Order of Battle (19 page)

Don drove the jeep past a large sign being erected a short distance from one of the buildings. Above the XII Corps windmill insignia were the words
DISMOUNT POINT;
below it,
FWD ECH.
He stopped the jeep near the closer of the two buildings. Erik jumped out. He started for the entrance. An MP met him halfway.

“Sir. You can’t stop—”

Erik interrupted him.

“AC of S, G-2 in this building?”

“Yes, sir. But—”

“Good. We’ve got a PW in the jeep. He’s important.” He turned to the jeep and called, “Okay, Don!” He turned back to the MP. “See that nothing happens to him, will you?”

“But—”

“And have someone move our jeep to the dismount area.”

Don joined them with Plewig.

“What’ll we do with Joe, here?” he asked.

“Put him in the guardroom,” Erik answered. To the MP he said. “You’ll take care of that?”

The MP didn’t look happy.

“Sir,” he said. “May I see your ID?”

“Sure!”

Both Erik and Don pulled out their cards. Erik said:

“CIC Detachment 212. We’ve got to get to the G-2 as quickly as possible.”

The lobby of the building teemed with officers and enlisted men. At a desk with the sign
INFORMATION
sat a harassed-looking corporal and a pfc. Behind them, on the wall, a large poster had been tacked up. Its theme: Nonfraternization. It showed a sexy-looking girl in a dirndl skirt and low-cut blouse being ogled by a wolf in GI uniform. “You’ve Won One War. Don’t Lay the Groundwork for Another!” it proclaimed with an obvious double entendre.

“AC of S, G-2, Colonel Streeter?” Erik asked the corporal.

“I think he’s on the second floor, sir,” the corporal answered apologetically. “We’re just getting set up.”

The pfc was running a finger down a mimeographed list of names. He stopped and showed it to the corporal.

“Yes, sir. Second floor. To the right. You can’t miss it.”

Colonel Richard H. Streeter had the reputation of being a sensible man. He’d never been afraid to make decisions and take responsibilities. He expected the same from his officers. His intelligence staff worked around the clock. Rumor had it that Streeter himself never slept. It was only a slight exaggeration. The truth was that he’d mastered the art of catnapping. Anywhere, anytime, under any conditions he could close his eyes, relax completely and sleep for a short while. He did it as often as he could. Because of that he was always available any hour of the day or night when needed. His staff of officers and noncoms had learned the trick from him. In the G-2 office, dominated by a huge situation map covering an entire wall and being constantly kept up to date by an intelligence noncom, two men were fast asleep in a corner, rolled up in their sleeping bags, totally undisturbed by the activity around them.

Streeter and one of his staff officers, Major Henry Roberts, stood facing the situation map with Erik and Don. Erik was pointing to a small wooded area on the map.

“Right here, sir,” he said. “Just north of Schönsee. P 4812. Close to the Czech border.”

Streeter frowned skeptically.

“Four miles inside our lines?” He turned to Major Roberts. “We’ve had no reports of any German units in that area, have we, Henry?”

“No. We haven’t.”

Streeter looked speculatively at Erik.

“It sounds a little fantastic, don’t you think? That the Nazis should have started to prepare for the day they’d
lose
the war already in ’43, long before D Day, at the peak of their glory!”

He looked at the map.

“How many—ah—Werewolves are there supposed to be in there?” He looked faintly amused. His tone of voice clearly said, “Convince me.”

The HQ unit under the command of General Krueger numbers between forty and sixty men, including the general’s staff. It’s called Kampfgruppe Karl, after Krueger’s given name. That’s the unit located here, at Schönsee.”

“And the rest of them?”

“Our informant knows of three other units in the Bavarian area. Operational units. Each numbering one hundred fifty men. They’re placed in a triangle around Kreuger’s HQ unit. All behind our lines now. We don’t know where.”

“Just who are these people?”

“They form the hard core of the Werewolf organization, sir.” Erik was acutely aware of the importance of saying just the right thing, of giving Streeter just the right information. Enough—not too much. The whole story could so easily sound like a crackpot scheme. That was a real danger. But Erik was convinced it was deadly fact. He
had
to convince Streeter as well.

“They consist of the training cadre and the last class from General Krueger’s school at Thürenberg,” he said carefully, trying to sound as earnest and rational as possible. “Early this month they received orders from the German High Command to close the school, move to prepared positions at Schönsee and become operational.”

“What exactly
is
their mission—besides that hysterical howling on the radio?”

‘To stay behind, evade capture and then destroy U.S. personnel and supplies, with special emphasis on gas and oil.” Erik looked straight at Colonel Streeter. “Sir. They could do a great deal of damage.”

Streeter contemplated the earnest young CIC agent before him. He no longer looked amused. He nodded thoughtfully.

“If they’re there,” he said.

A noncom at a switchboard called:

“Colonel Streeter, sir! General Canine. On seven.”

Streeter at once walked to a field telephone on his desk. Major Roberts turned to Erik.

“What’s this about wanting to assassinate Eisenhower?”

“That’s their standing mission. Probably something like Skorzeny’s ‘jeep parties’ during the Bulge.”

“When our guys were running around singing ‘Mairzy Doats’ on command to prove they were home-grown USA and not Krauts in GI uniforms,” Don added.

Roberts considered it. He nodded.

“With everything lost, I suppose at this stage of the game they might well try to get Ike. . . . . The headless serpent . . .”

“Sir?” Erik looked puzzled. Roberts looked slightly embarrassed. He grinned.

“From an old book I once read. In college.
The Ethos of Political
Assassination.
It’s a phrase that stuck in my mind. ‘A country without a leader is akin to a serpent with its head severed. It may thrash about a lot, but it accomplishes nothing.’ ” He looked sober. “Only it won’t work. The military serpent has too many heads.”

“I wouldn’t sell the idea short,” Erik said. “The Werewolves are supposed to be the backbone, the nucleus of the last-stand resistance in the National Redoubt—”

“And Goebbels is always running off at the mouth about the Alpine Fortress,” Don interjected.

“If they actually
did
get Ike, it might just be the shot in the arm the Germans need, if supported by a heavy Nazi propaganda barrage. They’re pretty fanatic.”

Roberts nodded reflectively.

“Of course, Eisenhower does consider the Redoubt more of a military target than even Berlin.”

Colonel Streeter joined them. He looked serious, hurried.

“I’ve got to get over to the chief of staff. Let’s get this thing settled.” He turned to Erik. “How are these Werewolves equipped?”

Erik answered. Quickly. To the point.

“Small arms. Machine guns, submachine guns and mortars. They’ve also got explosives, ammunition and food supplies to last them for at least six months of operations.”

Streeter thought for a brief moment.

“Must have taken quite a few vehicles to transport all that stuff. What happened to them?” he asked.

“They didn’t use much motor transportation, sir. They loaded everything on wagons. Used some hundred and twenty horses and gave the whole lot to the farmers in the area.”

Streeter nodded, impressed.

Not bad, he was thinking. “It’s quite a yarn,” he said. “What do you want to do about it?”

“I want to get them before they can hurt us more than they already have.”

“You really believe this Werewolf informant of yours?”

“I do!”

Erik looked directly at Streeter. It was time to play his trump card.

“Sir,” he said. “I believe I have information that strongly points to his story being true. I have established a definite link between the Werewolves and a high-ranking Nazi official, a Reichsamtsleiter von Eckdorf. The man shot himself rather than fall into our hands. At a farm. Less than ten miles from Schönsee!”

Streeter looked at Major Roberts.

“Henry?”

Roberts nodded.

“All right,” Streeter said. “You got it! Stick with it.” He turned to the map. “Let’s see. That’s in the area of the 97th. What do you want in the way of tactical aid?”

“Two companies, sir.”

Streeter frowned. “I guess you need that. They’ll have to be taken off the line.”

He turned toward the switchboard operator. “Get me the 97th Division CP!” He turned back to Erik. “You’ll get your two companies.” To Roberts he said, “Send Evans down with them.” And to Erik: “Major Evans will be with you strictly as an observer. It’s
your
ball game. But
I
want to know the score.”

“Yes, sir.” Now that he had what he wanted Erik felt drained. Streeter looked at him and Don speculatively.

“I hope you do find your Werewolves,” he said quietly. “You’re sticking your necks way out!”

He started to leave, then looked back.

“I hope he’s not giving you the runaround, that informant of yours, what’s his name?”

“Plewig,” Erik said. “Josef Plewig.”

Weiden

1316 hrs

“Plewig!” he said. “Josef Plewig!” His voice was cold with contempt.

It was Krauss. He stood leaning casually against a four-foot-high brick wall topped by a wooden trellis woven through with thick, withered vines. With his work pants spattered with fresh-dried cement flecks, his soiled leather cap pulled down over his forehead, he almost melted into the drabness of the little suburban side street. It was deserted. It usually was.

Krauss fished a battered old metal tobacco box from a pocket in his threadbare jacket. He seemed preoccupied with his task, yet he was acutely aware of the other man, unseen behind the wall. He knew it was Heinz. He could picture him; the patch over his eye, the pinned-up empty sleeve of his stripped Wehrmacht uniform jacket. An object of pity. Krauss ignored his presence. It was, of course, important that they not be seen together.

Heinz’s voice came softly through the concealing vines. It throbbed with subdued vehemence.

“
Verdammt nochmal!
When?”

Krauss opened up his little metal box. Carefully he selected one of a half dozen partially smoked cigarette butts.

“Four hours ago,” he said, intent upon his box.

“Direction?”

“The road to Viechtach.”

“Their command headquarters! Why didn’t you make contact before?”

Krauss deliberately placed the selected butt behind one ear under the leather cap while he put the metal box away and brought out a box of wooden matches.

“One must be cautious,” he said slowly, “or one is dead.” He took the butt from behind his ear and lit it.

“Has he talked?”

Krauss puffed on his butt. He contemplated the smoke thoughtfully.

“They would not have taken him to their headquarters had he not,” he commented to the spiraling cigarette smoke.

“We will take care of him,” Heinz said. The statement was cold, emotionless—and therefore deadly. “And the two Americans. We don’t know how much they have found out. We can not afford to let them live.”

“And Krueger?” Krauss cupped the butt in his hand. It was getting almost too small to hold.

“He will be warned.”

“It is risky.”

“He must know. He will want to take steps. We will use the Munich relay. Ask instructions.”

“The Munich station has not yet been overrun?”

“Not yet. Munich will be held as long as possible. The SS is making certain the people resist. There will be no sheets of surrender on the road to Munich. The Americans will have to fight and die for every foot! Go now. There is not much time. We must move today.”

There was a small rustling sound behind the wall. Krauss thought he could hear the limping footsteps of Heinz die away. Perhaps not. His butt was only a smoldering ember. He squashed it out between two work-hardened fingers and brushed the ashes off on his pants.

For the first time he glanced quickly at the vine-covered wall. Then he walked off.

The Road to Munich

1608 hrs

What the hell am I supposed to do? he thought with the bitter anguish of indecision. What what what? . . .

It wasn’t the first time he’d been in a tight situation, dammit. Captain Robert Slater, tank commander, had seen plenty of action. He’d run into his share of bitchy situations. But not like this. Nothing like this . . .

He had a mental flash of how the Seventh Army G-2 periodic would report it. Under “Enemy Operations During Period.” “Heavy enemy resistance encountered,” it would say, “vic Heidendorf (Q8714).” Nothing about the blood, the torn limbs, the death. Nothing about the stinking sweat of fear. Nothing about the agony of decision—when
any
decision would be wrong. He swallowed the bile that kept rising in his throat, burning and sour. He felt cold. He could feel the wetness trickle down from his armpits.

He stood tall in the open turret. His Sherman tank was positioned off a narrow forest road, concealed by the natural growth of trees and shrubs. Desperately searching for an answer he knew was not there, he reviewed his situation once again. . . .

The little evergreen forest bracketed the road less than a quarter of a mile from the village. Heidendorf. On the road to Munich. At the ruins of a farm on the edge of the woods the road made a bend and then continued straight through open fields to the village. The other tanks of his command were in concealment in the woods. And near the bombed-out farm, huddled among the trees, were the men of the supporting infantry unit.