by Mark Frost
Bernie moved closer, listening and watching Von Leinsdorf. His sudden interest in Bradley’s movements alarmed him.
“I don’t think before tomorrow, and you can forget about getting to Luxembourg before that, sir, the Krauts are swarming down there—”
“Then god damn it, Corporal, I’ve got to get into France today. I need to know which crossings are still open and if it’s gonna be Verdun or Paris as soon as you get word.”
“I’ll stay on it, sir.”
“Where’s your signal officer? I need the fucking passwords.”
“We were just about to put out today’s list,” he said.
“Well, don’t let me stop you,” said Von Leinsdorf.
As the radio operator went to work, Bernie saw Von Leinsdorf step back and assess whether he’d been overheard. Every man in the room was so caught up in his own corner of the war that no one paid any attention. Ten steps away, Bernie watched a group of officers knotted around a red-faced general, who was shouting angrily at them. A shell landed outside, close enough to shake dust from the ceiling and momentarily dim the lights. During the blackout, Von Leinsdorf brazenly snatched the password list from the operator’s desk—Bernie saw it in his hand when the lights came back on. Von Leinsdorf put it in his pocket, looked over, caught Bernie watching, and winked at him.
He’s crazy. He’s enjoying this.
Until he found a way to stop Von Leinsdorf, Bernie had resigned himself to the consequences of sabotage, reconnaissance, even espionage. That at least gave him a chance to avoid killing Americans.
Until that moment, assassination hadn’t even occurred to him.
The telex station behind where Bernie was standing jumped to life, startling him.
Bernie leaned forward to read the message as it came through. It was an urgent signal from First Army HQ in Liège. The headline identified it as an emergency override, the highest level of Allied security alert.
First Army Interrogation Center, Liège
DECEMBER 18, 4:00 A.M.
The contents of Karl Schmidt’s satchel, jeep, and pockets lay on the table between Schmidt and Major Moran from the 301st Counter Intelligence Corps Detachment. Schmidt’s wrists were in handcuffs, secured through the slats of the chair behind his back, and he still wore the undershirt and trousers of his American uniform. Major Moran asked questions, while Earl Grannit and a team of intelligence officers watched through a one-way observation window in an adjoining room. From there, a stenographer transcribed the conversation, which was conducted in English, although a translator was also present if the need for one arose. A wire tape recorder ran throughout the interview, so that when they reviewed and transcribed, no detail would be overlooked.
In a money belt concealed around his waist, Schmidt had carried $2000 in American currency, a thousand in counterfeit British pounds, and smaller amounts in Belgian, Dutch, and French notes and coins. American soldiers in Europe rarely carried cash and were instead issued printed scrip they called “invasion money,” a detail that had escaped the scrutiny of Skorzeny’s quartermaster. A shortwave military radio of German origin was found hidden in the back of Schmidt’s jeep. They also found ten Pervitin tablets—caffeine-based energy boosters—an assortment of concealed weapons, including brass knuckles, hand grenades, and a stiletto; an American officer’s field manual; and an English pocket-sized edition of the New Testament. Hidden in an empty fuel canister they found fuses, detonators, and six pounds of Nipolite, a malleable plastic explosive.
Other cans held four regulation German uniforms and a number of more exotic weapons, including a piano wire garrote and a silencer. Grannit took particular interest in the silencer, a silver cylinder that slid neatly over the barrel of Schmidt’s standard American issue M1911 automatic. It also fit onto the end of a compact machine pistol they found, which converted to an automatic rifle with the addition of an armatured stock and telescopic sight. Among the ammunition for it they found a clip of seven bullets containing a poisonous aconite compound encased in the head, which was scored to split upon contact, causing certain death.
Because of his forgery training, Ole Carlson worked with two officers to examine Schmidt’s collection of maps and documents. They included credible versions of the highest security passes issued by the Allied forces.
Early in his interview, Lieutenant Schmidt repeated the information he had given Grannit about the commando unit known as Einheit Stielau. In earlier interrogations the other three captured members of his squad corroborated the basics of Schmidt’s story. However, none of those men admitted knowing anything about a so-called second objective, even after being subjected to severe physical abuse.
Major Moran hadn’t yet resorted to coercion with the talkative Schmidt, when negotiations stalled over this second objective. Schmidt offered to reveal what he knew about it, but only if given written assurance that he would not be executed as a spy. Major Moran refused. An agitated and emotional Schmidt refused to say anything more.
Furious, Moran came out of the room and ordered his men to beat it out of him. Earl Grannit asked if he could be left alone with Schmidt for a few moments. The major agreed. Grannit entered and took Moran’s seat across from Schmidt.
“It doesn’t matter what you dangle in front of them, Karl. They can’t make that promise to you.”
“But it’s not fair. From the moment they brought us to that camp, we had to obey orders or they would shoot us. I haven’t conducted espionage, I haven’t killed Americans, I haven’t committed any crimes—”
“That’s not for me to decide. For all I know it may be true, but right now you have to do better.”
“How?”
“Tell them you’ll go out on patrol, help them look for the other commando teams. You know who or what to look for, don’t you?”
“Would they let me do that?”
“Of course. But first you have to tell them what they want to know. We already grilled your squad about this. Nobody’s backing you up. They say they don’t know anything about a second objective—”
“They don’t know because I never told them. We were ordered not to tell them anything—”
“Where’d that order come from?”
“From the officer in charge, the one who called himself Lieutenant Miller, the man you asked me about. Please, they must believe me, I’m telling you the truth, but I’m fighting for my life.”
Grannit hesitated. “Let me see what I can do.”
Grannit left the room, and walked right past Moran and his men. “I gotta take a piss.”
He went across the hall into the room where Ole Carlson was examining Schmidt’s documents.
“These forgeries are high-quality,” said Carlson. “I can’t find a single fault that gives ’em away—”
Grannit leaned in and whispered, “Come into the other room. Wait for my signal after I go back in with Schmidt, then buy me a minute alone with him.”
Carlson’s eyes went wide, and he followed Grannit back into the observation room where the CIC officers had congregated, keeping an eye on Schmidt through the window. Grannit lit a cigarette.
“So?” asked Moran, in a foul mood. “Is he bullshitting us?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We’re through fucking around with this asshole. If he’s got something, let him put it on the table.”
“I’ve got a good sense of this man, Major. We need to work him carefully—”
“Yeah, well, he can go fuck himself. I think he’s full of shit, I think he’s bluffing—”
“I respectfully disagree—”
“Well, who made you the fucking expert?”
“Colonel Otto Skorzeny put their unit together,” said Grannit. “That name means something to you college graduates, doesn’t it? You think Hitler sent them over here to play patty-cake?”
“So take a billy club and beat it out of him. That’s how the NYPD likes to work, isn’t it? Or do you prefer a rubber hose?”
Grannit pulled his sidearm and chambered a round. “Why don’t I just pump bullets into him until he comes clean. You want to give me your okeydokey on that, Major? I’ll make him confess to the fucking Lincoln assassination if that does the trick for you. Is that how you want to utilize our only asset?”
“You’ve got five minutes,” said Moran.
Grannit stubbed out his cigarette on the doorjamb and walked back into the interrogation room. He sat down, glanced back at the one-way window, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Seeing that signal, Ole Carlson stepped into the room, stumbled over somebody’s foot, and spilled his coffee all over Major Moran’s trousers. During the confusion that followed, Grannit leaned forward and switched off the hidden microphone under the table.
“Okay, Karl, I got you your deal, let’s hear it,” said Grannit.
“They won’t prosecute me as a spy, they’ll treat me like any other prisoner of war?”
“You have my word on it.”
Schmidt leaned forward and cradled his head in his hands on the table, shoulders heaving with emotion. Grannit guessed he had less than a minute before the CIC smart-asses rushed in to turn the microphone back on.
“Save it for your family reunion, Karl, we’re short on time. Now, you’re going to have to ride along on those patrols we talked about; I told them you agreed to that—”
“Yes, of course—”
“And this whole thing stays between me, you, and the officer in charge, because it’s against regulations. You can’t mention it, even to him when they all pile in here, okay?”
Schmidt lifted his head up from the table. “Yes.”
“What was your second objective?”
Grannit reached down and turned the hidden microphone back on.
“After the first two days,” said Schmidt, “we are supposed to move south. Into France.”
“How many men?”
Schmidt didn’t blink. He reasoned that if he exaggerated the scope of the threat, he had a better chance at clemency, and that the right lie might save his life.
“All of us,” said Schmidt. “Eighty men. The entire company of Skorzeny’s commandos. We’re to meet in Reims on the nineteenth, at a cinema, then move south to Paris.”
“What’s in Paris?”
“We rendezvous at the Café de la Paix with our local support and then move on Versailles. That’s our objective.”
“What is?”
“To attack Allied headquarters command.”
Grannit felt his throat tighten.
“And to kill General Eisenhower.”
19
VIII Corps HQ, Bastogne, Belgium
DECEMBER 18, 7:00 A.M.
Jesus Christ, take a look at this.”
The telex operator ripped off the printed cable and held it out to the radioman next to him before Bernie could read it.
“Holy shit.”
The corporal’s reaction drew Von Leinsdorf’s attention, and he stepped toward them, taking a look at it before Bernie did. He handed it back to the corporal, then smiled at Bernie.
“Read it, Corporal,” said Von Leinsdorf.
“Let me have your attention!” The corporal stood up on his chair and read it out loud. “First Army HQ, emergency override alert for all units in Belgium, Luxembourg, and Holland. Be aware that squads of German commandos in American uniform, driving American vehicles, are operating in combat zone behind Allied lines—”
Bernie froze in place. The room quieted and soldiers gathered around them as the message continued.
“Be also warned brigade strength force disguised as same, equipped with Sherman tanks and mobile artillery, believed to be somewhere in the field, details to follow—”
Excitement radiated out around them. The corporal rushed the cable toward the CO’s desk. News of the bulletin ripped through the room, generating an uproar.
Bernie backed up against the wall, out of traffic, trying to make himself invisible. He caught Von Leinsdorf’s eye. Von Leinsdorf tilted his head toward the door and Bernie started toward the exit. A couple of HQ staff sergeants ahead of them looked like they were trying to stop people from leaving and to organize a stronger watch on the door. Von Leinsdorf grabbed one by the arm.
“Christ, can you fucking believe this?” asked Von Leinsdorf.
“I believe they’d do anything.”
“But how are we gonna know the difference? How can we tell these fuckers apart? Nazis wearing our uniforms, what if they’re standing right in front of us?”
“We’ll know, sir. They can’t pull something like this off.”
“Jesus, I hope you’re right. Station men here, check IDs coming in and out. We’ve got to secure our perimeter, get word to the MPs, let’s jump on it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The sergeant hurried off. Von Leinsdorf grabbed Bernie behind the elbow, guiding him through the door. “Keep walking. Don’t stop.”
The MPs outside were just hearing the news. Von Leinsdorf barked at them, “CO needs you men inside, double time, move, move, move.”
The news radiated out in front of them, jumping from man to man. Bernie kept waiting for someone to notice them, stop them, put an end to it, and some part of him half wished it would happen. As they reached the street, another artillery barrage began and lit up the morning sky, shells stepping progressively closer to the village.
“They caught one of us,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Probably one of the scout teams.”
“How much do you think they know?”
“Their alert didn’t mention the Second Objective. So we keep going.”
“To where?”
“Reims, France,” said Von Leinsdorf.
“What are we doing there?”
“In Reims? We’re going to the movies.”
They turned the corner and saw an MP in the parking area examining the unit numbers on their jeep. Bernie saw Von Leinsdorf’s hand move toward his belt as they approached.
“Corporal, what are you standing there for? Don’t you know what’s happening?” asked Von Leinsdorf.
“You from Twelfth Army, sir?” asked the MP.
“That’s right,” said Von Leinsdorf, climbing aboard and signaling Bernie to get in and drive, as he held up the document tube. “And we’re heading back there now, got to get these to the Old Man.”
The MP put a hand out and stopped Bernie from starting the jeep. “Where’d you come in from?”
“North,” said Bernie. “Both roads to Luxembourg are cut off, case you haven’t heard.”
“I was just gonna say,” said the MP. “Road north’s cut off, too, if you planned on going back that way.”
“How do we get out of here?” asked Bernie.
“You gotta head due west. I see your road pass, soldier?”
Bernie glanced at Von Leinsdorf and handed it to him. They waited while he shined his flashlight on it. Bernie saw Von Leinsdorf reach down into the seat for the hunting knife.
The MP took his time looking it over, then handed it back. “You better make tracks. Krauts just about got us buttoned up.”
“Good luck to you,” said Von Leinsdorf.
“You said something’s going on inside?” asked the MP.
“Nothing to worry about,” said Von Leinsdorf.
Bernie stepped on the gas and they drove due west out of Bastogne.
Liège
DECEMBER 18, NOON
They didn’t turn off the tape recorders until Earl Grannit had squeezed every last detail out of Karl Heinz Schmidt. Less than three hours later, stripped of his uniform and dressed as a prisoner of war, Schmidt was handed over to a squad of Army Intelligence officers. They began roving patrols of the main highways south and west of the front lines, using Schmidt as their watchdog, looking for elements of what Schmidt had called Operation Greif.
Ongoing Allied communications problems prevented First Army Interrogation from notifying Counter Intelligence in the city of Reims, France, about Schmidt’s final revelati
on: that the German assassination teams were planning to rendezvous at a cinema there on the evening of December 19. Earl Grannit and Ole Carlson drove out of Liège at noon and headed south to deliver that news in person.
Carlson held Karl Schmidt’s forged blue SHAEF pass in his hand, studying it as they drove, then suddenly slapped it against his leg. “Staring me right in the face. That’s what’s wrong with this thing.”
“What?” asked Grannit.
“This is U.S. government issue watermarked paper, and everything else is so well crafted you’da thought the Krauts’d catch this, it’s just so danged obvious once you notice—”
“Notice what, Ole?”
“They transposed the e and a in ‘headquarters.’ They misspelled the doggone word.”
Carlson showed it to him.
“Get on the radio,” said Grannit. “Make sure they know that at the border. With luck we’ll get there before they cross over.”
Carlson cranked up the radio, trying to find a signal. “They’re gonna execute him, aren’t they?” he asked. “Schmidt?”
“That’s right, Ole.” Grannit glanced over as he drove. “What’s the problem?”
“You promised him he wouldn’t die for it.”
“We don’t even know he’s telling the truth. Maybe he made the whole thing up to save his ass.”
“Sounded pretty straight to me. How many more teams you think they sent over?”
“He said eighty men.”
“They’re desperate enough to try something like this. He had too many details. I think it’s real and he got caught up without knowing what it was about—”
“Every bad guy’s got a sob story, Ole.”
“I’m just saying that if he’s shot for it after helping us and us telling him different so he’d talk, it’s a raw deal—”
“Guy comes over the line, war time, in our uniform, confesses he’s got orders to kill our commanding general, and you feel sorry for him.”
“We lied to him, Earl.”
Grannit said nothing.
“Well, how do you feel about it?”
