by Mark Frost
The sergeant hesitated, blinking his eyes, exhausted and anxious, trying to decide.
“For Christ’s sake, what you gonna do, shoot one of your own?” asked Bernie. “With the fuckin’ Krauts on top of us?”
“I’ll fix it if you show me how,” said Von Leinsdorf.
“I said stay where you are.”
Bernie glanced back up toward the road and saw the engineers on the road hustling to attach the charge line to a detonator.
“We’re running out of time—”
The whistle of an incoming tank shell split the air. It slammed into the surface of the bridge above them, clouding the air with dust. The blast staggered the sergeant, knocking him against the base of the bridge. Von Leinsdorf picked up his knife and was on him in two steps. He grabbed the sergeant’s gun arm and bent it back against the rocks until the pistol fell. He brought up his knife with the other hand, planted it in the sergeant’s chest, and rode him down into the dirt, covering his mouth, holding him there until he stopped moving.
Bernie kept the rifle trained on the tangle of their bodies. He was unable to draw a clear target as they wrestled, until the sergeant went still and he had a clean shot at Von Leinsdorf. His finger found the trigger, the second time he’d had Von Leinsdorf in his sights.
The way he cut that rifleman’s throat in the cabin.
Bernie had made excuses for him after Von Leinsdorf saved his life. Telling himself Von Leinsdorf had only killed because war or their survival demanded it.
But not that one. Not that poor terrified kid in the cabin.
You need to know what the mission is first, thought Bernie. Kill him now, there’s still others out there trying to pull it off, with no way to stop them—
Von Leinsdorf looked up from the dead man, saw the barrel pointing at him, and the uncertainty in Bernie’s eyes. He raised his hands as he stood up, unafraid, inviting him to take the shot.
Another shell screamed toward them. Bernie turned and ran the rest of the way to the road as Von Leinsdorf dove to the ground. The shell landed to the left of the bridge. Showered with dirt but unharmed, Von Leinsdorf picked up his knife, sliced the main fuse line, and sprinted up the path.
The column of panzers rumbled down the road from the west. The rest of the GIs had fallen back a quarter mile, shouting at the engineers to hurry. Bernie started their jeep, pointed the wheels away from the bridge. The pop of small-arms fire erupted. Bullets kicked up around the engineers as they hooked up their detonator.
“Forget about that! Get out of here!” Bernie shouted to them.
He saw Von Leinsdorf running out from under the bridge, his uniform covered in dust.
“Where’s the sarge?” one of the engineers shouted back.
Bernie stepped on the gas as Von Leinsdorf came alongside and jumped onto the running board. They skidded away as another shell exploded behind them on the road. The rest of the Americans scattered in every direction. In a quick look back, Bernie saw the last engineer push down the plunger on their detonator. When nothing happened to the bridge, and a second shell landed near them, the engineers followed the riflemen into the trees. Bernie skidded around the next turn and floored the jeep, desperate to leave the bridge behind them.
Von Leinsdorf fell into the passenger seat beside him. His whole body appeared to be shaking.
“What’s wrong, are you hit?” asked Bernie.
Von Leinsdorf turned toward him and Bernie realized he was laughing.
“What’s so fucking funny?” said Bernie.
“Why didn’t you shoot him when you had the chance?”
“What are you talking about? He had a gun on you the whole time.”
“I saved your life, the least you can do is return the favor—”
“I didn’t have a shot. Jesus Christ, what am I supposed to do? We shouldn’t have stopped in the first place.”
“Keeping that bridge open could be the difference for the entire offensive. Did that ever occur to you?” Von Leinsdorf pulled out a cigarette.
“Well, don’t mistake me for somebody who gives a shit.”
Von Leinsdorf glared at him, then pulled his pistol and pointed it at Bernie’s head. “Pull over. Pull off the road and stop right now.”
Bernie did as he was ordered, steering onto the first dirt side road, concealed from the main highway by a thick stand of evergreens. Von Leinsdorf told him to stop near the ruins of an old country church. Bernie kept both hands on the wheel, his eyes on the road.
“I’m sorry,” said Bernie. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Are you really that reluctant to shoot an American, Bernie? Before we go any further: You are a German soldier, aren’t you?”
“I could’ve just as easily shot you, too,” said Bernie, glancing sideways at the gun. “You think about that?”
“Oh yes. And what would you have done then? How long do you think you’d last after Counter Intelligence takes you for questioning? What sad story would you tell them, Brooklyn? This Nazi/GI took you hostage and forced you to drive all over Belgium? No credibility problem there. But tell us, Private, what about all these forged documents and German uniforms in the back of your jeep?”
“Okay, you made your point.”
“The point is they’d break you in an hour. You’d give up your mother. You haven’t the backbone for it.” Von Leinsdorf looked disgusted. “Get out of the car.”
“You said you needed my help, you couldn’t do this without me—”
“Get out now.”
“Look, put the gun down, all right?”
“Take your hands off the wheel.”
Bernie kept his head down, clinging to the wheel, white-knuckled. “Just because I didn’t kill that guy? Those other GIs would’ve heard the shot. What if they came after us? They had ten guys up there, there was no time, the panzers were on top of us. I did what I thought was best.”
Von Leinsdorf hesitated. They heard heavy firing behind them. The German advance had crossed the bridge.
“I didn’t ask to be here,” said Bernie. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t even know what we’re doing.”
Bernie glanced over and hardly recognized the man. The shell of civilized personality was gone. What he saw in its place was cold, hard, and sneering.
“I’m sick of your excuses. Get out.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want blood on my jeep.”
Bernie climbed down and backed away. Von Leinsdorf followed, pistol raised, into the church’s small graveyard. Shells had landed among the old headstones, cratering the field and scattering fragments of worm-eaten coffins and human remains.
“Try to appreciate the stunning degree of your own insignificance. You’re here because a politician made a speech, another one rattled his saber, and in this way small men like you are marched out to fight their wars—”
“It has nothing to do with me—”
Von Leinsdorf shoved him forward. “It doesn’t matter what you think about it, or what you think about anything. This is a business, and the business of war is killing. It’s a job, like baking bread or carpentry—”
“That what they teach you at Dachau?”
“They didn’t have to teach me. You learn on your own or you can’t go on. By now you should have figured it out for yourself. That’s the lesson.”
Bernie backpedaled as Von Leinsdorf advanced straight at him. “What lesson?”
“That it means nothing.” Von Leinsdorf screwed the silencer onto the end of his pistol. “You value your sorry little life so highly. Tell me why, because of what? What have you ever done with it? What makes your life worth saving?”
“I don’t know, I’m just me.”
“How you could possibly know who that is? I grew up in two countries, too, but I never forgot. You’ve been too busy hiding all your life, making yourself invisible, a nobody so they wouldn’t notice you. Because you’re ashamed of what you are.”
Bernie had no answe
r. He couldn’t even mount an argument, his face burning at the painful truths the man had seen in him.
“None of it matters. That’s what you don’t know. You have no idea how cheap life really is. You have no idea. What you find when you get to the bottom of it. There’s no honor, no dignity, no morality, no spirit. There’s just blood and meat. Life is shit. It’s shit.”
Von Leinsdorf leaned forward, inches from Bernie’s face, looking haunted and skeletal under his handsome features. Bernie went down to his knees on the charnel house ground, beside a scattering of bones.
“This so-called gift you think is worth saving, that’s just a reflex, a bug flinching at a boot. There’s no majesty to it. You can take apart a human being as easily as a clock. I worked with a doctor in our camp at Dachau, Dr. Rasher, you know that name?”
Bernie shook his head.
“He organized our research. Identified what we could learn from these subjects. How they react to heat, cold, pressure and pain, wounds and bleeding. It’s amazing how little fight they put up. They just hand it to you, that’s what we learned: Killing’s the easiest thing in the world.”
He flicked Bernie’s ear with the pistol, and he flinched.
“And the Jews were grateful for it. Because at some level they’re aware of this disease they carry. The Jew is an infection. A genetic virus. Once it enters the bloodstream of a society, or an individual, the only remedy is eradication. That’s our lasting contribution to science. We found the cure.”
Von Leinsdorf knelt down beside Bernie and grabbed his chin.
“You think your hands are clean? Your father works for IG Farben. They make the gas we use to kill them. All of them, Bernie. We’re killing all of them.”
Bernie felt paralyzed. He couldn’t catch his breath.
“I’m no different. I’ve just had the benefit of a closer look at death. You think I value my own life?”
Von Leinsdorf pointed the gun to his own head.
“This endless series of humiliations and miseries? I’d end it right now if I didn’t have this mission. And if I die in its service, at least I’ll know it counted for something greater than myself. Can you say the same?”
“Believe whatever you want,” said Bernie, shaking so hard he could barely speak. “It’s none of my business.”
“If you didn’t learn the lesson in that basement back there, I don’t know when you ever will. What you saw down there was child’s play. Open your eyes, man. Declare yourself. This is as real as life is ever going to get. You won’t last another day without deciding who you are or what is worth dying for.”
“Why make it your problem?”
Von Leinsdorf touched the barrel to Bernie’s chest. “Because I’m stuck with you. What am I going to do with you? If I kill you right now no one would mourn. No one would even know. Animals clean your bones, some peasant comes along one day and tosses them into these graves. All trace of you, all memory gone. Even your family will forget. As if you’d never existed.”
Bernie saw a stark blackness in his eyes. He tried to steady his voice and ease him back to reality. “You said you needed me. To complete the mission.”
“The next time you have a chance to shoot me, take it. If you can ever bring yourself to kill anybody.”
Von Leinsdorf slumped, weary, as if he’d lost interest in what he’d intended to do. Then, a change. Businesslike again. He unscrewed the silencer and dropped it in his pocket. He picked Bernie up off the ground, slung an arm around him, and walked him back toward the jeep. Now he took the affectionate tone of a confidant chiding a wayward friend.
“I don’t think you’re a physical coward, Brooklyn. Just a moral one. But if you do find it in your heart to kill me, you’ll kill yourself as well. They’ll catch you sooner or later, your American friends. To die in battle is one thing; execution is worse. I tell you from experience. It’s not the dying, it’s knowing when and where and how. That’s the hell of it.”
Bernie said nothing, the numbness in his body turning cold. Von Leinsdorf climbed back into the jeep. “Keep driving.”
Bernie backed out and steered them onto the main road. They drove in silence for a while.
He’s right about one thing, Bernie thought, glancing over at Von Leinsdorf. I’ve gone too long thinking about myself, worried about my own life. Not anymore.
Figure out what he’s doing, a piece at a time. And then even if it kills me, I’ll find some way to stop him.
22
Supreme Allied Headquarters, Versailles
DECEMBER 18, 1:00 P.M.
The news from Karl Schmidt’s interrogation finally arrived by telex as General Eisenhower finished his strategy meeting in the Map Room. His chief of Counter Intelligence hurried in the dispatch after confirming the contents twice with First Army. Eisenhower scanned the report, that as many as eighty German commandos in American uniform targeting him for assassination might be in Paris, with characteristic calm.
“Just another crazy-ass rumor,” he said, handing the pages back.
He was the only officer at Allied Headquarters who reacted that way. Over Eisenhower’s protests, his chief of security ordered that the general’s quarters be relocated immediately from a comfortable nearby villa into the Grand Trianon Palace in the Versailles compound. Ike relished what little privacy he had, and when he was off the clock, wanted to be left alone. His staff believed the reason for that was Ike’s ongoing affair with his British aide-de-camp, a WAC lieutenant and former fashion model named Kay Summersby. When Eisenhower refused to make the move, his chief of staff told him that when his safety was involved, he had to follow orders like any other soldier. By the end of the day, America’s only five-star general, commander of the entire Allied theater of war in Europe, had become, in effect, a prisoner of his own forces.
Within twenty-four hours, the Trianon Palace was transformed into a fortress. Two walls of thick barbed wire went up around the perimeter. Tanks and machine gun emplacements were installed at hundred-yard intervals around the compound. Roadblocks were set up for miles in every direction, and an elaborate new pass system was installed overnight. A platoon of MPs was added to the general’s personal security detail, and he would be driven in an armored sedan with tinted windows, never using the same route twice. Accustomed to taking long, solitary walks through the gardens of Versailles, Eisenhower was confined to the building with the drapes closed, in case snipers had worked their way within range, while soldiers patrolled the grounds. Ike’s protests that these men could better serve the war effort on the front lines were ignored.
“This must be what it feels like to be president,” grumbled Eisenhower to a member of his staff.
By nightfall plainclothes Army Counter Intelligence officers in Paris had staked out the Café de le Paix, the restaurant Schmidt had identified as the assassins’ rallying point. Machine guns were nested in nearby alleys. Otto Skorzeny’s photograph was plastered to walls and lampposts throughout the city. Neighborhood watches organized patrols looking for disguised German agents. Any suspicious-looking GI who wandered into the area was detained and questioned.
Security officers tried using human bait to draw the killers into the open. One of Eisenhower’s staff officers, Lieutenant Colonel Baldwin Smith, who bore a striking resemblance to his balding commander, volunteered to move into Eisenhower’s vacated villa. For the next few days he dressed in one of the general’s uniforms and was driven back and forth in the general’s Cadillac along his normal travel routes. Eisenhower himself was neither asked nor told about the substitution.
The fallout from Lieutenant Schmidt’s confession affected Allied soldiers all along the chain of command. Although he gave the correct password at a checkpoint, American General Bruce Clarke spent six hours in custody when an overeager MP decided that the general’s placing of the Chicago Cubs in the American League constituted proof he was a German spy. Driving back to his own headquarters, General Omar Bradley was stopped half a dozen times and grilled
on Midwestern geography, the Notre Dame football team, and the infield of the St. Louis Cardinals.
British Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery, just arriving in Belgium from Holland, was waved down at an American roadblock near Malmédy. As a security precaution, all rank and insignia had been removed from his jeep, which aroused suspicion. Furious at having his authority questioned, particularly by an American, the imperious Montgomery ordered his chauffeur to drive on in the middle of the conversation. MPs responded by shooting out his tires, giving chase, and relieving Montgomery of his sidearm. They held the war’s highest-ranking British officer in custody for three hours, until a Canadian colonel identified the apoplectic Montgomery. Exasperated by Monty’s habitual grandstanding, Eisenhower reportedly relished hearing about his ordeal in detail.
Soldiers manning the checkpoints were no longer satisfied with passwords, and as the days wore on, their interrogations grew increasingly elaborate. Queries about sports, comic strips, and current Hollywood gossip supplied the most frequent stumpers. Some inventive MPs tried to trip up the putative assassins by demanding they recite poems filled with r’s or w’s, notoriously difficult for native Germans. “Round the rugged rock the ragged rascal ran” was a favorite.
For all the disruption they caused, these precautions were about to pay tangible dividends.
The French Border
DECEMBER 18, 9:00 P.M.
After driving all afternoon, Earl Grannit and Ole Carlson entered France at a heavily guarded crossing just north of the town of Givet. Grannit identified himself to MPs running the post and made sure they’d received the bulletin about Skorzeny’s commandos. They showed him that it had been widely circulated and that more stringent controls had been imposed. Traffic was backed up on the Belgian side of the border for a quarter of a mile.
Before pushing on for Reims, Grannit and Carlson were shown to the mess hall next door for a quick meal. Waiting for their food, they drank coffee by a window looking out on the post’s supply depot on the French side of the line.
