Mark Frost - The Second Objective

“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.”

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.

“Talk us through it, George,” said Eisenhower.

“First Army comes at their northern flank. My three divisions from Third Army hit from the south. Long as we hold ’em here they’ll stop dead in their tracks.”

He pointed with his cigar to the bulge on the map that was forming around Bastogne.

“How quickly can they get in there?” asked Eisenhower.

“Two days,” said Patton. “The dumb bastard’s stuck his head in a meat grinder. And this time I’ve got hold of the handle.”

The Road to Reims

DECEMBER 19, NOON

“What other baseball players should I know?” asked Von Leinsdorf.

“What do you mean?”

“Who else might they ask about? Like Dizzy Dean.”

“I thought that’s what you needed me for.”

“In case you’re taking a piss.”

“Well, everybody in America knows the Yankees,” said Bernie. “Love ’em or hate ’em, they win the Series half the time.”

“All right, good, who plays for them?”

“Bill Dickey, he’s their catcher. Great talent. Red Ruffing’s their best pitcher. Spud Chandler’s a good arm. Joe Gordon at second, Phil Rizzuto’s their shortstop. They call him Scooter. Not sure who’s playing third this year-”

“Let’s concentrate on who you do know. What’s your favorite team?”

“Me? Hands down. You’re from Brooklyn, it’s the Brooklyn Dodgers, hands down.”

“All right, so who plays for them?”

“Okay. One guy you gotta know. Biggest name in baseball. Center fielder, Brooklyn Dodgers. Best stick in the game.”

“Who?”

“Joe DiMaggio.” Bernie watched him closely.

“Yes. I’ve heard the name,” said Von Leinsdorf. “DiMaggio. Center field. Brooklyn Dodgers.”

“That’s right.”

Looking ahead on the highway, they noticed a line of American MP vehicles headed the other way, racing north, lights flashing.