Mark Frost - The Second Objective

Von Leinsdorf’s squad spent the night on the floor in the parlor of Frau Escher’s apartment over her butcher shop in Waimes. Bernie Oster drifted between sleep and consciousness, disturbed by a persistent vision of their fleshy hostess storming into the room with her meat cleaver while they slept. Every time a floorboard groaned, a blast of adrenaline went off in his gut like a firecracker. By five A.M. Bernie couldn’t lie still any longer and went downstairs to piss.

The woman was already working at the bench in the shop’s back room. He could see her distorted shadow splashed against the far wall and heard the rough rasp of a bone cutter. He stepped quietly outside into the frigid morning air, his feet crunching on a crust of muddy frost. Their jeep sat just around the corner. The International Highway stretched out in front of him. The impulse to bolt hit him so hard he couldn’t catch his breath.

But which way should he run? Back toward the German line, into the teeth of the offensive that was about to be unleashed? Not as long as Erich Von Leinsdorf had access to a radio; they’d shoot him as a deserter, or take him for a GI and kill him on sight. Maybe if he lay low for a day and changed into civilian clothes, he could slip across once the attack began. But the odds of making his way home to Frankfurt without papers or travel passes were low. He tried to put the thought from his mind, but after months of Allied carpet bombing, for all he knew his parents were already dead.

No, he should head deeper behind the American line, try to hook up with one of their units, and tell them the Krauts were about to invade. Would they buy it? Wasn’t that what they’d trained him for these last three months? To pass as an American? In his heart of hearts, in his mortal soul, he was still a kid from New York who wanted his old life back. But what if he broke down under questioning, and the truth came out?

Who was he kidding? Betting his life on the mercy of the U.S. Army with the Germans about to rain holy hell down on them? He’d be court-martialed and shot in no time flat. So how could he warn them without dying for it?

One other way occurred to him. They had stashed their regulation Wehrmacht gear in four jerricans strapped to the jeep. He could take off in the jeep, change into his German uniform, then walk west waving a white flag and surrender as a deserter who’d just come across the lines. Tell them everything he knew about the coming attack, and live out what was left of the war as an Allied prisoner. That was his best chance, but only until zero hour. As soon as bullets started flying, his bargaining chip lost its value. But did he know enough about the offensive beyond what his own brigade was doing? His knowledge about even that was sketchy; Von Leinsdorf had kept them in the dark.

His mind raced back and forth, stuck on a final question: Was it worth the risk of giving Erich Von Leinsdorf a reason to hunt him down?

“Did she feed you breakfast?”

He turned sharply. Von Leinsdorf stood six feet behind him.

Jesus, I didn’t even hear him coming.

Bernie worked to keep the traitorous thoughts he’d been dancing with off his face. Von Leinsdorf took a piss, supremely casual, a cigarette on his lip.

“Fuck no,” said Bernie. “Not after that dinner she fed us. Bet my left nut this fucking village is missing some cats.”

Von Leinsdorf chuckled, and buttoned his pants back up. “Go tell Preuss we’re leaving.”

“She said the Americans took all her food? Jesus, how fat was she before the war started?”

“Get Preuss.”

Bernie worried for a moment that the man had read his mind.

“What, you don’t want to see her again either?”

“Fuck no,” said Von Leinsdorf, and smiled slyly.

He found Preuss hunched over the table in the kitchen, greedily scarfing down a thin fried egg and another plate of sausages from Frau Escher’s display case of mystery meats. The woman sat on a stool in the corner polishing Preuss’s new GI boots.

“Well, ain’t this a cozy picture of domestic bliss,” Bernie said.

Preuss looked up at him, half-chewed food in his mouth, slack-jawed and clueless. Frau Escher offered Bernie a plate for himself, but his stomach turned at the thought of it. He pulled Preuss out the back door, still carrying his boots, to where Von Leinsdorf had backed up their jeep.

The woman waved from her doorway as they drove off. Preuss waved back. Bernie saw her wiping her eyes with a handkerchief.

“She’s set her cap for you, Preuss,” said Von Leinsdorf.

“Cap? What is this?” asked Preuss.

“She’s in the market for a husband.”

“You want to fill that position, Preuss?” asked Bernie.

“I like her cooking,” said Preuss.

Bernie meowed like a cat.

“Here pussy, pussy, pussy,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Here pussy, pussy, pussy.”

“I don’t appreciate,” said Preuss, turning red. “I don’t appreciate.”

Bernie and Von Leinsdorf broke out laughing.

The highway filled with routine morning traffic as they traveled west. Allied security loosened, and the road took on the look and feel of an ordinary day; citizens going about their business, soldiers minding theirs. They passed a major crossroads outside Malmédy, then worked southwest through Stavelot to the bridges over the Ambleve River at Trois-Ponts. The Ambleve was the last geographic obstacle before the ground graded down toward the Meuse River valley. Bernie watched Von Leinsdorf make coded entries in his notebook, detailing each defensive position they passed. The deeper they drove, the more encouraged Von Leinsdorf became; the Allies had no idea what was about to hit them.

By late afternoon, as daylight faded, they drew within sight of the Meuse River and the bridge at Amay. They pulled off the road on a steep bluff above the river, into a stand of woods. Heavy clouds rolled in as they made camp, a new weather system lowering the ceiling and reducing visibility, exactly as forecast. Allied aircraft would be neutralized by those skies, attack planes and reconnaissance alike. Preuss broke out packets of American K rations they’d taken from the dead GIs. Bernie activated their field transmitter, adjusting the antennae until he secured a signal. Preuss came over to show him one of the K rations.

“Look here,” said Preuss. “Can you believe this?”

“It’s just a slice of cheese, Preuss.”

“No, look, it have bacon in it,” he said, pointing to the cheese, then taking a bite. “Real bacon. Here, try.”

Bernie took a bite to humor him. The cheese was hard, dry, and bland as wax, but carried an insistent odor of rancid pork.

“That’s okay, Preuss.”

“An army which can do this,” said Preuss, shaking his head in admiration. “Cheese mit bacon.”

Von Leinsdorf climbed a nearby embankment, unfolded a map, and studied the bridge below through field glasses. Light traffic, half of it American military, flowed in both directions. Sandbags surrounded an antiaircraft gun emplacement and a single machine gun on the eastern shore, manned by what looked like a single platoon. He saw no forces at all on the western shore. Bernie joined him, while Preuss sat a short distance away with a pad and pen. Trained as the reconnaissance officer for their squad, he began sketching in details of the bridge on a hand-drawn map.

“That’s why we’re here?” asked Bernie. “That bridge?”

“Our first objective,” said Von Leinsdorf. “We take and hold it, and two others between here and Namur, before the Americans can destroy or defend them.”

“Just me, you, and lard-butt over there.”

“The entire commando company. Tomorrow, after our recon. Bremer, Schmidt, and Sharper’s teams are scouting the other two.”