Mark Frost - The Second Objective

“Pull over,” said Von Leinsdorf.

Bernie steered onto the shoulder. Von Leinsdorf steadied his binoculars on the windscreen, looking at the road ahead. When he lowered them he pointed to a dirt road intersecting the highway a short distance ahead.

“Take that road,” he said.

“What’s going on?”

“They’re putting up a roadblock.”

Bernie drove onto the side road, while Von Leinsdorf studied the map.

“Take the first left,” he said. “Runs parallel to the river. We’ll cross farther downstream, come into Reims from the north.”

“What if they’ve got that blocked too?”

“First things first.”

“What happened? You think they found those guards at the border?”

“Just drive, Brooklyn.”

Grannit and Carlson sped down the highway toward Reims. Roadblocks had gone up as ordered. They’d passed three already, but none had stopped any jeeps answering their detailed description.

“You divorced, Earl?”

“What is it with you and this?”

“You said you had a wife. I’m just curious.”

“Is divorce such a fucking novelty?”

“It is in South Dakota.”

“Marriage and police work go together like a match and a gas tank.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“I’m doing just fine without your sympathy.”

“I got a steady girl back home,” said Carlson, after a while.

“So you said.” Grannit glanced over. “You gonna marry her?”

“I was thinking about it.”

“Tell me you’re not going into police work after this.”

“I been thinking about that, too,” said Carlson. “I’m getting a pretty good feel for it, don’t you think?”

“I got a pretty good feel for falling on hand grenades, but I’m not gonna make a career out of it.”

“Well, what do you think I should do?”

“Marry the girl. Stick with insurance.”

“It’s not like we have that much crime. It’s not like, you know, the murder capital of the high plains.”

Grannit looked at him. “You gonna stay a volunteer fireman?”

“I guess so.”

“So, you feel the need for a thrill coming on, set fire to a barn. You can rush in and put it out yourself. Sell the farmer his insurance beforehand, you win both ways.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Stick with me,” said Grannit. “I specialize in the big questions.”

Carlson laughed, slowing as they approached another roadblock, soldiers waving them down. Because they matched the description of the alert they’d sent out-two Americans in a Willys-it took fifteen minutes to convince the MPs they weren’t the men every GI in France was now looking for.

Bernie and Von Leinsdorf skirted the town of Rethel until they reached an unguarded bridge that took them across the Aisne River and an adjoining shipping canal. A light rain started to fall as they passed a memorial for a World War One battle that took place on the strip of ground between the two bodies of water. The road continued to the southwest, parallel to the canal. When they came within sight of the highway south toward Reims, Von Leinsdorf took another look at the connecting road through the binoculars.

“There’s another blockade,” he said.

“We’ve got today’s password, don’t we?”

Von Leinsdorf glanced down the road. He spotted a French military ambulance outside a roadside café. It was early afternoon, lunch hour.

“Park off the road,” he said, pointing to the right. “Next to those trees.”

Bernie drove toward them. When they got close, Von Leinsdorf stepped on Bernie’s foot, on top of the gas. The jeep lurched forward and crashed into the tree, crumpling the hood, sending up a column of steam.

“What the hell did you do that for?” asked Bernie.

“Leave everything. Follow me. Keep your mouth shut.”

They walked in the rain to the café where the ambulance was parked. Von Leinsdorf rushed inside and spotted the uniformed drivers eating at a table, the only customers.

“Il y est eu un accident,” said Von Leinsdorf, in clumsy, American accented French. “ D’une juste la route. Veuillez nous aider.”

The drivers followed them outside, asking questions in broken English which Von Leinsdorf, in his feigned urgency, did his best to avoid.

“Where is it?” asked the driver.

“Nous vous montrerons,” said Von Leinsdorf. “We’ll take you.”

The drivers gestured for them to climb in the back of the ambulance, and they drove back down the road until Von Leinsdorf directed them off to the left, where the jeep had hit the tree. The ambulance stopped a few yards away, and the drivers hurried toward the jeep.

Von Leinsdorf followed and shot one of the men in the back of the head with his silenced pistol. The other driver turned when he heard the pop, saw his comrade hit the ground. When he saw the gun in Von Leinsdorf’s hand, he fell to his knees, pleading for his life, fumbling out his wallet, showing photographs of his wife and children.

“ Mon frère , you’re talking to the wrong Nazi,” said Von Leinsdorf, turning to Bernie. “He actually thinks we’re American-would you please just shut the fuck up? Mettez ceux partis . Silence!”

The man went quiet. Von Leinsdorf unscrewed the silencer and showed it to him before tucking it away.

“See? I’m not going to shoot you.”

“What the hell are we doing?” asked Bernie.

“We need one of them alive,” said Von Leinsdorf. Then, pointing to the dead man: “He’s about your size, this one’s a better match for me. Switch uniforms. Hurry up before there’s too much blood on it. Don’t ask questions.”

Bernie knelt to the task. Von Leinsdorf turned to the survivor.

“Enlevez votre uniforme,” he said to him. “Rapide!”

The man unbuttoned his tunic. Von Leinsdorf did the same.

“Don’t worry, mon ami ,” said Von Leinsdorf, with a reassuring smile. “ Je n’vais pas vous tuer . Friends, yes?”

The driver smiled grimly as he dressed. Bernie put the driver’s uniform on, then worked the dead man’s loose limbs into his GI green.

“Don’t put your jacket on him, just lay it over his face. Load everything into the ambulance,” said Von Leinsdorf, slipping on the other driver’s jacket. “Bring back a stretcher.”

The second driver had finished changing into Von Leinsdorf’s uniform when Bernie returned with the stretcher. Von Leinsdorf joked with the driver that the American uniform looked snug around the middle.

“Too many pommes frites , huh? Try them without mayonnaise next time, dummy. Put the dead one in back,” said Von Leinsdorf to Bernie; then he waved at the driver, ordering him to lend a hand. “Aidez-la . ”

Bernie and the Frenchman set the dead driver onto the stretcher and slid it in the back of the ambulance. Von Leinsdorf saw that Bernie had stacked the jerricans holding their equipment in the corner.

“Throw a blanket over those,” he said. “Set up another stretcher next to that one.”

When Bernie was finished, Von Leinsdorf pointed the driver at the second stretcher. “Couchez-vous, monsieur, s’il vous plaît . ”

Eager to please, the driver lay down on the stretcher. Von Leinsdorf told Bernie to fasten the straps on the man, as he closed the rear doors.

“You know some first aid, don’t you, Brooklyn?”

“A little.”

Von Leinsdorf pulled a bottle from the stores of medicine in a footlocker. “Give him half a syringe, just enough to take the edge off.”

Bernie took the bottle. Morphine. He prepared the syringe, then knelt beside the second driver, who stared anxiously at the needle.