Christopher Reich - The Runner

“Not all of them, I’m afraid,” replied Everett. “Wires are still down in some places and it’s an extremely busy time for us. Tally Ho and all. But I’ve been instructed to provide any resources we can muster.”

That was double talk, if ever he’d heard it. Only time would tell if Everett was as good as his word. “I’d like to suggest that we dispatch couriers with copies of the photograph to every CIC unit and military police detachment in our zone. We’ll start at the army level and work our way down through regiment, division, and so on. Enough copies should be made to give to our counterparts in the British, French and Russian zones.”

“You can forget about the Russians,” said Mullins. “Ivan doesn’t play ball.”

“Rather,” said Everett, running a finger along his mustache. “Best to steer clear of our Soviet comrades. Go on, then, Major. I’m keen to hear what else you have in mind.”

Judge relaxed a notch, happy to see Everett was receptive to his plan. “Seyss is no different from a criminal on the run. He may be on his home turf but if we get the word out that we’re after him, and if we offer some kind of reward, someone, somewhere is going to recognize him. As General Patton pointed out, he was an Olympian. That can work for and against us. On one hand, a good proportion of the population may recognize him. On the other hand, if he’s considered a hero, they may be hesitant about turning him over to us. Regardless, we get the word out that we’re serious about catching this bastard.”

“Oh, we’re serious, boy-o,” chimed in Mullins, and Judge knew lack of support from that quarter wouldn’t be a problem.

He continued. “Let’s put the picture on the front page of Stars and Stripes , Yank and every German language newspaper that’s being printed right now. How much can we offer as a reward?”

Everett rubbed his chin, one eye on Mullins, the other drilling a hole in the floor. “What do you think would do the trick, Colonel?”

“Five hundred would do nicely.”

“One problem,” Everett countered, “Germans aren’t allowed to hold our currency. I’d say give them cigarettes but that would make us appear to be condoning the black market.”

“Five hundred’s too much,” said Judge. “Everybody and his uncle will be saying he’s seen Seyss. Make it a hundred bucks worth of goods at the local PX.”

“Done,” said Everett.

“What’s the status of the local constabulary?” asked Judge. “ Any help in getting the word out?”

“It varies town by town,” responded Mullins, “but don’t expect much. Nearly every policeman was a Nazi. The men who’ve taken their place are hardly your Elliot Nesses.”

“Part of the glories of de-Nazification, Major,” explained Everett, who had taken up perch in the doorway on his way out of Mullins’s office. “ All the qualified men we need to rebuild this damned country are off limits. Nazis one and all. We’re left with the dregs.”

Judge frowned. They might be “the dregs”, but they were certainly preferable to the alternative.

“Good luck, then, Major,” said Everett, gifting him with a lazy salute. “Remember, General Patton wants some good news about Tally Ho to tell the President when he arrives in Berlin next week. I’m sure he’d enjoy informing him that Seyss is under arrest. Or dead. I do hope seven days is sufficient.”

It wasn’t, but Judge didn’t have a say in the matter.

“Off your duff then,” said Mullins, slipping on his jacket and making a beeline for the hallway. “I’ll show you to the armory, pick you out a nice .45 like we carried back home in the mighty two-zero. Your office is downstairs. You have three peckerheads all your own to boss around. We wouldn’t want Ike to think we’re not helping you our utmost.”

There it was again, the edge to his courtesy. “And my driver?” Judge asked, following close behind. “I’d like to get out to Lindenstrasse this afternoon.”

“Coming tomorrow morning at six. As I recall, you’re an early riser.” “Tomorrow?” Judge swore under his breath. His seven days had been cut to six.

Mullins shot him a nasty glance over his shoulder. “I’ll hear no complaints, thank you very much. It’s no easy task finding someone who knows his way around this part of the country on such short notice. Besides, you should be pleased. Your chauffeur’s got himself a Silver Star. We got you a hero to make sure you don’t get into any trouble.”

Judge gritted his teeth and picked up his pace. You had to run if you wanted to keep up with Spanner Mullins.

Erich Seyss was a connoisseur of destruction. He had only to hear a shell’s whistle to know its caliber; to catch a rifle’s report to guess its bore, to lay eyes on a ruin and know who and what had devastated it. Staring at the ravaged façade of a three-storey building in a squalid, bombed-out district of south Munich, therefore, he needed only a few seconds to recreate the action that had rendered it a teetering, gutless wreck. Sustained machine-gun fire had chiseled a thousand pockmarks into the building. Fire from a phosphorous grenade had garlanded the windows with wreaths of impregnable soot. Any fool could see where the tank had rammed through the bottom floor, leaving the house lopsided and in need of a crutch.

Seyss imagined the American troops scrambling up the road, each squad providing covering fire for the next, as slowly, inexorably, they took up position around the house. He could hear the tap-tap-tapping of small arms, the thudding of the machine gun, the muffled roar of the grenades, and above them all, the screams of the wounded. City fighting was slow, sweaty, and unimaginably loud. The mere recollection left his mouth dry and sticky. Sometime during the pitched battle, an artillery piece had been brought to bear; seventy-five millimeter Howitzer by the size of the hole rent in the wall high on the second storey. That was the end, of course. The boys defending the house would have had no choice but to give it up and move down the road to the next parcel of land worth dying for. One more piece of Germany swallowed by the relentless green tide.

Seyss poked his head round the stack of empty ammo crates that for the last twenty minutes had served as his blind, glancing a last time up and down the street. Satisfied that no unfriendly eyes were watching the building, he crossed the road and jogged up the front path, neatly threading his way through a field of debris. He paused by the entry long enough to read the address inscribed on a soot encrusted brass plaque. 21 Lindenstrasse. He offered an unfeeling smile. Home.

Hurrying inside, he made a quick tour of the ground floor, through the salon, the living room, the kitchen. His eyes scanned what floor remained for boot prints, cigarette butts, any sign of a recent visit. He saw nothing to alarm him. At times, he was forced to tiptoe across the coarse spars that had supported the flooring. Hearing a strange flutter, he froze and glanced up. Through the torn floorboards, he glimpsed the ceiling of his bedroom three stories above him. The tail of his curtains gently slapped the wall, then fell back.

Twenty years had passed since he’d lived at Lindenstrasse. At the age of eight, he’d been sent away to school, first to the state military barracks at Brunswick, then to the SS Academy at Bad Toelz. Home had always been simply a way station between postings. If he’d expected an onslaught of nostalgia, he was mistaken. His only sadness was at the condition of the house itself. Nearly all the flooring had been torn out, probably to use as firewood. It went without saying that the furniture, paintings, carpets and assorted bric-a-brac that had made up his home were gone. Even the wallpaper had been rudely torn off. The house was nothing but a husk.