Mark Frost - The Second Objective

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.”

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.