Stephen Hunter - Sniper's Honor

“And he hasn’t even told you about the dessert,” crooned Dr. Groedl.

“The dessert! The dessert!” went the cry through the small throng of guests, in thrall to the young Arab aristocrat.

“I suppose I shall go ahead and unveil the surprise,” said Salid. “I thank whoever was the sommelier in the Hotel Berlin here before the war, as he had one bold stroke that I think you will enjoy. Perhaps it was meant as an exhibition or something to attract a sporty European ski crowd to the Carpathians as part of Poland’s own five-year plan. The fellow managed not only to acquire a Veuve Clicquot Dry 1927—not the best, but still a fine year—he acquired it in a quantity that I think will impress you and that I guarantee will ensure this to be a memorable night for all of us lucky enough to be in attendance. Gentlemen, I give you… Balthazar.”

Balthazar was not the biggest champagne bottle, but up near the top of the list, and at the captain’s command, four husky Serbs of Police Battalion, in their own dress 13th SS Mountain uniforms and red fezzes, appeared from the shadows with the huge green bottle. It contained twelve liters of M. Veuve and M. Clicquot’s superlatively refined and delightful bubblejuice and resembled one of the mighty siege mortars that Von Manstein had used to level Sebastopol a few years earlier, in the Reich’s headier days.

“I assure you, le déluge will be to your liking,” said Salid.

“Gentlemen, to our table hoppe, hoppe, hoppe, ” said Groedl.

The food was gone. The candles had burned low. The monocles and pince-nez had fallen to the ends of their tethers. Ties were loosened or removed. Cigar smoke filled the air. Some of the more adventurous of the men had slid off into the shadows and glades of the garden with their mistresses or companions, and occasionally an orgasmic grunt would signify another German victory over the Reds. Those who remained at the table had gathered at its head, where Dr. Groedl presided benevolently. He had just finished a fascinating story of the mystery illness that had plagued his beloved dachshund, Mitzi, throughout most of 1943, and her miraculous cure at the hands of a Jewish veterinarian whom Groedl had made certain to provide with authentic Kommissariat citizenship papers so that he would not be carted off to—well, no need to specify.

It was at this moment that the question on everyone’s lips was finally broached.

“Dr. Groedl, your immensely talented protégé has been silent on his most significant victory. It is spoken of everywhere, high and low. Perhaps now, so late, among those of us who remain and are discreet by nature, he could be encouraged to tell.”

“Yes, tell us.”

“We must know. It is so fabulous.”

“I presume, gentlemen,” said Dr. Groedl, “you are not referring to his victory in the mountains, when he brought off the most successful anti-bandit operation in the history of the Kommissariat.”

“No, no, that is mere soldiers’ duty. The other one.”

“All right. Yusef, I officially unlock your lips. Tell us how you defeated Battlegroup Von Drehle and its Green Devil assassins in the campaign of the Andrewski Palace.”

The laughter was intense. All loathed and hated the parachutists for their élan, their disdainful attitude, their contempt, quite openly expressed, for the goals of the Kommissariat, and for their very cool boots and helmets, which no one but they were authorized to wear.

“I fear I disappoint you,” said Salid modestly. “Like many legendary actions, its reality was far more prosaic. As Dr. Groedl authorized, we of Police Battalion had taken over the Andrewski Palace as our quarters and base of operations. Dr. Groedl understood that we needed security, comfort, and containment to foster unit cohesiveness. We needed privacy for our prayer rituals, which sometimes create enmity among the unenlightened.

“Laborers had already removed all personal gear and storage, as well as communications equipment and ammunition, left by the Green Devils. I supervised the removal, and I was diligent. It was not done harshly or punitively, and nothing was lost or damaged. There was no cause for complaint. I could not be responsible for Army Group North Ukraine’s baffling refusal to inform Battlegroup Von Drehle of the move to new quarters, or rather, to a set of tents adjacent to shop platoon of Fourteenth Panzer’s maintenance section. That was not my responsibility! I owe no apologies for that. I cannot interfere in army business any more than I would accept the army interfering in mine.

“So there I am at 0100, going over intelligence reports, when I hear screaming and yelling at the gate. I immediately go out to investigate, and there is a phenomenal scene. These men—soldiers I could not call them, they were more like Indians or, I don’t know, scouts, cowboys, Natty Bumppos, I don’t know what, certainly not military—were demanding admittance. They all had beards and unkempt hair, and their faces were smeared with black dirt like war paint, and they were dressed in these tattered ragamuffin camouflage smocks, and they had these comical conelike helmets. Eventually I located their commanding officer, this Von Drehle—”

“That one! The race car driver! Oh, possibly he slept with an American movie actress five years ago and thinks he’s a god or something!” somebody said bitterly.

“I explained that we were fresh in from the field, and a very successful foray it had been, and Dr. Groedl himself had approved our occupation of the Andrewski Palace. It was a military necessity. Well, it came down to rank, and it turned out the fellow wasn’t even sure if he was a captain or a major! Imagine. That’s how indifferent he is to military protocol. I managed to hide my shock and keep things at an even keel and explain that while I hated to flaunt connections, so unnecessary between officers, I did have the ear of Dr. Groedl and I would not hesitate to use my connections and it would be in his interests to relent on this one. I told him I had no choice. I was obeying the will of the party, the Kommissariat, Dr. Groedl, and I could not be held responsible for quartering decisions. Then the feldgendarmerie arrived, and after a bit more yelling, the fifteen parachutists were finally led off to their new bivouac area.”

At that point, a young officer in the uniform of a Wehrmacht Hauptmann entered the room stiffly, his eyes locked unerringly straight ahead. He came to the senior group leader–SS and bent to present a message.

“Hmm, what’s this?” said Dr. Groedl as he took it. He opened it. In a few seconds, his eyes lit up, and then a smile blossomed on his blubbery little face. “Well, well, good news from the front for the first time in quite a while. It seems some of our fellows blew up a bridge somewhere, and all the Ivan tanks will be stuck on the wrong side of the river for a few days as they lash together some pontoons. Our little outpost here in Ukraine lasts just that much longer!”

The gentlemen raised their glasses.

“Long live our leader, our brave boys, and our crusade of purification,” said Dr. Groedl.

Outskirts of Kolomiya

THE PRESENT

The old curator allowed them to keep the plate. If it brought glory to a partisan and refocused attention on Bak’s brigade, he was all for it. He wrapped it in tissue, then in brown paper, taped and tied.

They shook hands and hugged, and it was all very nice, and Bob and Kathy made to leave, but the old man’s wife pulled him aside and spoke rapidly in Ukrainian. He turned back to them, his mood more somber. “Do you have enemies?” he asked in Russian.