The Second Objective

  Karl Schmidt’s squad failed to respond, but Von Leinsdorf considered that a plus; the man was a weak-kneed intellectual and chronic complainer. They were better off without him. He would have been no help at all where they were going.

  17

  The Bridge at Amay

  DECEMBER 17, 7:00 P.M.

  Grannit and Carlson secured their four prisoners and sat them down behind the sandbag emplacement while the bridge detail stood watch. Carlson radioed headquarters about the arrests. Grannit searched their jeep. After assembling the evidence he found in an empty ammunition tin, he walked back to the prisoners.

  “You’re in charge, right?” he asked their captain.

  The man nodded.

  “Take a walk with me,” said Grannit, gesturing toward the bridge.

  The German stood up and started ahead of him. Ole Carlson hurried out of the radio tent as they neared the bridge.

  “Command says bring ’em in to First Army Interrogation,” said Carlson, falling into step with them. “They want Army Counterintelligence in on it, we should get ’em there ASAP—”

  “I won’t be long,” said Grannit.

  “They said they don’t want to wait, Earl—”

  “Give me a few minutes. And stand by for that other thing we talked about.”

  Carlson gave the German next to Grannit a long look. “Whatever you say.”

  Ole pulled his sidearm and walked back toward the other prisoners. Grannit waved the German on ahead of him. The man looked back at Carlson, concerned. Grannit shoved him forward and told him not to turn around. By the time they reached the middle of the bridge, it was nearly pitch black.

  “Stop here,” said Grannit.

  Grannit set the ammo box down on the ground between them, turned on a flashlight, and pointed it at the German. He had a long, intelligent face, and was trying at the moment to put up a hardened front.

  “Let’s get one thing straight. There’s enough in that jeep to hang you five times. Unless you think you’re going to pass these off as souvenirs.” He held up a pair of red armbands with swastikas. “I ask questions and you answer them, got that? What’s your name?”

  “Karl Heinz Schmidt.”

  “What’s your rank?”

  “Oberstürmführer. Lieutenant.”

  Grannit held up the dog tags he’d taken earlier from the man’s neck. “Who’s Captain Ted Harlan?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you wearing his tags?”

  “They were given to me. I assume he must be an American prisoner of war.”

  “What unit are you with?”

  “The 150th Panzer Brigade.”

  “Who’s your commanding officer?”

  Schmidt hesitated. “Colonel Otto Skorzeny.”

  Grannit recognized the name from military briefings, but showed no reaction.

  “So what brings you to Belgium, Karl?” asked Grannit. “Sightseeing? Little vacation?”

  “Could I have a cigarette, please?”

  Grannit handed him a pack. Schmidt’s hands were shaking as he tried to light a match.

  “My understanding under the accords of the Geneva Convention, to which both of our countries are a party, is that I am required to give you only the information you’ve already requested. Nothing more.”

  Schmidt tried to meet his eye with resolve. Grannit took a step closer to him.

  “Here’s the truth: I don’t know shit about military procedure. I’m with a special investigative division and we do things differently, so let me put it on a plate for you: You got pinched behind our lines wearing an American uniform. The book says that makes you a spy and all bets are off. They teach you what that phrase means, Lieutenant Schmidt, all bets are off?”

  Schmidt shook his head. Grannit took another step forward until they were nose to nose.

  “It means I don’t give a fuck. So you tell me what I want to know or I’m going to hurt you. I’ll start with an easy question. How many other men are in your squad? How many were with you in that jeep?”

  Schmidt appeared confused. “Three.”

  Grannit waved the flashlight back toward the edge of the bridge, switching it off and on. A moment later, a single shot rang out, followed by a scream, then another shot. Grannit turned back to Schmidt.

  “I think it’s two now,” said Grannit.

  Schmidt’s knees buckled slightly. He backed up a step and went pale.

  “You want a heads-up on your next few days? Military Intelligence questions you, you go before a court-martial and then a firing squad, and the court-martial’s a formality.”

  Schmidt took another step and staggered when he felt the wall of the bridge behind him.

  “Nobody on this side’s going to defend you or care what happens to you, and nobody on your side’s ever going to hear about it. The one chance you’ve got is to cooperate and tell us everything you know. If you don’t come clean, I’ll save everybody the trouble and drop your ass off this bridge right now.”

  Schmidt went down onto his haunches, head lowered, breathing in jagged bursts.

  “You don’t strike me as a stupid man,” said Grannit. “I don’t want to lean on you if I don’t have to. You’re not a soldier, are you, Schmidt?”

  Schmidt shook his head. Grannit knelt down next to him and lowered his voice, radiating sympathy.

  “I didn’t think so. You have a family?”

  “Yes,” said Schmidt. “A wife. Two boys. Twins. They’re not even ten years old.”

  Grannit took out a notebook and pen and waited. “That’s who you should be thinking about now. I can’t make any promises but this: I’ll do what I can for you.”

  Schmidt rubbed his eyes, struggling to compose himself. “We were part of a special brigade. Those of us who came over in American uniform. Our company was going to assemble here.”

  “To capture the bridge?”

  “And two others, nearby, by to night.”

  “So where’s the rest of your brigade?”

  “I don’t know. We were sent ahead to scout. When the others came, we were to secure the bridges for the main offensive. We had tanks. Some captured American. Panzers and Panthers disguised to look like Shermans. We have also motorized artillery, antitank guns, three mortar platoons, an armored reconnaissance group, a full supply column—”

  Grannit could hardly write fast enough to keep up. “How many men are we talking about?”

  “I would estimate two thousand? There was supposed to be a paratroop drop also, regular Wehrmacht, to support us against the bridges. The main columns were supposed to reach this position within a day. By to night.”

  “The main objective being Antwerp.”

  Schmidt looked at him, mildly surprised. “That’s right. If all went according to plan, they said it would fall within a week.” He continued as Grannit kept writing.

  “I want you to know I had no choice in this. I am not in the Nazi Party; I didn’t even enlist. I despise what has happened to my country. It’s only that I spoke your language, you see? I worked as a translator before the war, at a Berlin publishing house; I studied English in college. There were threats to my wife and children; they made me work as an intelligence officer, reading newspapers, interpreting reports; I’ve never been near the front line—”

  “I’ll be sure to note that,” said Grannit. “So how many men in your company came over the line? How many were in the jeeps?”

  “The commando unit? I don’t know, maybe eighty men?”

  “All in four-man teams.”

  “Yes, that was how they organized us.”

  “About twenty teams altogether?”

  “That sounds right.”

  “Did you all have the same objective?”

  “As far as the bridges were concerned? Yes, but different responsibilities. Some for reconnaissance, some trained for sabotage, others demolition.”

  “There??
?s another team I’m looking for.” Grannit described the two soldiers he’d tracked to the hospital and chased in the jeep. “I need to find the lieutenant in charge of that squad. You have any idea who I’m talking about?”

  Schmidt’s look hardened. “Yes, I do. I think I know exactly who that man is.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I never knew his German name. He is using the American name Miller, Lieutenant George Miller.”

  “What else can you tell me about him?”

  “He is SS. I think he came from Dachau.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “The SS training center. Near Munich.”

  Grannit wrote down the name, put his notebook in his pocket, and pulled the man to his feet.

  “We can talk more while we’re driving in,” said Grannit. “You did all right, Schmidt. You did the right thing.”

  “What choice do I have? What choice have I had from the beginning?”

  Grannit didn’t answer. As they neared the bridgehead, he waved his flashlight. By the time they reached the emplacement, Carlson was waiting behind the wheel of a small transport with the engine running. Guarded by two soldiers from the bridge, the other three Germans sat in the open payload. None of them had been wounded or harmed in any way. Schmidt looked at Grannit, who couldn’t tell if he was angry or relieved.

  “You think I’d shoot a prisoner of war?” asked Grannit. “Where the hell you think you are, Russia? Get in.”

  He pointed Schmidt into the back of the captured jeep. Grannit took the sergeant in charge of the bridge platoon aside and relayed what Schmidt had told him about the impending attack.

  “Radio your unit, tell them to get you reinforced fast. Maybe they’re coming in force, maybe they’re not, but you’ve got to hold this bridge.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Grannit climbed into the jeep beside Schmidt. One of the bridge platoon GIs jumped in to drive, and both vehicles headed north along the river road.

  “They really thought you could pull this thing off,” said Grannit, after a while.

  “They hoped,” said Schmidt.

  “But you didn’t.”

  Schmidt shrugged. “Hope is all they have left.” He watched the river for a moment, a plaintive look on his face. “Is it up to you? Whether I live or die?”

  “I’ll have something to say about it,” said Grannit.

  “But is it your decision to make?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Our brigade was to capture that bridge,” he said, studying Grannit’s reaction. “We were also given a second objective.”

  Grannit waited. “Why don’t you tell me what it was.”

  Schmidt watched him closely. “I’ll wait. To speak to your superiors.”

  “Why not tell me now?”

  “You made the choice to spare my life, and I appreciate that. But I need to speak about this with someone who can offer me a more substantial guarantee.”

  18

  Waimes

  DECEMBER 17, 10:00 P.M.

  Before they left, Erich Von Leinsdorf poured out the kerosene from every lamp in the house and set Frau Escher’s butcher shop on fire. By the time they drove away, Oberstürmbannführer Peiper’s main panzer column had advanced through to the west; the village was deserted. Fog curled in, and more snow began to fall as they picked their way south and west. Von Leinsdorf studied a road map with a flashlight.

  “I made coffee,” he said, holding up a thermos. “Drink a lot of it.”

  Von Leinsdorf poured him a cup, and Bernie choked downed the strong brew as he drove, blasting his senses awake. Von Leinsdorf handed him a new helmet.

  “What’s this for?” he asked.

  “Some Americans have had a look at us. We’re changing units.”

  “Fuck, I was just getting used to Jimmy Tenella.”

  “You don’t have to change the name, just give me your helmet.”

  Bernie did, and Von Leinsdorf tossed it out of the jeep.

  “We’re with the 291st Combat Engineers now. Our CO sent us south with dispatches just before they pulled back from Malmédy.” He held up a leather U.S. Army document tube.

  “I’m supposed to remember all this?”

  “You’d better, old boy, or we’re fairly fucked.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Bernie.

  “You drive, I’ll get us there. The good news is we can take back roads the entire way. Left here.”

  Von Leinsdorf switched on the flashlight over the map again. Bernie glanced over and realized that at some point Von Leinsdorf had changed the color of his blond brush cut to a dirty brown.

  “What’d you do to your hair?”

  “Another of Frau Escher’s secrets. Hair dye in the bathroom.”

  Von Leinsdorf put on a pair of square, black-framed glasses, which drastically altered his appearance, making him look years older.

  “Where did you get all this stuff?”

  “Downstairs.”

  Bernie fumbled off his helmet. “Jesus, this is from one of those stiffs in the basement?”

  “The ones they gave us at Grafenwöhr were stamped with the wrong mark inside the shell, see here?” He showed him a factory insignia inside the rim of the new helmet. “It’s a different stamp for officers and noncoms. Ours looked the same. I’d put that back on if I were you; there may be snipers out here.”

  Bernie uneasily set the helmet back on his head.

  “I take it you lost your rifle, too,” said Von Leinsdorf. “There’s another M1 in the back. What do you think of this?”

  He held a vicious-looking hunting knife into the light.

  “The woman had it strapped to her thigh.”

  Bernie made a face. “You searched her thighs?”

  “Be thankful she didn’t use it on you,” said Von Leinsdorf. “If anyone stops us or we hit a checkpoint, show them this.” He handed Bernie another road pass. “If they ask you anything else, you defer to me.”

  “So what do you need me for?”

  “In case they ask us some bullshit trick question about baseball or who’s fucking Minnie Mouse. Then jump in with all deliberate speed. You are up to that, aren’t you, Brooklyn?”

  Bernie swallowed his frustration and kept driving; anxiety gnawed at him, his hands clutched the wheel. They reached the Ambleve River near midnight, crossing an ancient stone bridge pockmarked with bullets. The highway south took them into a shadowy forest. Ancient hardwoods crowded the road, their branches intertwining overhead to create a fog-enshrouded canopy. The stripped trees took on an unearthly silver glow, like twisted knots of human limbs in the mist. Visibility narrowed to a few yards.

  Bernie had to brake suddenly to avoid slamming into a burned-out troop transport. A shell had hit the gas tank flush and the wheels had melted right onto the road. The charred corpses inside were impossible to identify as either German or American. They slowly drove around it and edged forward. Bernie thought he saw a line of men sprint across the road in front of them and disappear into the woods, but he couldn’t tell what uniforms they were wearing. Von Leinsdorf crouched in the passenger seat and raised his rifle. A volley of bullets whistled by them out of the fog from that direction and shattered the rearview mirror. Von Leinsdorf returned fire, emptying his clip. Bernie stepped on the gas, taking a chance that nothing else lay hidden ahead of them in the dense air.

  At three in the morning they emerged onto a high rocky plain, and Von Leinsdorf directed Bernie to follow signs toward Bastogne. Artillery boomed in the distance and drew closer as they approached. They cleared a checkpoint outside the village and entered an entrenched stronghold in the middle of town. MPs directed them to central command for VIII Corps, and they parked around the corner. Rifle companies were digging in all around, fortifying positions for mortars and machine guns. Bernie changed field jackets, putting on one that bore the insignia of the 291st Engineers.

  “Stay next to me,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Don’t
talk to anybody.”

  Holding up the document tube, Von Leinsdorf showed their new, corrected SHAEF security passes at the door, and they were sent toward the signal office. The command center, hastily thrown together in the middle of an old cathedral, hummed with frantic energy, officers shouting over one another. Housed in one of the chapels off the main nave, a battery of radio, telex, and telegraph operators relayed updated messages. Von Leinsdorf stood near the back and observed for a minute, getting a grasp of the command structure.

  “Keep your head down,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Look busy.”

  Bernie took out a pad and began to write. His hands could barely hold the pen. A signal corps sergeant barked at them as he walked past, gesturing at the document tube.

  “You got something for us, Lieutenant?” he said.

  “Already handed ’em off,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Waiting on dispatches for the Twelfth.”

  “Don’t wait too long,” said the sergeant. “You might not get back out.”

  Listening to the chatter, Bernie learned that German forces were advancing rapidly to the north and south of Bastogne. The mood in the room ran just short of panic that they were about to be overrun; Bernie felt it fire his overwrought nerves. Von Leinsdorf studied the radio operators. He picked out a small corporal who looked close to exhaustion, then moved toward him the next time he came off a call, holding up the document tube. He had to shout to be heard over the din in the room.

  “God damn it, they told us General Bradley would be here,” said Von Leinsdorf. “I’ve got to get these into his hands.”

  “Bradley? He was supposed to be here an hour ago, but we lost the main road between here and Luxembourg.”

  “Christ, you’re telling me he’s not coming?”

  “They might try to fly him in later, or get him back down to France. Ike wants both him and Patton for a pow-wow—”

  “Where the hell’s that going to be?”

  “Maybe Verdun, maybe in Paris, they haven’t said yet.”

  “Well, when the fuck is it scheduled?”