Volk

  Ernst had no trouble with the language and slang; in fact he helped others to get it right. But he knew nothing of American tanks, and he did not smoke. Nevertheless, he learned to open a pack of cigarettes, and to take a puff without coughing. How anybody could enjoy such a procedure was hard to understand. It was really easier to learn to drive a Jeep, which was an efficient vehicle for the forest terrain where they would see action, the Ardennes.

  The brigade had two main objectives. On the day of the offensive, small units would penetrate the lines under the pretense of retreating from the Germans, and commence sabotage activities. They would pose as military police and misdirect Allied units. They would remove Allied warning signs from minefields, so that the enemy would march into its own trap. They would mark and report targets for German artillery fire. They would blow up ammunition depots, cut communications lines, spread false reports, block roads, and act as scouts for advancing troops.

  Meanwhile Skorzeny himself would take fifty American tanks and advance to the bridgeheads across the Meuse River. He would hold these crossings without challenge from the Americans—until the bulk of the German advance reached the river. Then the commandos would identify themselves to the German troops by using pre-arranged signals with colored flashlights or similar devices. In this manner the troops would cross the river without challenge, achieving a significant advantage.

  Would it work? Ernst was doubtful. The plain fact was that the Russian front had sapped Germany’s power, while the Allies were growing constantly stronger. It hardly mattered whether the river was readily crossed, or depots blown up; the enemy was simply too strong for such tricks to make a sufficient difference. Also, he doubted that many of the Operation Grab personnel would be able to carry it off; the intricacies of the American ways were too devious. So this was probably a death trap—as perhaps Kaltenbrunner had known.

  Ernst kept his doubts to himself. He would do his best, though this type of thing disgusted him. He was becoming in effect a partisan, doing treacherous damage behind the enemy lines, and the Americans would hold him in the same contempt that he held for the Russian partisans. It was a truly terrible mission, and one which might have no escape. Obviously any of them who were caught would be executed immediately, in the field; that was what was done with partisans. So the best hope lay in doing what the partisans did: once the mission was lost, merging with the population and pretending innocence. What an irony! He had learned how to be a partisan from fighting the partisans.

  They trained through November and early December. There were no breaks, and not entirely because of the urgency of their deadline for readiness; it was because of the necessary secrecy. There had to be no hint of what was planned. Ernst understood the necessity, but wished he could have visited Quality and his son. At least then there could have been one more contact, before…

  Of course they were not supposed to think of failure or death. But he knew he was not the only one. This mission was dangerous in the performance and in the aftermath. Only if it should be successful would they be heroes. Ernst simply did not believe that success was destined.

  The German assault began at 5:30 in the morning on December 16, 1944 with heavy artillery shelling. German troops followed immediately behind, and a thousand paratroopers were to land behind the enemy lines. Meanwhile, the commandos would infiltrate undetected. Ernst was part of a three man group that made it through in a Jeep; in fact they didn’t even see any enemy soldiers.

  Once they were beyond the line, they parked the vehicle in the forest, scuffled the ground to hide its tracks, and split up, so as to achieve maximum effect. Ernst was in the uniform of an MP, the Military Police. He looked for a supply depot to destroy, but was in the wrong area; all he saw were empty trucks rushing along the road in both directions. He didn’t even need to interfere with that; the Allies were already confused enough.

  By day’s end he had accomplished nothing. He returned to the Jeep and found his companions already there. One had managed to misdirect a truckload of troops, but he knew that they would soon enough correct their error, so it would count for little. The other had managed to drag fallen branches across a road so as to block it, but before he could complete the job an allied tank had arrived and bulldozed it clear.

  In the morning they drove further on, hoping for better luck. This wonderful scheme seemed rather futile in practice, because they were almost as confused as the Allies. They heard the roar of the main German advance, and knew it would soon overtake them if they didn’t get clear. That was of course pointless; they had to remain behind the enemy lines.

  They came to a stalled American truck. The driver flagged them down. “Hey buddy—gimme a lift!” he called. “I’m outa gas, and I’m freezing my nuts off out here!”

  “Sure,” Ernst said. He had warned the others about such oddities: the Americans called petrol “gas.” “Hey, corporal—get down and guard the truck for him, until he gets back.”

  Their third man nodded, and jumped down, making space on the cramped vehicle for the truck driver. Ernst knew he would take advantage of the time alone to clip wires so that the truck would be unable to run even when refilled.

  They talked with the American, and were reassured: he had no inkling of their nature. He guided them to his depot, where they picked up two big cans of gasoline and headed back. “Damn stupidest thing,” the man muttered. “I know exactly how far my tank goes, but I got distracted by this damned Heine attack and forgot. Lucky thing the Krauts didn’t get me!”

  “Lucky thing,” Ernst agreed.

  They delivered the driver to his truck. He poured in the gasoline, then started it up. The engine roared into life. “Thanks, pal!” the driver called as he pulled back onto the road. “You saved my hide!”

  Ernst turned to their third man. “I thought you were going to fix the motor.” He spoke in English, maintaining the pretense even when they were alone.

  “Too obvious. He’d know right away that I’d done it, and then we’d have to kill him, and our presence would be known. But wait until he tries the brakes!”

  “Did you fix the hand brakes too?” Ernst asked.

  “Of course.”

  “But if he puts in it gear and turns off the motor, he can stop even on a hill,” Ernst pointed out.

  “Oops, I didn’t think of that.”

  So they had probably done about as much good as harm, unless the driver panicked and went out of control. They were not turning out to be much good as saboteurs.

  They drove on. “But now we know where their depot is,” the second man said. “I can blow that tonight.”

  “Good idea,” Ernst agreed. They were learning on the job.

  They parked the Jeep again and split up. Ernst found a temporary military base, but there were too many soldiers, and they were too alert; he could not get close enough to sabotage anything. The point was to take advantage of the enemy’s innocence and neglect. He managed to pour handfuls of dirt into the gasoline tanks of several officer’s cars, so that they would in due course stall out with clogged carburetors, but he knew that was a mere nuisance, not a significant act of destruction. Finally he gave it up and returned to the Jeep for the night. He was after all a desk man; he just wasn’t good in the field.

  One of his companions joined him there; the third did not. They realized that they had lost a man. They had all been aware that this was a high-risk mission, but this confirmation was nevertheless sobering.

  On the third day, the 18th, as they drove farther ahead of the front, they were again flagged down. Ernst noticed that one man stood in the road, while two others remained at the side, rifles ready. This was no out-of-gas situation.

  “Hey, buddy—who are Dem Bums?”

  Ernst nudged his companion with his hidden foot, warning him into silence. “Listen, dogface—you got something against the Dodgers, let’s have it!”

  “Not a thing, pal. You there, sergeant—where’s the Windy City?”

  “Chica
go,” Ernst murmured without moving his mouth. “On Lake Michigan.”

  “Mister, I wish I was back there on Lake Michigan right now!” Ernst’s companion replied. “Chicago may not be much, but it’s a damn sight better than this hellhole.”

  “You got that right, trooper,” the man said. “Pass, friends.”

  But Ernst retained caution. “Now do you mind telling us why the damned interrogation? A joke’s a joke, but I don’t like being covered like that by my own side. Would you have shot me if I’d trashed Brooklyn?”

  “No. Only if you hadn’t known about it. We caught some fake soldiers, Krauts in American uniforms, sabotaging our supplies. So now we’re checking all strangers. Your uniform and rank don’t mean nothing; you gotta prove you’re American.”

  Ernst made a show of relaxing. “Oh. Gotcha. Sorry I got my back up.”

  “Get your ass on outa here.”

  “Right.” Ernst drove the Jeep on through the checkpoint.

  “How did you know they suspected us?” his companion asked.

  “I spent a year in America. Now we must be alert: it’s not enough just to answer questions; we have to do it as Americans do. Pugnacious, insulting. If you are challenged with something you don’t recognize, make a counter-challenge; that may put them off.”

  They drove on, looking for something to sabotage but still had no luck. Ernst hated the feeling of ineffectiveness but knew it would be pointless to risk exposure unless he found a target worthy of the risk. Meanwhile it was becoming evident that the German attack was faltering; there were too few troops to sustain it, and the Allied defenses were stronger than expected. The commandos’ element of surprise had been nullified, and there was nothing further to be accomplished.

  “We had better rejoin our troops,” Ernst said. “But we can’t do it in these uniforms.”

  His companion agreed. They drove east, toward the sound of gunfire, as far as they could without hitting a checkpoint. Then they pulled into the forest and quickly changed clothing, becoming Germans again. Then they split up, knowing that it would be easier to sneak through separately.

  Alone, Ernst trudged back toward the line. There no longer was an easy avenue through; the line was stabilizing as the German thrust lost momentum. But it should be possible to get through at night.

  “Halt!”

  Ernst stopped. He had been spied—and now he was in German uniform. There was an American soldier bringing a rifle to bear. Ernst could have shot him with his handgun, but didn’t try. He had never directly killed a man, and the thought of it sickened him.

  But if he surrendered, he might be spared. He might be taken as a stray from his unit.

  Slowly he raised his hands. He felt like a coward. Thus ignominiously did his career end. Just as the career of the Third Reich was ending. Götterdämmerung—the day of doom, when the good gods were slaughtered. It had come at last.

  CHAPTER 13

  KRISTA

  Lane finally had the freedom of the continent, thanks to the understanding of his superiors. He had to find his friend, if he survived, so as to find his fiancée, if she survived. There had been no word as Germany collapsed, and now in the chaos of the war’s ending there seemed to be no way to run them down through Allied or German records. He had to do it himself, his own way.

  On May tenth, 1945, he came to Wiesbaden, which was where Ernst Best’s family had been going. He would start his search here.

  The phone service was cooperative. Yes, there were Best families here, but no phone listed for Ernst. Lane took a list of their addresses, and drove to each, inquiring for Ernst Best. On the fifteenth he found recognition. “Yes, he is my nephew,” Karl Best said. “A good young man. But lost in the war.”

  “Lost?”

  “He left his woman here with my brother’s family and returned to Berlin for a dangerous mission. We have not seen him since.”

  “How long ago?” Lane asked anxiously.

  “Seven months ago.”

  “How can I search for him?”

  The man studied him with disconcerting lack of expression. Lane realized that to these people the British and Americans were still the enemy. They had to be polite, but they were not friendly. “Krista might know.”

  That must be the woman. “Where is Krista?”

  “I will take you to her.” The man seemed relieved.

  Krista was surprisingly attractive despite her worn clothing. Her hair was blond, her features fair, and her figure appealing.

  “Krista, this is Herr Dowling,” Karl Best said. “He is looking for Ernst.”

  The woman said something in German.

  Karl Best turned back to Lane. “I must translate for her,” he said, with an opaque expression.

  “Do it,” Lane agreed.

  The man spoke rapidly in German. Then Krista reacted.

  She turned her blue eyes on Lane. They seemed almost to glow with recognition. “Lane Dowling!” she exclaimed.

  “You know my name?” he asked, startled.

  She spoke again in German.

  “She says you are Ernst’s American friend, are you not?” Best translated. “He spoke of you.”

  “Yes. I must find him. Do you know where he is?”

  Again the German and translation. “I know where he worked, in Berlin. But I do not know whether he remains there. I fear he is dead.”

  “He must not be dead!” Lane exclaimed.

  She nodded when she heard with something more than agreement. “Ja, he must not be dead. But he has not returned.” The intensity of her gaze made Lane uneasy. What was in her mind?

  “Tell me where he worked.”

  “He was in the SS. There was a special mission. Perhaps one of the other officers would know.”

  “What other officers?”

  She shook her head. “They did not speak their names to me. I would know some by sight, however.”

  “Then come with me, and tell me who they are,” Lane said. Then, as Best translated his words to her. “I am Ernst’s friend. I will not hurt you.”

  “I have no money to travel,” Best translated.

  “I have money. I have a car. Just go to Berlin with me, and show me. Then I will bring you back. I promise.”

  With seeming reluctance, and something else, she agreed. “But how shall we speak to each other?” she asked through Best after a moment.

  “We don’t need to speak! But I will teach you a few words of English while we drive there.”

  She turned those great blue eyes on him again. “Ja.” Then she walked away.

  Lane watched her go. She had an interesting walk. “She’s a strange one,” he murmured.

  “We are a defeated people,” Karl Best said. “We are careful where we tread. Especially our young women. For a woman to go with a soldier—this has implications.”

  “I will bring her back unscathed,” Lane said, appreciating the implication. “I’m—I’m not after the local women. I’m looking for my friend, who I hope will know where my fiancée is. Maybe Ernst mentioned her: Quality Smith?”

  “He did.” The man seemed to be ill at ease.

  Lane’s heart leaped at this confirmation. “Do you know—did he say—is she alive?”

  “She is alive and well. I can not tell you more.”

  “That’s enough!” Lane exclaimed. “All this time I’ve been afraid she was—thank you, Mr. Best! You have given me wonderful hope.”

  “I have given you very little.”

  Lane realized that the man, perhaps mourning the loss of his nephew, was taking a negative view. If Ernst was dead, how would Lane find Quality? Yet that assurance that she was not only alive but healthy buoyed him. Ernst must have found her and gotten her to safety somewhere. Otherwise how could Ernst’s uncle have known of her? He would find her somehow.

  Krista returned with a handbag. “Thank you,” Lane said to Karl Best. Then he stepped to Krista, to take her bag. Evidently surprised by this minor gallantry, she yielded it, smi
ling. She was stunning when she smiled. They walked to his rented car.

  “Do you know the way to Berlin?” Lane asked. Then, remembering that she did not speak English: “Berlin. Where?”

  “Berlin,” she repeated. Then she pointed her finger straight ahead.

  Good enough. She knew the way. He could find it, using the map, but it would be easier with someone who had been there.

  Krista guided him to Frankfurt, and then north through the mountains to Kassell. It was getting late, and he realized that it wasn’t worth trying to reach Berlin in one haul. He would have to spend a night on the way. But he hadn’t anticipated traveling with a woman. What was he going to do with her?

  He would simply have to foot the bill for a separate room for her. If she enabled him to find Ernst, and therefore Quality, it would be worth it.

  “Must stop. Night,” he said. “Know place?”

  She turned her head to look at him. “Place?”

  “Night. Eat. Sleep. Hotel.”

  “Sleep?”

  “Two rooms! No trouble.”

  She seemed to understand. She pointed to the side, where a road diverged. He took it. Soon it led to a hotel.

  He parked the car and entered the lobby with her. “You have rooms?” he asked.

  The clerk looked blank. Then Krista spoke in German, and the clerk brightened. It turned out that he would take American dollars. Lane paid, and picked up the room key. “But there are supposed to be two rooms,” he said.

  Krista took his arm and guided him away from the desk. Apparently she had told the man one room. There was no bellhop, which was unsurprising in this chaotic time. Lane was glad to make his own way.

  It was not a perfect room, but it had the amenities, including twin beds, which was a relief. They could make do.

  They took turns using the bathroom and changing. Then they went out to eat. Krista was now in a blue dress which accented her eyes and her figure, which was really quite good. She had combed out her hair, which was like corn silk. When he stood behind her before the mirror, he realized that their eyes matched. She smiled, seeming to realize it also. It was as if they were on a date.