asked. He was obviously confused.

  “Colonel, what the colonel means,” Oberleutnant von und zu Badner said, “is that the SS, the regular SS, not the Waffen SS, is shipping their loot out of the country on neutral ships.”

  “Oh,” Bellmon said again. He still didn’t quite understand, but he didn’t want to wait for an explanation.

  “I understand, further, that the personnel situation is such that many such shipments
are being shipped by truck without military escort,” the count went on. “And I also understand that escaped prisoners of war are being summarily shot by the SS and some units of the Feldgendarmerie.”

  “I understand,” Colonel Bellmon said.

  “I further have reliably been given to understand that the Russians are often unable to make the distinction between Germans and escaped prisoners of war, and that when there is some question, they are prone to err on the side of their security.”

  “As they resolved the Katyn question,” Bellmon said.

  “So I have been led to believe,” the count said. “And now, Colonel, if you will excuse us, Oberleutnant von und zu Badner and I have to see what we can do about rations for tomorrow.”

  Colonel Count von Greiffenberg made one of his graceful gestures, ordering the young officer to precede him out of the room. At the door, before he closed it, he said, “The Oberfeldwebel will see you back to your quarters, Robert. Please inform your officers we will march at first light.”

  Colonel Bellmon immediately picked up the map and started to fold it. Beneath the map was a Colt .32 caliber automatic pistol and a spare clip. The pistol was finely engraved. It was obviously Greiffenberg’s personal weapon. He thought a moment, then jammed the pistol in his waistband. He put the spare clip in his sock.

  Then he saw that the lower right drawer of Greiffenberg’s desk was open, and he saw the dull gleaming metal. He pulled the drawer open. There was a Schmeisser 9 mm machine pistol in there, disassembled. He looked at it a long moment before reaching for it. He unfastened his belt and trousers. He slipped the machine pistol in one pants leg, and the three magazines in the other. He closed his fly, fastened his belt, flexed his knees. His trousers were tucked into the tops of his tanker boots, held in place by extra-long bootlaces.

  It wasn’t the most secure arrangement in the world, but it would have to do.

  He took his overseas cap from beneath the epaulet of his Ike jacket and put it on his head. Then he opened the door to the outer office. The Oberfeldwebel came to attention.