Order of Battle (21 page)

“Stand by to fire!” he ordered. To his own ears it sounded like a croak.

The scene at the distant wall was inexorably etched on the cold

lenses of his field glasses. He fought an overpowering urge to hurl them away and with them the hellish sight he knew was about to erupt. He opened his mouth to give his command.

Suddenly he saw the general jump to his feet. He stood tall among the cowering Germans. Rapidly he pumped his arm, fist clenched, up and down above his head. At once the villagers scrambled to their feet, all as one. Splitting into two groups directly under the Tiger tank, still hugging the protection of the wall, they raced away in opposite directions, leaving the area around the Tiger clear and empty, stripped of its human shield.

“He did it!” Slater shouted, his voice shrill with exultation. “He
moved
them! Fire! Fire! Get the bastards!”

His last words were drowned by the roar of the firing Sherman tanks. Round after round of armor-piercing shells tore into the Tiger tank, robbed of its terrible protection. Only a split second, and the Tiger exploded in a ball of fire. . . .

The Shermans broke from the cover of the woods. Clanging, clattering, rumbling and triumphant, they made straight for the barricaded village. The GIs followed close behind. Shells from the tanks ripped into the exposed stretches of wall and buildings, crumbling them.

The German civilians were huddled at both ends, unharmed.

Heidendorf

1712 hrs

The black-and-white barber-pole-striped signpost on the road out of Heidendorf read:
MÜCNHEN
37
KM
.

The battle for the village was over. The SS troops had resisted fiercely and tenaciously but had been routed by the tanks and the GIs.

Slater’s tank unit was regrouping just off the road on the far side of the village. In a field on the other side of the road Barker’s men were sprawled on the ground, resting. The road to Munich was clogged with advancing U.S. troops and vehicles streaming toward the Bavarian capital.

Already the villagers had begun the clean-up after the fighting. Some of the farmers were busy taking care of their livestock in the fields, some were even attending to urgent farm chores interrupted by the battle. The war had touched their lives, quickly, frighteningly, and moved on, but their livelihoods still needed tending.

A small group of elderly men, gingerly picking their way along the road shoulder, approached Slater’s command tank. They had an air of dignified authority about them. They stopped at the tank and looked up at Slater, standing in the turret. One of them, hat in hand, took a step forward.

“
Ich bin Ortsbauernführer Tiemann, Herr Offizier,”
he said, his voice shaking with emotion. His eyes, deep-set in a weathered, wrinkled face, were bright with tears. “
Ich
—
ich möchte
—”

On the road General Thurston’s jeep drove by. The general called to Slater:

“Well done, Bob! And remember—look for that third way out!”

Slater threw a salute at the general, who returned it.

“Yes, sir,” he called, a huge grin on his young face.

The jeep drove off. Slater turned to the Germans. The old man went on:

“
Wir danken Ihnen, Herr Offizier. Sie haben uns das Leben gerettet! Bitte, wir—
”

Slater shook his head.

“No
sprechen sie
German,” he said. “I don’t know what you want.” He motioned toward the village. “Go back. Go back to your homes!”

The old German bowed. The others bowed.

“
Vielen Dank, Herr Offizier! Sehr vielen Dank!”

With great dignity the men turned and started toward the village.

Slater called across the road.

“Barker! We move out in fifteen minutes!”

Sergeant Barker acknowledged. He surveyed his men. They were in good shape. He looked around. In the field behind him an odd-Jooking wagon, drawn by a team of plodding horses, was slowly moving across the soil. It was a manure wagon; a large wooden tank, like a huge long beer barrel on sturdy wheels. A lone elderly fanner sat on the driver’s seat. Lazily he swatted the ancient horses with a long whip, as the beasts dragged the heavy wagon along, leaving a thin spray of fertilizer on the freshly plowed ground.

Unemotionally the farmer looked at the military activity on the road. It was of no importance to him, his attitude seemed to convey. Preparing the soil, that was important. And they had interrupted him. First the SS. Then the Americans fighting them. Now he could continue what was important. There was still an hour of daylight left. He would not be kept from using it. Not even by a war.

Barker eyed the wagon. He was faintly annoyed at the utter lack of interest the farmer took in him and his men. Hadn’t they just beat the shit out of his “supermen"? He turned to two of his men lying flat on their backs on the side of the ditch.

“Hey! Kowalski! Davis!” he called. “Go check on that rig out there.”

The men looked outraged.

“Aw, come on, Sarge!” they complained in unison.

“Get a move on, dammit!” Barker snapped. He was in no mood to argue. The men got to their feet. Kowalski looked at the sergeant. His expression was one of utter disgust. Barker glared at him.

“And wipe that opinion off your face, or I’ll do it for you. Now move!”

“Okay, okay,” Kowalski grumbled. “Don’t get your balls in an uproar.”

The men started toward the wagon.

Barker watched them. He took a swig from his canteen. The men were sidling up to the wagon, which had stopped.

Barker kept an eye on the men. Just in case. They seemed to be concentrating on staying upwind from the rig. Kowalski circled the wagon, while Davis looked the driver over. Then they beat a hasty retreat.

When they came back to Barker they plopped down on the ground beside him.

“I wisht I hadn’t thrown away my gas mask,” Kowalski complained. “That damned thing’s full of shit!”

“That ain’t what it is, you dumb jerk,” Davis corrected him. “They call it ‘natural fertilizer.’ ”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t give a damn what they call it—it still stinks! Like a whole company couldn’t keep a tight asshole under fire!”

Barker looked at the men sourly.

“Okay,” he said. “You look it over good?”

“Sure. Nothing.” Kowalski eyed the sergeant. “What’d you expect us to find? Hitler’s secret weapon?” He looked toward the wagon. “Peeee-hew!” he said with feeling. “I knew them Krauts were full of shit, but I didn’t know they were spreading it around.”

Barker was about to snap at him, when Slater called from the road:

“Move them out, Sergeant!”

Barker got to his feet.

“Okay, you guys. Let’s go!”

The driver of the manure wagon dispassionately watched the GI’s move out. He scratched his left arm. He’d wanted to do it ever since the two Americans came over and he had suddenly begun to itch. The longer he waited, the more insistently he itched, but he’d deliberately kept himself from scratching as long as the soldiers were watching him.

He wondered why. He knew it would not have mattered. He knew they’d done a perfect job back at Thürenberg. There was no scar, no sign of the tattoo. Nothing to worry about.

He checked the time, squinting at a big vest-pocket watch.

Verflucht!
he thought with annoyance. They’d put him behind schedule.

He swatted the horses a couple of times with his long whip. “
Kür! Kür!
” he called to the beasts as they leaned into their harnesses, jerked the wheels of the heavy wagon from their ruts and slowly moved along. The farmer carefully fished a small object from his vest pocket. He held it in his cupped hand. He glanced at it.

It was a compass.

He pulled on the reins, altering his course slightly. He checked the compass again before putting it back in his pocket, and stopped the wagon.

With great care he placed his whip firmly in two metal clamps on the side of the driver’s seat.

He climbed down, walked to the rear of the wagon and turned off the spray of liquid manure. From a rack he hauled down a couple of sackcloth feedbags and walked with them toward the horses, which were watching him expectantly.

As he walked past the barrel body of the manure wagon he gave a couple of sharp raps on the wood with his knuckles.

Pitterman heard the raps.

He felt relief flooding him like a physical release. He hadn’t realized how tense his body had grown. When the warning raps had come a few minutes earlier he’d at once doused the light. . . .

He sat in utter darkness, utterly silent. He knew something was wrong, something was going on outside, and he strained to hear. But the only sound he could make out was the quick, rhythmic surge of his own blood, pounding in his ears.

He sat waiting. Tense. Taut. Alone.

The stench in his cramped cubicle suddenly became stifling to him. He was nauseated. He felt an overpowering urge to get out. Had they been discovered? Would a burst of submachine gun fire suddenly riddle the tank? What a way to die—huddled inside a stinking shit wagon!

He was suddenly angry. It was a great idea to put a compact mobile radio transmitter/receiver in one half of a working manure wagon. Who’d ever think to look there? A
prima
idea—if
you
were not the one cooped up inside for hours at a time. Waiting . . .

What the hell was going on out there? He strained to hear. Nothing . . .

The wagon slowly began to move. He could hear the liquid manure sloshing in the rear half of the tank. He gagged. Then he concentrated on figuring out what was going on outside.

The wagon was moving. Was it being lined up for directional transmission? Or was it being driven off someplace for examination?

It stopped. He heard the whip being placed in the holding clamps. He knew the metal core of the long whip was part of the directional antenna, which ran down each side of the tank, strung along the inside walls on insulator tabs. He knew the clamps completed the contact. The system was ready. But was the driver actually preparing for transmission? Or was he following orders from some enemy captor?

He heard the driver climb down and turn off the manure spray, and then came the raps—“Clear to transmit.”

Pitterman turned on the single light bulb. It glared off the sheet metal insulating his unorthodox radio shack.

He looked at his watch. They were two minutes late; in another minute contact could no longer be established. Quickly he went over his checklist. Batteries connected, compass azimuth heading correct; time/location table; frequency; recognition signal. He put on his earphones, checked the panel and began to send his call letters. Almost immediately his earphones started to emit the faint beeps of a message coming through.

Pitterman listened intently. For a while he wrote on a pad in the light of the single bulb. Then he signed off, and at once began to relay the transmission. . . .

Weiden

1739 hrs

A crisp dusk was already settling over the little town of Weiden when Erik and Don returned from Corps HQ.

They entered the jail and walked quickly toward the Interrogation Room. Erik felt keyed up. He and Don had laid their plans at Corps and started the ball rolling from there. Things had gone well. There’d been less than the usual snafu. At the door he turned to Don.

“Better pick up a couple of K rations, too. No telling how long we’ll be on the go.”

“Right.”

He pushed open the door. . . .

The girl had been crying. It was the first thing he noticed. He felt a quick surge of pity for her. She looked so damned vulnerable. He glanced away from her, acutely aware of doing so. Sergeant Murphy was sitting behind the desk. Erik glared at him.

Murphy was leaning back in his chair nonchalantly, smoking a cigarette, toying with a pencil and looking studiously self-important. He jumped to his feet.

“Oh! Hello, sir!” His surprised look changed to an embarrassed grin. “I—uh—I . .
.
”

He was fishing around for a face saver. He found it. He gestured toward Anneliese.

“You’ve got a visitor,” he announced brightly. “I’m sure you remember her, sir. But there’s some kind of trouble,” he finished lamely.

Erik remained silent. He scowled at the scene before him. Murphy began edging toward the door.

“Well—uh—if you don’t need me anymore, sir, I’ll—uh . . .”

He looked from one of the officers to the other.

“I thought maybe I could—help.” He was at the door.

“Thank you, Sergeant Murphy,” Don said pointedly. And Murphy was gone.

Don looked after him with a grin. Erik walked over to Anneliese. He was all right now. He looked at her.

“Now, what’s this all about?” he asked quietly. “I thought you’d be on your way by now.”

The girl looked up at him, her big eyes moist with misery.

“Yes, but—it’s only that I—I can’t . . .” Her voice broke. She lowered her head and began to cry softly. From the door Don called:

“Erik!”

Erik joined him. Don nodded toward the girl.

“Don’t get involved in anything now. We haven’t got much time.”

“I know!” Erik sounded sharper than he’d intended. It confused him. “We’re due at the farm in”—he glanced at his wristwatch—“in two hours. We’ll make it.”

“Not if you start playing Sir Galahad, we won’t. She could spell trouble.”

Erik felt a sudden flash of anger.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” he flared. “Do you have to find a witch on every broom?”

Don looked at him in surprise. He shrugged.

“Okay, old buddy,” he said pleasantly. “It’s your bonfire.”

He turned to leave. Erik stopped him.

“Look, Don,” he started. He glanced toward the girl. She had stopped crying and was drying her tears. What the hell’s the matter with me? he thought fiercely. It’s my problem. No good taking it out on Don. My damned problem, and I can’t keep walking away from it. “The kid’s in trouble.”