Order of Battle

by Ib Melchior

  Anneliese stood motionless among the debris. She was watching Erik with frightened eyes. She was shivering, unaware of it.

  Erik replaced his gun in his shoulder holster. He walked up to the girl. He put his hands on her trembling shoulders and looked into her face searchingly.

  “Thank you,” he said. His voice was low. “Thank you—Anneliese.”

  The girl met his eyes for a long moment. Then she closed her own big eyes tightly. She sagged into his arms and put her head on his shoulder. The little sob that escaped her was a mixture of spent fear and relief. . . .

  Erik put his arms around the trembling girl. He held her. His arms tightened around her. He was intensely conscious of her softness. Her warmth. His world was filled with the fresh scent of her hair, mingled with the acrid-sweet smell of her fear. It was overwhelmingly exciting. And he thought of nothing but her. . . .

  Nothing . . .

  The attack had taken exactly twenty-three seconds.

  A lifetime.

  Don and Murphy came running. Murphy carried a carbine, ready for trouble.

  “What’s going on?” Don demanded. “What the hell’s the shooting?”

  Erik let the girl go.

  “It’s all over now,” he said quietly. He was speaking to both of them.

  “What happened?”

  “Some blasted idiot tried to put a pickax through my head.” Now that it was all over Erik felt a sudden anger. “God damn his hide!”

  Don looked from Anneliese to Erik. He was relieved that nothing had happened to his partner, but he was deeply irritated with him for letting himself get into a situation where he could be jumped.

  “Wouldn’t have been easy,” he said caustically, “with that thick skull of yours.”

  Erik glanced at him. Don had spoken with unwonted tenseness. He went on:

  “You should have known better. Going out alone at this time of day with a goddamned Fräulein in tow! Where the hell do you think you are? Brooklyn?”

  He felt better. He’d had his say.

  Murphy came up to them.

  “Anything I can do?” he asked.

  Erik looked at him. Outwardly he was calm. But inside he felt a strong tide of emotion throb through him. Anneliese stood quietly away to one side, but he could still feel her in his arms. He could still smell the scent of her.

  “Yes, Jim,” he said. “Take care of the girl.”

  He turned to her.

  “Don’t worry,” he said gently. “We’ll get you to Regensburg.”

  “If you please,” she said in a small voice. Erik turned back to Murphy.

  “Tell Lieutenant Howard to let her ride the supply truck to Regensburg. Tomorrow morning. Understand? I’ll take the responsibility.”

  “Okay, sir.”

  Murphy walked over to the girl, a big smile on his face.

  “You see, baby,” he said confidentially, “I told you I’d fix everything for you.”

  Erik was watching them.

  “I hate to break this up,” Don said, “but . . .”

  Erik started.

  “Yes. We’d better get going.”

  They headed toward the jail. Murphy and the girl followed. For a moment the two men walked in silence. Don inspected Erik out of the corner of his eye. Something’s eating him, he thought. Has been for some time. He was concerned. He’d better work it out. Soon. Aloud he said:

  “Erik, old cock, you’ll get yourself in real trouble one of these days.”

  Erik frowned.

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “Why should they suddenly jump me? Are we missing something?” He looked at Don. “Do you think—”

  “It’s not hard to figure out, lover boy. The Krauts don’t like to see an ‘Ami’ promenading one of their good-looking Fräuleins. Especially not one of the ‘American Gestapo.’ You just got their goat is all.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” Erik dismissed the incident. There were more important matters to take care of. “Did you get everything?” he asked.

  “Yeah. But I’ve got to stay here. Wait for Division clearance. They haven’t gotten off their collective ass yet.”

  “Okay. I’ll take off for the farm now. Start the ball rolling.”

  “Good. Jim and I’ll finish up here.” He glanced at Erik. “Including fixing your girl friend’s TS slip!”

  They were almost at the jail. The street was empty of civilians except for one lone man, hurrying along the sidewalk toward them. It was almost curfew time. The man limped. One sleeve of a stripped Wehrmacht uniform jacket was pinned up, empty. One eye was covered by a crude patch.

  He stepped into the gutter to let the Americans and the girl pass. . . .

  Schönsee

  The Zollner Farm

  1913 hrs

  Erik and Don had selected the Zollner farm to serve as command post for the operation for a couple of very good reasons. Located just north of Schönsee on the road to Eslarn, the farm’s north fields bordered the forest where Plewig had placed the Werewolf headquarters; also, it was uninhabited. Zollner had been the local Ortsbauernführer and had thought better of staying to welcome the Americans.

  The farm itself could not be seen from the forest because of a row of trees. It consisted of a main building, a barn, a stable and a chicken coop arranged around an unusually spacious farmyard. Even the oozing dunghill in the center left ample space for the barbed wire enclosure being put up in one half of the yard. Some eight to ten GIs were busy turning the farmyard into a temporary PW enclosure, unloading concertina wire from a three-quarter-ton truck, setting up corner machine gun emplacements and erecting floodlight poles.

  The evening was crisp and clear and the men displayed no lights, working as quickly and silently as possible. From their shoulder patches and collar insignia it was apparent that they were 97th Division military police.

  Erik was satisfied. The preparations were coming along fine. And the activity could not be observed from the forest in the distance. He walked up to an MP sergeant putting up a floodlight. “Well, Sergeant, how’s it coming?”

  “Okay. Should be finished in a couple of hours.”

  “Great. When you’re through you’d better have your men turn in. It ought to be a busy day tomorrow.” He pointed to the bam. “That barn is full of hay. You can bed down in there.”

  “Good deal.”

  Sergeant Sammy Klein glanced at the CIC agent. He was curious. As usual his orders had been half-assed. A PW enclosure for werewolves? He knew those CIC guys were a little meshuge, but werewolves? Led by Frankenstein and Dracula, no doubt! But he was responsible for eleven guys from his outfit. Better he should know as much as possible about his tsemishne operation. Now was as good a time as any to find out. He held the wires of the floodlight toward Erik.

  “Would you hold these?” he asked. “Out of the way? I gotta secure this pole.”

  Erik took hold of the wires.

  “Sure.”

  “Say, what are these—uh—werewolves you’re out to get?”

  “It’s an organization of fanatics.”

  “Yeah?”

  “They’ve sworn to keep their own private reign of terror going, even after the war is over.”

  “They responsible for those guys in the river?”

  Erik nodded. “Very likely.”

  Klein spat on the cobblestones.

  “Helluva way to fight a war,” he said with disgust.

  He’d finished securing the pole to an old hand pump. He took the wires from Erik.

  “Thanks.”

  He began to wind them around the pole.

  “Why the screwy name Werewolves?”

  “It comes from a medieval superstition that certain people can transform themselves at will into ferocious wolflike beasts.”

  Klein gave a short laugh.

  “That’s no superstition. Happens to every guy with a three-day pass!”

  Erik smiled.

  “Wrong kind of. wolf, Klein.” He grew sober
. “Anyway, those creatures were called werewolves. They’d terrorize the countryside with, quote, fiendish acts of murder and destruction, unquote. And that’s exactly what the Nazi Werewolves plan to do.”

  Klein nodded toward the distant forest.

  “And they’re supposed to be in there someplace?”

  “They are. We don’t know exactly where. Could be just across the fields.”

  Klein looked up in half-serious alarm.

  “Thanks a heap! I guess I’d better post a double guard tonight. Never was much for fiendish acts of murder and destruction.”

  He had finished his job. He stood back to admire it.

  “Well, that ought to do it.”

  Erik checked his watch.

  “I’ll have to get back to Weiden,” he said. “Pick up my partner. Get my jeep and a driver, will you?”

  “I’ll drive you myself. Okay?”

  “Can you leave here?”

  “Sure. We’re almost done. I’ll put Simmons in charge. I want to contact Division anyway.”

  “Okay. We’ll be back here in a couple of hours.”

  “Right.”

  Klein walked off.

  Erik started for the farmhouse, when the sound of an approaching vehicle stopped him. A jeep, with only its blackout lights showing, came barreling into the courtyard and came to a screeching halt a few feet away. A major jumped smartly from the seat next to the driver and strode up to him.

  “I’m Major Evans,” he announced. “Where do I find the CIC agent in charge?”

  “Right here, Major. Name’s Larsen. Erik Larsen. Welcome to our little home away from home.”

  “Thank you.”

  The major looked Erik over.

  Erik returned his attention. The first words that came to his mind were “overbearing” and “supercilious.” Somehow the man’s military police and rank insignia seemed oversized. Erik felt a twinge of disapproval. He cautioned himself. He had to work with this man. He’d stay away from snap judgments.

  Evans had finished his inspection.

  “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner—uh—Larsen,” he said. “I had a couple of—uh—important matters to finish up before I could leave.”

  Erik smiled. It’s possible his smile wouldn’t have won any prizes for cordiality, but he smiled.

  “We’re glad you made it.”

  “Major Roberts of Corps G-2 has already briefed me on this—uh—escapade of yours.”

  Erik struggled not to react with too obvious antagonism to the man’s choice of words.

  “Fine,” he managed. “Then you know what it’s all about.”

  Evans looked painfully dubious.

  “Ye-e-es.” He sighed the sigh of a martyr. “However, I don’t put much stock in the whole affair, I’m sorry to say . . .”

  I bet you are, you overbearing SOB, Erik thought, his good intentions rapidly evaporating.

  “. . . but Colonel Streeter wanted a—uh—competent officer on the spot,” Evans continued. “As an unbiased observer.”

  “I know.”

  Evans fished a pack of Luckies from his pocket.

  “Smoke?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Evans lighted a cigarette.

  “I might as well tell you now—uh—”

  Evans looked in vain for Erik’s insignia of rank. He felt a sudden annoyance. It was a damned frustrating state of affairs that those CIC fellows were allowed to wear only officers’ insignia, with no rank showing. What the devil was this fellow’s rank? How the hell could he know how to treat him? It was enormously irritating.

  “I don’t think these so-called Werewolves of yours exist,” he continued. “Their ridiculous radio nonsense notwithstanding.”

  He took a deep puff on his cigarette. He blew out the smoke with obvious self-satisfaction. These CIC prima donnas needed to be taken down a peg or two.

  ‘The military police has never had any trouble of any kind with them,” he stated.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Erik said dryly. “You’re lucky.”

  “Oh, we’ve had a few isolated incidents,” Evans admitted expansively. “Minor ones. But there’s no organized terrorist activity.”

  “I see,” Erik said. He didn’t trust himself to get into a discussion with Evans. He’d keep it brief. Evans went on.

  “Still, I suppose we’ll have to look into this yarn of yours, eh?” He coughed a dry laugh. “However remote the possibility may be of turning up anything concrete.”

  “Tomorrow will tell.”

  “So it will,” Evans agreed. He snipped the ember from his cigarette. Meticulously he broke the paper around the butt and scattered the remaining tobacco on the ground. Then he rolled up the paper into a small ball and flipped it away. “So it will. . . . What time are you planning to get your—uh—show on the road?”

  “The infantry companies will be ready to move out at 0530 hours.”

  “Very good.”

  Evans drew himself up as if to dismiss Erik.

  “Well, good night—uh—”

  Again he pointedly searched for Erik’s rank insignia. His look of disapproval was obvious. Evans was irked. He could be talking to an enlisted man for all he knew! It was infuriating.

  Sergeant Klein drove up in Erik’s jeep. Erik looked at Evans.

  “Good night, Major,” he said. He turned on his heel and walked to his jeep.

  Evans frowned after him. He was so aggravated he could taste it. He considered his situation intolerable—being forced to play nurse-maid to a couple of amateur cops and their harebrained machinations. And he was not in charge of the operation. He resented that. Deeply. Especially since he didn’t even know if the CIC agent outranked him! He strongly suspected he did not.

  Evans—Harold J. Evans—was a former Chicago police sergeant. He’d been a good cop. Dependable. Incorruptible. But also opinonated and obstinate. Military life had not changed him.

  He turned abruptly away and stalked toward his waiting jeep. . . .

  The Schönsee-Weiden Road

  2034 hrs

  Krauss cautiously shifted his position. The dry leaves under his twisting body rustled softly.

  He had selected the place with care. The woods came all the way down to the deep ditch running alongside the road; the underbrush was heavy. He estimated he was lying less than fifteen meters from the road itself. He knew he couldn’t be seen.

  He shifted again. It was becoming increasingly difficult to remain comfortable for any length of time the longer he had to lie under the brush waiting. He’d give it another half hour. If nothing happened by then he’d have to start back to Weiden. It was a good six kilometers. They might have to make other plans. Heinz would have to decide. Or that officer from Krueger’s headquarters, who was supposed to join them with a couple of men.

  The sound was hardly audible when he first noticed it. His breath became shallow as he strained to hear. The sound grew slowly louder. A vehicle. A single vehicle coming down the road from the direction of Schönsee. He pressed himself closer to the ground. It was pure instinct. He didn’t have to.

  The vehicle was approaching rapidly.

  He squinted at the road. The night was clear and light. He should have no difficulty seeing. He’d certainly been there long enough for his eyes to get accustomed to the diffused light. His eyes searched down the road. A distant pinpoint of light grew in size and gradually split into two. The vehicle was driving with only its blackout lights on.

  Krauss kept his eyes fixed on the approaching vehicle. It was a jeep. One second he could make it out; the next it was hurtling past him and disappearing down the dark road. But there’d been time enough. Krauss felt vastly self-satisfied.

  There’d been two men in the jeep. A sergeant, driving. Another man beside him. The American CIC agent. The one he’d already missed once. The target.

  This was the road. This was where the Ami agents would be coming through. Both of them. He’d been right.

  He p
ushed himself back from his vantage point. He stood up. Quickly he walked to his bicycle. He brushed the leaves concealing it aside and at once started to pedal along the darkened forest path that would take him to the outskirts of Weiden—and Heinz.

  They’d have to act fast. . . .

  Now.

  Weiden

  2047 hrs

  It was close to nine o’clock when Erik and Sergeant Klein drove up before the jail in Weiden. Klein had his orders. They would all four start back for the Zollner farm at 2330 hours.

  Erik entered the building. He went straight to his room. He would have two and a half hours to get some rest. He needed it. Now that it was possible to lie down he suddenly felt bone tired. He’d check with Don and flake out for a couple of hours. It might be his only chance in quite a while.

  The door to the room bore the black-lettered legend UNTERSUCHUNG & HAFT—FRAUEN: “Search & Detention—Women.” Underneath Murphy had written in chalk: cic 212—PRIVATE.

  Erik pushed the door open and walked in.

  He was mildly surprised to find the lights on. His eyes darted to the windows. The blackout curtains were drawn. He started toward his bed. Every time he looked at it he wondered where Murphy had scrounged it. The big, ornate brass bedstead looked utterly incongruous in the bleak and bare police detention room. Don’s army cot in the opposite corner seemed to fit the situation a hell of a lot better. Still, the huge brass monster was comfortable, even if the rusty springs did creak and the old mattress was shamelessly lumpy.

  He had a cozy, luxurious “at home” feeling. Crazy what you could get used to. Is there a more relative concept than comfort?

  He was suddenly aware of splashing noises coming from the small alcove behind the dilapidated screen that hid the washstand with its cracked bowl and handleless pitcher.

  “Hey, Don,” he called. “All set on your end?”

  The splashing sounds stopped abruptly. There was no answer.

  “Don?” Erik frowned. He walked toward the screen. “We’re taking off for the farm in a couple of hours. I want to grab some shut-eye. Shake it up, will you?” He pushed the screen aside.

  He stared.

  “Anneliese!”

  The girl stood motionless. She watched him with wide, frightened eyes. She was clutching an OD towel in front of her in an attempt to hide her nakedness. Her dirndl blouse was hanging on a nail on the wall behind her.