Order of Battle (33 page)

But Erik and Don were scanning the forest clearing. Neither of them had been watching Steiner.

And then, all through the area, little squares of turf began to move, some of them literally under the feet of the startled GIs. A strange spectacle began to unfold itself. One by one, square holes opened up, and from them emerged a band of sullen, grim Werewolves, clad in a weird conglomeration of mixed uniforms and civilian clothes.

Slowly, grudgingly, unwholesomely they rose from the ground. Like bubbles from a tar pit, Erik thought.

Some of the GIs began to round up the reluctant Germans and collect them in the center of the clearing; others, on orders from Lieutenant James, held their positions, ringing the area. . . .

Pfc Warnecke stood at the edge of the clearing, his back to a clump of spruce trees. He was tense. He hadn’t been allowed to forget the last time he was here. His MP buddies were still ribbing him for tripping and firing his weapon at nothing. Shit! But not this time. If he fired his gun this time, somebody would damn well know he’d been shot at!

He stared with grim determination at the scene before him, ready for anything. . . .

A few feet behind him the ground began to move. . . .

A square of turf stealthily, silently lifted up and began to slide away from a hidden dugout shaft.

Warnecke was unaware of it.

Warily a man’s head appeared in the dark hole, then his shoulders as he started to climb out. In his hand he held a bayonet, honed to razor sharpness. Noiselessly he emerged from the dugout, his eyes riveted on Warnecke’s back. . . .

Warnecke was absorbed in the drama being played out in the middle of the clearing. The I & R platoon officer—what was his name? James, Lieutenant James—was herding a couple of Werewolves toward the growing group of prisoners. Warnecke saw him turn and look in his direction—and suddenly whip up his gun to aim straight at him!

He felt the lightning chill of astonished shock knife through him, and at the instant James fired he hit the dirt!

He felt a heavy weight crash down across his back—and inches from his face a gleaming bayonet blade buried itself a full half foot into the ground.

For a brief moment he lay in uncomprehending shock. Then he felt warm moisture spreading across his hand and arm. He yanked it free and stared at it.

Blood . . .

And he suddenly knew.

With gagging revulsion he rolled from under the dead Werewolf. He stared at the body in horrified amazement. He shuddered. Then he turned toward James.

“Thanks, Lieutenant!” He wanted in the worst way to follow up with some sort of clever wisecrack. He couldn’t think of any. And he knew he couldn’t trust his voice.

“Just watch your step, soldier!” James raised his voice. “That goes for all of you! Watch yourselves! These guys are tricky. Don’t give ’em a chance. Team up! Back to back. Team up!”

At once the GIs moved to seek out partners. Erik turned to Steiner.

“You! How many more dugout entrances are there?”

Steiner looked at him coldly. He shrugged.

“I cannot tell you.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?” Erik snapped angrily.

“I do not know more than one other.” Steiner pointed to an already exposed shaft opening. “No man knows more than his own and one other. It is for security.”

Erik studied the man briefly, then he turned away from him. He raised his voice:

“
Achtung! Achtung!
he called. “In ten minutes the roster of Kampfgruppe Karl will be called. Any man found hiding after the roster has been called will be shot! I repeat; Any man found hiding after the roster has been called will be shot!”

From a dugout shaft close to Don a man climbed out. He looked around, placed his hands on his head and stared at Don.

Don looked him over. The man wore a wide grin. The bastard thinks it’s all fun and games, does he? Don thought. He felt annoyed.

“What the hell’s with you?” he growled.

The man’s grin widened. He answered in heavily accented English, obviously proud of his accomplishment.

“It is you,” he stated.

Don scowled at him.

“Who’d you expect? Adolf Schicklgruber?” His voice was acid.

“You are lucky to be alive!”

“Can’t argue with that, in general. But why in particular?”

The man looked fleetingly uncertain.

“I do not know what you mean,” he said. “But it is you I saw. Here. This morning.” Don listened with interest. “We saw you. You and your men,” the German continued. “It is only because we have orders to not shoot unless we are discovered that we did not kill all of you. You are lucky that you did not find us. If you had—”

Don interrupted him.

“‘If is a tricky little word in the English language, Buster,” he said dryly. “No telling
what
it predicts. Look around you!”

The clearing was crowding with Werewolf captives. And still they crawled from the underground shelters. A couple of GIs were hauling a man from a shaft by his collar. Curiously they peered down into the hole.

“Hey, lookit!” one of them called. “They got themselves a motorbike down there! Hot damn!”

Erik had been looking over the papers he’d found on Steiner. He walked up to Don.

“This is dynamite,” he said, unable to keep the excitement out of his voice. “Pure dynamite! There are references here to the three other units. The operational units. A, B and C. And there’s a list of outside agents and their areas of operation. Their SOP security setup. Everything!”

“We better get that stuff back to Corps right away.”

Erik nodded.

“We’ll take the general along. Evans and James can handle things here.”

“Anyway, James can!” They walked over to Krueger.

“Please come with us, General,” Erik said. “We are leaving here.”

Krueger looked at him.

“I have one request.” He spoke with quiet dignity.

“What is it?”

“My uniform is in the executive dugout.” He glanced down at his Bavarian farmer’s clothes with faint distaste. “I request permission to change.”

Don pulled Erik aside. He spoke urgently.

“Watch it, Erik. He was caught in civvies. You know the rules.”

“I know.”

“He’s tricky!”

“Look. The guy’d probably feel a lot better if he could face our brass in uniform and not dressed like some cruddy fanner. What’s the difference? The record’ll show he was taken in civvies. Besides, if we grant him his request now we can put him a little in our debt. Might make him more apt to cooperate later on.”

Don was not convinced. He shrugged reluctantly.

“Okay, it’s your neck.” He grinned. “Guess you’re so used to having it stuck out you can’t stop!”

Erik smiled. “I’ll go down there with him. I want to take a look around before we take off anyway.”

He called:

“Warnecke! Over here!”

The MP came trotting up. Major Evans joined the group. Erik turned to Warnecke.

“You come with me,” he said. “We’re going down into the general’s dugout.”

He started for the entrance to the executive dugout. Evans stopped him.

“If you’re going down there,” he said, “I want to go along. I want to see this Werewolf layout.”

Both Erik and Don turned to him.

“Major!” Don exclaimed with mock surprise. “I thought you didn’t believe in Werewolves!”

Evans reddened. But he kept his silence. Erik motioned to Krueger.

“Okay, General. Let’s go.”

Krueger nodded. Briskly he started toward the shaft.

Erik’s attention never left Krueger as he followed the Werewolf general down into the command dugout, yet he was able to get a good picture of the ingenious installation.

In the square “planter tray” forming the “lid” to the entrance shaft grew the same grasses and weeds as on the surrounding forest floor. When in place, resting on the four massive corner posts of the shaft, exactly level with the ground, it was virtually impossible to detect. Erik could attest to that.

The shaft itself had a permanent ladder built onto one side. It was some ten feet deep and shored up with rough planks.

Erik joined Krueger at the bottom of the ladder. The dugout itself was lighted by several naked bulbs strung along the wooden ceiling, seven feet high. He looked around.

He was in a room he estimated to be about eight by six feet. The shaft entrance was located in one corner. Immediately to the left was a crude double-decker bunk. Weapons crates, ammo and grenade boxes lined the walls, which were made of unfinished lumber. Like being inside a giant packing crate, he thought.

Two open doorways reaching all the way to the ceiling led to other chambers. Krueger headed for the one at the far left of the shaft chamber. Erik followed. He was aware of Evans and War-necke coming down the ladder from above.

He glanced into the room on his right as he passed the open doorway. It was about the same size as the first chamber. It, too, had a double-decker bunk, and along the far wall a competent-looking radio receiver-transmitter setup was installed. Here crates and boxes were also piled in every possible place, and along one entire wall rows of stacked batteries loomed heavily. Power, Erik realized, for the radio and for the sparse dugout illumination.

Krueger entered the third room. It was the size of the two other chambers combined and quite obviously his own quarters and those of his immediate staff.

Two double-decker bunks formed an angle in the near right corner. One of them, standing against the right wall, had a curtain which could be drawn across it. Erik briefly wondered if it was Krueger or his female staff members who required the privacy.

Facing the open doorway was a table strewn with papers and books. Behind it and on the left wall large area maps had been tacked up. Even here crates and boxes took up all available space. Several automatic weapons were stacked against one of the bunks.

Krueger walked to an open clothes rack standing against the far wall. His boot steps sounded hollow on the wooden planks.

Drainage system below the flooring, Erik’s mind registered. Probably leading to a sump pit.

He looked up. In the ceiling where the open doorway joined the two areas he saw an air vent fan. It was not working. He couldn’t help being impressed. The air vents from this dugout and from the others as well had to run up through the trunks of the trees growing on the dirt roofs. Only way they could remain undetected.

Krueger turned toward Erik. He waited.

Erik went to sit on the corner of the table. Evans entered the room. He looked around, trying just a little too hard to seem unimpressed. He went over to inspect one of the wall maps, as War-necke took up position in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, cradling his carbine in his arms.

“Go ahead, General,” Erik said pleasantly. “Sorry I can’t give you more privacy.” He indicated the stacked weapons. “I wouldn’t want you to succumb to temptation.”

Krueger smiled a small, wry smile. He inclined his head slightly.

“Of course.”

He turned to the clothes rack, selected a uniform and laid it on the bunk. He began to shrug out of his Bavarian jacket.

Erik watched him. He felt good. The operation was paying off after all. Everything was going his way. Idly he began to riffle through the papers on Krueger’s desk. He’d gather them all together. Take them back to Corps. You never knew what you might find.

Krueger was unbuttoning his vest. Erik let his eyes roam the chamber.

“Tell me, General, the other units—are they underground, too?”

Erik’s manner was disarmingly informal. He gave the impression of simply making small talk.

Krueger seemed not to hear him, but he stiffened slightly.

“Oh, come on, General,” Erik bantered. “We
have
all your records!”

Krueger was removing his coarse peasant shirt. He sat down on the bunk and began to take off his boots. He glanced up at Erik with his special little smile.

“Yes. They are,” he said matter-of-factly.

“So your outside agents fed you information. You’d pick the targets and send your orders to the operational unit nearest to it. They’d mount a force of Werewolves, make the strike, and disappear back into their cozy little homes away from home in the ground.”

“That was the plan.”

Krueger was pulling off his heavy woolen socks.

“And Ike?” It was a casual question.

The German officer faltered imperceptibly. Then he quickly continued to undress.

“Ike?” His tone of voice had the exact inflection of polite curiosity. No more.

“The Supreme Allied Commander. General Dwight D. Eisenhower to you.”

“I do not know what you mean.” Krueger sounded distant. There was an unmistakable tone of dismissal in his voice.

Erik smiled. He was amused.

“Oh, come now, General,” he said good-naturedly. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He looked at Krueger.

“The assassination,” he supplied helpfully. “Did you really think you could get to him?”

Krueger said nothing. He stood up and turned his back to the Americans. Erik waited. He’d give the man a little time to think. To realize how completely his entire operation had failed. He looked at the German officer. He was amused to see that the Werewolf general wore long underwear. But then it must get cold in that damp, unheated dugout. He didn’t blame the man for wanting a bowl of hot soup in front of a nice warm fire. He let his mind dwell on the scene in the hut. Krueger must have felt quite safe when the first search of the forest by the infantry failed to discover the Werewolf installation. Safe enough to leave the dugout and go to the hut. Erik grinned to himself. He sure owed a lot to a bowl of soup!

Krueger had almost finished getting into his uniform. Erik began to gather together the papers from the general’s table. He glanced only perfunctorily at them as he picked them up.

Krueger was buttoning his uniform tunic. He turned back toward the others. Above the right breast pocket of his field-gray tunic gleamed the silver
Hoheitsabzeichen,
the German eagle clutching a swastika; above the left was an impressive row of ribbons representing both military and Nazi decorations. The second buttonhole down boasted the red, white and black ribbon of the Iron Cross. The transformation from Bavarian peasant to Wehrmacht general was startling.