The Second Objective

  “You got a wife, Earl?”

  “What do you want to know for?”

  “I don’t know, I just never asked you.”

  “I had one,” said Grannit.

  Carlson waited. “That’s it?”

  “Yup.”

  “What did your dad do?”

  “He owned a gas station,” said Grannit.

  “Any brothers or sisters?”

  “What is this, the third degree?”

  “I’m just making conversation.”

  “I had a sister.” Grannit spotted something out the window. “You got your binoculars with you?”

  Carlson handed them over. Grannit focused them on an American jeep at a gas pump in the supply depot a quarter of a mile away. Two MPs stood near the jeep, one of them dispensing gas into the tank. From this distance and angle he couldn’t make out any unit numbers on the jeep.

  “Go ask at the post if a couple of MPs came across in the last hour.”

  “You got it.”

  Carlson immediately went next door to the border command office.

  Grannit watched the MPs at the gas pump. He scanned the vehicle, looking for details that reminded him of Schmidt’s jeep. Nothing jumped out. Carlson returned a few moments later.

  “They came through about twenty minutes ago,” said Carlson. “They had the password and SHAEF passes—”

  “Did they check the spelling?”

  “He said they had that detail from our bulletin, and that ‘headquarters’ was spelled correctly. They said they were from SHAEF, working security on the Skorzeny case.”

  “So they knew about it, mentioned it before they were asked.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  Grannit saw a third MP returning to join the others at the jeep in the yard. “Anyway, there’s three of them.”

  “You thought it might be our guys?”

  “No, Ole, I thought it was Eleanor Roosevelt,” said Grannit, lowering the glasses.

  “You would’ve noticed her teeth,” said Carlson. “Even at this distance.”

  Something caught Grannit’s eye just as the binoculars came down, and he drew them back up. A fourth MP came out of a side building and climbed into the jeep.

  “Hang on, shit, there’s four of them.”

  “But their passes were good.”

  “Hold ’em up at the gate, we’ll check ourselves. Go now.”

  Carlson hurried back to the post. Grannit hustled out the back of the mess hall into the yard and saw the jeep pull away from the gas pumps. It headed for the nearest exit, an open gate in a chain-link fence a hundred yards away. Heading after them, Grannit broke into a trot.

  “Hurry up, Ole,” he said.

  As the jeep approached the gate, Grannit saw an MP in the guard house pick up a phone. He stepped outside and rolled the gate shut as the jeep got close. The MP leaned over to say something to the men inside.

  The jeep slammed into reverse, spun around, and headed back across the yard toward another exit, quickly reaching top speed. The MP ran after it. Grannit pulled his pistol.

  “Hey! Hey!”

  The jeep careened straight at Grannit. He lowered the pistol, and emptied the clip. Shots cracked the windscreen and side mirror, but the jeep steered away from him. Ole and MPs from the border post ran out of the main building with guns drawn and angled toward the gate across the yard. A machine gun on top of the post opened up, chasing the jeep with bullets across the yard but not connecting.

  With no time to close the rolling gate at the far exit, two guards threw down a line of necklace mines across the opening. The jeep accelerated as it reached the open gate and hit the mines at fifty miles an hour. The mines detonated, blowing off the front tires. The full, oversized gas tank ignited in a fireball, flipping the jeep into the air. It landed upside down, enveloped in flames.

  All four men aboard, including their squad leader SS Unterstürmführer Gerhard Bremer, died instantly.

  23

  Pont-Colin, Belgium

  DECEMBER 19, 6:00 A.M.

  Bernie Oster and Erich Von Leinsdorf spent the night huddled in their jeep, side flaps and canvas roof raised, wrapped in blankets. Bernie was still too cold to sleep. They had driven west from Bastogne until after dark, sticking to back roads; eighteen hours to cover fifty miles, across empty fields, through abandoned or devastated villages. Twice they pulled into heavy woods to avoid American reinforcements entering from France. Using binoculars, Bernie spotted the screaming eagle insignia of the 101st Airborne on their sleeves.

  Snow fell steadily through the night, wrapping the forest in silence. For the first time since the offensive began, they’d left the frenzy of battle behind. At first light they rolled down to a heavily wooded ridge overlooking a minor border post that Von Leinsdorf had selected on the map. Through binoculars he spotted two French soldiers manning a kiosk and guard gate spanning the dirt road. No traffic moved in either direction.

  Von Leinsdorf fished around in his knapsack for traveling papers.

  “I’ll do the talking,” he said.

  Bernie honked the horn and flashed headlights as they drove up to the gate, alerting a middle-aged French soldier, who stepped out to meet them. Von Leinsdorf waved the transit papers at the man as he emerged, and spoke in rapid-fire French. When the soldier asked for a password, Von Leinsdorf lit into him. Bernie didn’t understand a word, but it was clear that hearing fluent French from an angry American officer unnerved the man.

  Von Leinsdorf held up his dispatch case. “Je porte les expéditions importantes pour le chef du personnel Américain.”

  Von Leinsdorf jumped out of the jeep, red in the face, using names that Bernie didn’t need translation to understand. Cringing and apologetic, the Frenchman indicated he needed to show their papers to his superior inside.

  “Wait here,” Von Leinsdorf said to Bernie.

  The sentry led him to their barracks, a squat concrete block house twenty yards behind the kiosk. The Frenchman continued to apologize, backpedaling, tripping over his own feet. Von Leinsdorf waved at him to keep walking and followed, reaching for something on his belt.

  Bernie lit a cigarette and waited until the two men entered the block house, then climbed out of the jeep and hurried to the kiosk. He looked around for paper and pen, scribbled a note in English, until he saw the door of the block house open.

  Von Leinsdorf walked out, carrying a basket and a bottle of wine. He saw Bernie in the kiosk, studying a sheet of paper next to the window.

  “What are you doing in there?”

  “Take a look. They changed passwords overnight,” said Bernie.

  Von Leinsdorf scanned it, a telex from American command.

  “Who’s ‘Dizzy Dean’?”

  “He’s a pitcher, for the St. Louis Cardinals.”

  “Well done, Brooklyn. You finally made a contribution.”

  Von Leinsdorf headed for the jeep. As he followed, Bernie noticed a body lying in the doorway of the block house.

  “At least the fucking Frogs know how to eat,” said Von Leinsdorf, handing him the basket. “Let’s get moving.”

  Bernie pointed to his cheek as Von Leinsdorf climbed back in beside him.

  “What?” said Von Leinsdorf, then wiped his cheek. A spot of blood came off on his hand. “Did I get it?”

  Bernie nodded, and started the jeep as Von Leinsdorf took the basket and rummaged through it.

  “Not exactly Christmas dinner, but it’ll do. Fruit and cheese, a baguette. Guess they already ate the foie gras,” said Von Leinsdorf. “First time in France, Brooklyn?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Beautiful country,” said Von Leinsdorf, biting into an apple. “Dreadful people.”

  A phone began to ring inside the kiosk as they drove away.

  The Border Crossing at Givet

  DECEMBER 19, 6:00 A.M.

  The burned hulk of the MPs’ jeep didn’t cool enough to be searched until halfway through the night. Searchlights
were brought out illuminating the yard. Concern persisted that they’d killed four MPs until, near dawn, Earl Grannit turned up some burned German uniforms in a gas canister, and some of the same customized weapons they’d found in Karl Schmidt’s jeep. Ole Carlson called Grannit over to look at a still-smoldering scrap of paper he had picked from the debris.

  “One of their SHAEF passes,” said Carlson.

  The top had burned away, obliterating the word “headquarters.”

  “The guard who cleared them said it was spelled right,” he said, troubled.

  “Maybe he got it wrong,” said Grannit. “You did for a while, and you were staring at it.”

  “I don’t know. Something about it’s bugging me.”

  Grannit asked the captain in charge to make sure every other border post had up-to-date intel about the two men they were looking for. The captain showed Grannit a large map of the French-Belgian border on his office wall.

  “There’s six crossings between here and the west edge of Luxembourg,” said the captain. “Unless they cross on foot.”

  “They’ll go through a checkpoint,” said Grannit, studying the map. “They’re not going to give up their jeep. We hauled ass getting here; they can’t be that far ahead of us.”

  “Our reinforcements are moving into Belgium along these roads,” said the captain. “They’ll probably stay in this corridor. That leaves four crossings.”

  “You have MPs at all these posts?” asked Grannit.

  “They were supposed to be there by this morning. We may not have reached all of ’em yet.”

  One of the MPs working the phones came back to confirm that three crossings had received the bulletin, and that MPs had arrived during the night. No other German teams had been stopped. The second MP was still on the phone.

  “What’s going on, son?” Grannit asked him.

  “I can’t get through to Pont-Colin,” he said.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Small post, twenty miles south,” said the captain. “Used mostly by local traffic. Under French control.”

  “Get me a map. Ole, bring your breakfast.”

  The weather improved as Bernie drove out of the hills and made the last crossing over the Meuse as it twisted south through the high plains of northern France. Traffic on the highway from Reims was a solid flow of American military, all headed north, toward Belgium.

  “What did you want to be when the war’s over, Brooklyn?”

  “Alive.”

  “Aside from that,” said Von Leinsdorf.

  Bernie glanced over. With a full belly and an open road ahead, the mercurial German had drifted into an unguarded mood, the ugly threats he’d made forgotten. He angled back in his seat, one foot on the dash, hands behind his head, looking up at the overcast sky. Bernie decided to keep him talking.

  “I was supposed to go to college,” said Bernie. “To figure that out.”

  “Where?”

  “I was thinking NYU. New York University. Maybe study engineering, something like that.”

  “Yes, it would have suited you. Jolly good wheeze, campus life. I would have gone on to university in England, Cambridge, King’s College. That was the plan anyway.”

  “Thought you’d always been in the army,” said Bernie.

  “Before the war? No. Politics, diplomacy, that’s where I was headed. Peace between nations. Serving the greater good. That was my father’s influence.”

  Bernie saw a shade of feeling flicker across his face.

  “Where is he now?” asked Bernie.

  “He died. Just after he retired.”

  “What was he like?”

  “A decent man. His talent fell short of his ambition. He needed work to have a reason to live.” Von Leinsdorf lit a cigarette, eager to shift the subject. “Is your father alive?”

  “There’s been heavy bombing in Frankfurt. I haven’t heard from them.”

  “Terrible thing to lose your father.”

  Von Leinsdorf sounded genuine, as if he still possessed some trace of humanity.

  “We were both taken from the life we were supposed to live, Brooklyn. Men our age should have more agreeable things on their minds. We should be out on the town, driving around with a couple of pretty girls.”

  Bernie looked at him. “Which town?”

  “Paris isn’t a bad place to start. Ever been?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe once we finish there, we’ll cruise down the Rivoli, pick up a couple of those fresh young things in their summer dresses. Champagne dinner at the Hotel Meurice, dancing, a midnight show in Pigalle. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds pretty good.”

  So we’re going to Paris. After Reims. That’s our destination. Now all I need is the target.

  Von Leinsdorf glanced up again. “Looks like it might rain.”

  “How many squads are working on this with us?” asked Bernie casually.

  “Five altogether.” He pointed at a road sign as they approached an intersection. “Take a right here.”

  The sign pointing to the right read “REIMS 60 KM.”

  Snow stopped falling as Grannit and Carlson parked a quarter mile shy of the post at Pont-Colin, on the French side of the border. Leaving the main highway three miles down, they hadn’t passed a single vehicle as they drove up a series of mountainous switchbacks.

  They advanced the rest of the way to the crossing on foot, weapons drawn. Grannit eased up to the window of the block house barracks and saw the bodies of two French soldiers on the floor. He signaled Ole to check the kiosk, then went to work examining the scene.

  The men’s throats had been brutally and efficiently slashed; neither had put up a fight. They’d been cut with a heavy serrated blade, like a hunting knife. Grannit found a footprint in a pool of blood.

  A GI combat boot.

  “They were here less than an hour ago,” he said as he came back out.

  “Only one set of wheels came through that gate,” said Carlson, pointing out tracks in the snow. “They parked here. Looks like a Willys.”

  “Two sets of footprints to the block house, only one coming out. The other guy went in there.”

  Grannit followed a second set of footsteps to the kiosk. Grannit scanned the small room. Carlson stood back and watched.

  “There’s something going on with these two,” said Grannit. “One does the killing. The other guy waited in the jeep outside the hospital. Same thing here. Same pattern.”

  Grannit’s eye settled on a bulletin about Skorzeny’s brigade tacked to the wall beside the guard window. He pulled out the thumbtack and saw two holes in the paper.

  “They had the alert in plain sight,” said Carlson. “Why didn’t they stop ’em?”

  “They probably couldn’t read English,” said Grannit. “Look at this.”

  He showed the back of the flyer to Carlson. The words “REIMS” and “MOVIE HOUSE” had been hastily scrawled.

  “Schmidt said something about meeting at a theater in Reims,” said Carlson.

  “The second guy wrote this.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Get command on the radio. Somebody else has to clean this up.”

  They ran back to their jeep and Grannit took the wheel. Carlson cranked up the high-frequency shortwave, but all he got was static.

  “God damned hills,” said Carlson.

  “Ole, I don’t think I ever heard you swear before.”

  Carlson’s cheeks flushed with color. “These guys really make me mad.”

  “Keep trying,” said Grannit as they drove off. “We know where they’re going and they weren’t here that long ago. We need roadblocks every ten miles between Charleville and Reims.”

  24

  Verdun, France

  DECEMBER 19, 11:00 A.M.

  In the middle of the night, General Eisenhower woke to the sound of gunfire just outside his window. His adjutant hurried out of their new quarters at the Trianon Palace in his pajamas and found
Eisenhower’s chief of staff, Walter Bedell Smith, running around with his carbine. Smith and four other soldiers emptied their rifles into a hedge where one of the MPs on duty said he had heard an intruder. No German assassins turned up, but at first light they found the bullet-riddled body of a stray cat. Eisenhower called the members of his enlarged bodyguard detail together and chewed them out, told them to calm their asses down and keep their fingers off the trigger. They weren’t helping the war effort by denying him a good night’s sleep. Six hours later, at their home in Fort Benning, Georgia, his wife, Mamie, received a telephone call from a reporter asking if she’d like to comment on the news that her husband had been shot. She spent the rest of the day on the phone frantically trying to track down the false report.

  Eisenhower’s motorcade left for Verdun early that morning, under heavily armed escort. General Patton was waiting when Eisenhower’s motorcade arrived at eleven. Delayed on the road by checkpoints installed to catch the assassins, General Bradley drove in minutes later. They met in a spartan stone room, heated by an old potbelly stove, part of an ancient French barracks overlooking the blood-drenched World War One battlefield. British Field Marshal Montgomery, held up by the MPs near Malmédy, sent a junior officer in his place. The overnight news that greeted them from the Ardennes painted an increasingly bleak picture of the battle. A dozen more towns had fallen under the pounding assault and thousands of American troops had surrendered. Eisenhower sensed the heavy spirits in the room.

  “Gentlemen, there will be only cheerful faces at this table,” he told them. “From this moment forward, our situation is to be viewed as an opportunity for us, not a disaster.”

  “Hell, let the sons of bitches drive all the way to Paris,” said Patton. “Then we’ll really chew ’em up and spit ’em out.”

  Laughter broke the tension. Over a large map set on the table, Eisenhower laid out the objectives of the German offensive. Under no circumstances could their tanks be allowed to threaten Antwerp. The Meuse was their last line of defense. He asked his generals for ideas, pointing out that because of bad weather they would have to succeed without offensive air support or reconnaissance. Only Patton offered a detailed response. He put three completely different approaches on the table, anticipating every contingency Eisenhower had to consider. The two men had known each other for thirty years, and had long recognized their complementary talents as strategic commander and battlefield tactician. Patton had always hoped they would have a war to fight together so he could play Stonewall Jackson to Eisenhower’s Robert E. Lee, and this was that moment. His command of the battle’s evolving dynamics and his vision of how to blunt the German advantage stunned everyone in the room.