Christopher Reich - The Runner

“We demand return of river craft. They are property of Soviet armed forces.”

Hearing the Russian’s demand for the boats turned Patton’s mind to another subject that rankled him. Since occupying German territory, the Russian Army had been stealing every piece of machinery that wasn’t nailed down washing machines, typewriters, radios, you name it, they grabbed it — and sending it back home. As for the big stuff: factories, refineries, foundries, they had entire divisions trained to unscrew every last nut, bolt and screw, and ship the lot east to Moscow. Scavengers is what they were. Vultures. What was worse, loud-mouthed New York Jews like Henry Morgenthau not only condoned Stalin’s behavior, they insisted the Americans and Brits do the same. His crazed “Morgenthau Plan” — which Patton had figured for nothing more than some sort of ancient Talmudic revenge scheme — proposed robbing Germany of every last piece of industrial machinery it possessed. An eye for an eye, and all that. The crafty Semitic bastard even went so far as suggesting the Allies place members of the German military into indentured servitude for a period of ten years. Christ, but they were the same, the Jews and the Bolsheviks. Didn’t anyone see that the only ones the Americans could count on were the goddamned Germans themselves? Madness!

“Two tugboats, one barge, one skiff…” Yevchenko was describing the boats he “demanded” that the Americans return. “Rowboat with oars and dinghy.”

Suddenly Patton had had enough. Offering the Russian general his neatest smile, he strode to his desk, opened the top drawer and drew out his pearl-handled revolver. With his smile firmly in place, he returned to Yevchenko — who by now had given up quivering for a posture of sheer frozen terror — cocked the pistol and placed it squarely against the man’s beribboned chest.

“Gay, goddammit!” he shouted, “Get this son of a bitch out of here! Who in the hell let him in? Don’t let any more Russian bastards into the headquarters.” He turned to Paul Harkins, a senior member of his staff, who had joined Yevchenko’s gripe session midstream. “Harkins! Alert the Fourth and Eleventh Armored and the Sixty-fifth Division for an attack to the east. Go! Now!!”

Gay and Harkins dashed from the room to implement his orders.

Yevchenko, his pudgy countenance a squeamish yellow, remained face to face with Patton. After an eternity, neither man giving an inch, the Russian yelled, “Devil!” then turned on his heels and ran after them.

When his office was once again empty, Patton let out a victorious belly laugh. In fact, he would have preferred to cry. This should be a day of rejoicing, he said to himself, without a worry about the future and the peace they’d fought for. But as no man would lie beside a diseased jackal, neither would he, George S. Patton, ever do business with the Russians.

He circled his desk, running a hand along its polished veneer, then collapsed into his chair. Churchill had had the right idea. Get into the Balkans, drive north into Central Europe and take Prague and Berlin. Patton himself should be in the German capital now. He’d pissed in the Rhine, why not on the Reichstag?

Restless with anger, frustration and — despite the mountain of problems before him — boredom, he planted his hands onto the desk and stood, making a tour of his office. He stopped in front of a grand window overlooking the town of Bad Toelz. Past that lay a vast green plain, ideal territory for a rapidly advancing army of armored cavalry. And past that the East.

Patton picked up the telephone and rescinded the orders he’d given in Yevchenko’s presence. He was already in enough trouble with Ike for taking his daily equitation in the company of SS Colonel von Wangenheim. At least those bastards in the Waffen SS knew how to fight. Strike like lightning, take no prisoners, and attack, attack, attack! They were magnificent sons of bitches! And they weren’t half wrong about what to do with the Jews, either. As for the Russians, they were scurvy bastards. The cooks in his Third Army could beat the living hell out of them.

Gay returned to the room with news that Patton had another visitor.

“Dammit, Hap, it better not be another Red.”

“No sir. It’s a delegation of city fathers. I believe, General, they wish to award you a commendation.”

Patton checked his watch. “By God, send them in, Hap. About time somebody thanks us for the bullshit we’re putting up with.”

“Right away, sir,” said Gay, before retreating through the double doors.

Patton straightened his jacket and ran a hand along his collar, wanting to be sure that all of his stars were easily visible. The Boche loved pageantry almost as much as he did. Crossing to the window, he took up his position, hands clasped behind his back, eyes to the horizon. It was a decent pose, one that Napoleon used to greet his generals and lesser dignitaries. He fixed his gaze on a steeple in the distance, but his thoughts traveled far beyond.

To Prague. To Berlin. To Moscow.

East.

Ingrid guided the wheelbarrow down the center of the dusty road. Her hands were raw, her shoulders sore and swollen.Five more steps, she told herself.Five more steps, then I can rest. She steered the heavy load around ruts and rocks and bumps and furrows, squinting to drive the sweat from her eyes. And when she had taken five steps, she took five more, and then another five.

Normally the trip to Inzell took less than an hour on foot. The road cut across the far side of the valley, skirting the lake before plunging into the forest where it descended rapidly in a dizzying series of switchbacks. Five miles and fifteen hundred feet later, it reached the village. Today, however, the journey might as well have been fifty miles. She’d left Sonnenbrucke two hours ago and was barely at the far end of the meadow. At this rate, she wouldn’t make Inzell until noon. She refused to think about the return trip up the mountain.

Gathering her breath, Ingrid struggled to adjust her grip on the slick handles. Her pace was deliberate, not only because of the weight of the load but because of its contents. Ninety-six bottles of wine lay in the iron bed, each wrapped in a damask hand towel borrowed from the linen closet. To be safe, she’d lined the wheelbarrow’s rusted bed with the smallest of her mother’s embroidered tablecloths. While the eight cases of Bordeaux wouldn’t enjoy the bumpy trek to Inzell, at least they’d reach their destination intact — which was more than she could promise herself.

Breathing in with one step, out with the next Ingrid maintained her sober pace. In an effort to redistribute the load from her hands to her shoulders, she had fashioned a makeshift harness from the coarse rope Papa kept to bind fallen game. The harness was attached to the center of the barrow and passed over her shoulders and around her neck. A chamois cloth laid against the nape of her neck protected her exposed flesh from the splintery twine.

A half mile ahead, the road disappeared into the shadows spread by a curtain of Arolla pines. A soft breeze skittered past, then died, teasing her with the relief the distant shade would provide. She spotted a patch of grass at the foot of a pine and decided it would make an ideal resting place. Five more steps, she whispered to herself.

A quarter of an hour later, she was there.

Collapsing onto the grass, Ingrid closed her eyes. The forest buzzed and chirped and squawked with the frenetic joy of a warm summer’s day but all she could hear was the throbbing of her own heart. After a moment, she sat up and took stock of herself. Her palms were an angry pink. Pale ovals surfaced across the underside of her fingers. Soon they would become blisters. Even seated, her legs trembled with fatigue. Pulling the cloth from her shoulders, she ran a hand along the back of her neck. The shallow groove left by the harness was hot to touch. She checked her fingers for blood. Thankfully, there was none.