Mark Frost - The Second Objective

Grannit walked straight at them, holding the gun at his side. As he got close, the two officers and Bennings headed for their car, parked nearby. When the engine started, Grannit raised the.45 and shot out the left front tire. The concussion cut through the night. He reached the driver’s side, smashed the window with the barrel of the Colt, reached in, and yanked the keys out of the ignition. The man behind the wheel, a captain, looked at him, red-faced and indignant, and made a feeble swipe at Grannit’s hand.

“What the hell you think you’re doing, soldier?”

Grannit grabbed the captain by the collar, pulled his head out the window, and shoved his neck against the edge of the roof, knocking off his hat. By now he had the whole unit’s attention, soldiers coming toward him with weapons drawn, others scattering. Eddie Bennings scrambled out of the backseat, staring at Grannit like he’d seen a ghost.

“Easy, Earl, buddy-” said Eddie.

Grannit jammed the Colt in the captain’s cheek and spoke right into his ear. “Name and rank.”

“Captain John Stringer.”

“Captain, tell your boys to drop everything and lie down where they’re standing, right now.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Military Police, CID.” Stringer didn’t respond, eyes wide. Grannit leaned in closer. “Criminal Investigation Division.”

“What the fuck is that?”

“Bad news for Company C.” Grannit spotted Bennings in the corner of his eye, edging away. “Get on the ground, Eddie-all you ‘million dollar’ sons of bitches!”

Grannit fired a shot in the air and two more at the nearest cargo truck, shredding a tire and blowing off the driver’s side mirror. Eddie hit the ground, and most of the others around him followed suit. A few sprinted for the woods.

He heard MP whistles trill in the distance, and heavy footsteps, twenty men running toward them on cinders. Ole and their backup.

“Can’t we work something out here?” asked Stringer.

“Sure,” said Grannit. “How about twenty years?”

Elsenborn, Belgium

DECEMBER 14, 9:30 P.M.

Betty Grable,” said Erich Von Leinsdorf.

The young MP manning the heavily fortified checkpoint just outside the village gave a cursory glance at the three men in the jeep.

“Can I see your trip ticket, sir?” he asked.

“Of course.”

Von Leinsdorf tapped Bernie Oster on the shoulder. He handed over a flawless forgery of an American military road pass, detailing their itinerary from Luxembourg City to Vielsalm. A smudged thumbprint obscured the ink around the day, date, and authorizing stamp.

The MP held it under his flashlight, trying to make it out. “You’re from Twelfth Army HQ?”

“That’s right,” said Bernie.

“I don’t mean to be an asshole, but we’re running an errand for old man Bradley,” said Von Leinsdorf. “It’s time sensitive.”

“Go on through,” said the MP, handing back the pass.

“Have a good night,” said Von Leinsdorf.

Bernie dropped the jeep into gear and drove past a sandbag installation protecting an unmanned.50-caliber machine gun and an M-10 tank destroyer. The one-lane village crawled with rowdy GIs, more than a few of them drunk. The snow had turned to slush, and Bernie slowed behind two men weaving down the middle of the road, dragging a freshly cut fir behind them toward a brightly lit tavern in the center of the town, soldiers crowding the door.

“Can we stop to eat?” asked Preuss.

“You can’t honestly be that stupid, can you?” said Von Leinsdorf. “Put some distance between us and that checkpoint.”

Bernie slammed on the brakes as another GI wandered right in front of the jeep. He carried an open wine bottle and banged on the hood as they jerked to a halt a few feet away.

“Hey, watch it!” the man said.

Bernie waved apologetically. The soldier staggered around the jeep and hung on the passenger side, leaning in to talk to Preuss.

“You hear the latest fuckin’ morale booster?” the American asked, “Frankie Frisch, Mel Ott, buncha hotshot ballplayers and some tootsie from the movies, what’s her name, that Kraut broad-”

“Marlene Dietrich,” said Von Leinsdorf.

“That’s the one. Driving all around, visiting wounded and shit-”

Bernie leaned across the front seat, trying to get the drunk to focus on him instead of Preuss. “Mel Ott, how about that? We gotta get a move on now, buddy-”

The drunk leaned in closer toward Preuss, who had a witless smile frozen on his face. Bernie caught a glimpse of Von Leinsdorf drawing his pistol and holding it against the back of Preuss’s seat. Ready to shoot if he gave them away.

“But y’know what that means, don’t you?” said the drunk. “Letting big shots so close to the line? Means the fuckin’ Krauts are done. Kaput.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said Bernie.

“Any luck the turkey shoot’s over by Christmas and we’re on a gut bucket home. Cheers, buddy.”

The drunk offered his bottle to Preuss. Preuss stared at him blankly. Von Leinsdorf leaned forward and grabbed the bottle.

“To Christmas in Connecticut,” he said, and took a hearty swig.

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant,” said the drunk, trying to straighten as he realized he was talking to an officer. “Didn’t see you there.”

Von Leinsdorf handed back the bottle. The drunk saluted him, and nearly fell on his ass. Von Leinsdorf watched the drunk stagger away, then looked at the boisterous soldiers stacked outside the noisy tavern, most with open bottles in hand.

“There’s your civilian American Army, Brooklyn,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Stinking drunk, in uniform, within sight of the front. Bloody amateurs.”

The two soldiers finally dragged the fir tree off the road, pausing to toast the three men in the jeep with their bottle.

“Merry Christmas, assholes!” they said.

“Bottoms up, fuckers,” said Von Leinsdorf quietly.

“Up your bottoms!” Preuss said to them, half-standing in his seat.

Von Leinsdorf shoved Preuss back in his seat. “I ought to just shoot you right now.”

Bernie looked over at Gunther Preuss, his face like putty, panting for breath, mopping the sweat off his forehead in twenty-degree weather. Von Leinsdorf gave Bernie an exasperated glance and Bernie knew they were thinking the same thing: This shithead’s going to get us killed.

“Hey, you picked him,” said Bernie.

“In camp, the model soldier. In the field: a nitwit.” Von Leinsdorf cuffed the back of Preuss’s head and slid down into his seat. “Get us the hell out of here.”

Five miles down the road they crossed the Warche River and entered Butgenbach. For the first time since they’d crossed the Allied lines, their wheels hit two-lane pavement. This town, much larger than Elsenborn, was all buttoned up, not a soul on the streets. A heavy fog crept in, enshrouding the empty streets. A few dim lights glowed through it from the row of tidy businesses they passed.

“These signs are in German,” said Bernie.

“This is Germany,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Over eight hundred square miles. Don’t you know your history?”

“It’s not my neighborhood,” said Bernie.

“This was never part of Belgium; they just gave it to them. Versailles, 1920. Reparations, that was the polite word. A proud moment for the West, putting the Hun in his place. They carved up the German empire like birthday cake. Here. The Saar to France, the Polish corridor, the Southern Tyrol. Crippled our economy and punished a race of innocent people for the crimes of a corrupt monarchy. The Allies’ idea of fair play.” He gauged Bernie’s reaction. “Wasn’t this in your American schoolbooks, Brooklyn?”