Rhineland Inheritance (11 page)

Another half hour, and the last of the gangs had been brought forward, their arms filled, their details taken, their mission stated. Jake watched them disappear into the distance with a sense of numb fatigue.

“A miracle,” said a gentle voice behind him. “One of the most incredible miracles I have witnessed in this entire war.”

Jake did not need to turn around to know who spoke. “You were drafted as the contact point,” he told the chaplain. “It appears that every gang in the city knows who you are.”

“Seven hundred and thirty-six,” Sally announced triumphantly as she walked up beside him. “Fifty-nine gangs in all.”

“And we ran out of our own supplies right at four hundred,” Servais said, drawing up alongside. “The rest came from Stores.”

“A modern-day version of the loaves and fishes,” Chaplain Fox said. “This is a day for signs and wonders.”

“Ah, excuse me,” a stranger said, walking up to the group. “Could I ask who is in charge here?”

Chaplain Fox pointed at Jake's chest. “He is.”

“I'm Dr. Weaver. Harry Weaver. I'm a surgeon at the local
base hospital. A couple of my colleagues and I were down here for a conference this morning, and, well, we were wondering if perhaps we might be able to help with your project.” He motioned toward where the last of the departing children were vanishing down the road. “We thought we might be able to vaccinate them, maybe set up a clinic or do rounds for a couple of days, something like that.”

“Signs and wonders,” Chaplain Fox repeated. He patted Jake on the shoulder, said, “You heard the colonel, Jake. Carry on.”

Chapter Eight

Pierre and Jake drove south to Oberkirch, too overcome by the morning's events to speak. They traveled in silence, their senses open and filled by the surrounding countryside. The day had turned bright and crisp, the air scented by the forest and farmland through which they passed.

Military traffic was heavy, but mostly headed in the opposite direction. The Americans were either consolidating their men and equipment into the region around Karlsruhe or moving it farther east, in anticipation of the French army's arrival.

The base was a hive of activity. Platoons were being lined up and marched into waiting trucks. Piles of equipment were checked and sorted and loaded. Men marched and shouted and whistled and gestured wildly, competing with the din of a hundred revving truck and tank engines.

The staff headquarters was set in a relatively quiet alcove, separated from the main garrison grounds by a grove of trees. Jake and Pierre were halfway down the walkway when, from the top of the HQ stairway, an all-too-familiar voice stopped their progress.

“Well, well, well.” Colonel Charles Connors had a reed-thin voice that adapted well to his air of perpetual disapproval. “Could this truly be the famous Captain Burnes?”

Jake snapped to attention, his eyes straight ahead. “Morning, sir.”

“Yes, I do believe it is.” Connors walked down three steps, pausing on the next to last so as to be able to look Jake straight in the eye. “What a pleasure it is to see you again, Captain.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Connors had an undersized body encased in a blanket of lard. His thinning strands of hair were Brylcreamed and laid across his skull in a vague attempt to hide his widening
bald spot. He had no chin to speak of. His eyes were a pair of pale blue marbles. His nose was a sparrow's beak, barely substantial enough to support his eyeglasses. His mustache was pencil-thin and quivered as he spoke.

“It appears that I shall be seeing more of you than either of us expected, Captain.”

“Happy to hear that, sir,” Jake ground out.

“Yes, I'm sure you will be interested to hear that my authority to maintain law and order has been extended to include the region around Badenburg. That is, until the French arrive, of course.” The blue eyes glinted. “Which means I shall be required to keep a very close watch over you, Captain.”

“Then I'll certainly know where to turn if I ever have a question about right and wrong, sir.”

The colonel reddened, subsided, and turned to Servais. “And who do we have here?”

Pierre snapped to attention. “Captain Servais, sir.”

“Ah, yes. The gallant Frenchman who almost cost me half a guard detail.”

“The road was very icy, sir.”

“Yes, what a pity. Well, Captain, I would advise you to choose your companions with greater care. Captain Burnes here is what we could class in our army as a bad influence.” Connors cast a disparaging eye down the front of Jake's uniform. “There are all sorts of ways for a man without scruples to gain a chestful of medals.”

“Sir, I resent—”

“Dismissed, Captain,” Connors snapped. Then, as they turned away, he continued. “Oh, by the way. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you, Captain. My men were forced to arrest several of your former team for inciting a riot in the camp the other evening. In any case, they got into a fight among themselves during the night. Several of them required hospitalization, I'm afraid. It appears that this football idea was not quite the morale booster that you and others made it out to be. The Germans are enemy soldiers and must be treated as such.”

“You mean your animals waded into a bunch of helpless prisoners and took them apart,” Jake said bitterly.

“I shall pretend that I did not hear that wild and careless accusation,” the colonel said with pleasure. “And you watch your step, Captain. You can rest assured that I certainly will.”

Once they had completed their official business, their return journey was held to a slow, dusty crawl. An endless line of trucks, armored personnel carriers, battle tanks, and heavy-equipment conveyors filled the road. Pierre waited until they had placed several hours between them and Oberkirch before asking Jake, “So who is this Connors, anyway?”

“Connors is a product of what I call the limousine school of war,” Jake replied. “He went directly from OCS to a posting in Washington, and weaseled his way up the ladder from behind the safety of a desk.”

“There are officers of this caliber in every corps,” Pierre replied.

“Yeah, so I've heard. Connors is a special case, though. He's managed to make quite a name for himself. I was amazed at how many people were eager to give me the lowdown on him when I arrived in Germany.”

“What brought him over from Washington?”

“Oh, he sort of resigned himself to the fact that Major Connors would never become General Connors unless he accepted an overseas posting. There was a problem, though.”

Pierre made the sound of a clucking hen.

“Give the man a cigar,” Jake confirmed. “Connors values his own skin above everything else, and his own comfort a close second.”

“I can think of several French officers who are close relations of our dear colonel,” Pierre mused. “Birds of a feather, you might say.”

“With great care and after much deliberation,” Jake continued, “Connors selected a posting to the general staff of the Sixth Army. He waited until the Germans looked pretty
well whipped, but not to the point where they were ready to roll over and play dead. The staff headquarters was being moved every week or so, as the front rolled on across Belgium and into Germany. Connors figured he wouldn't have much trouble finding a deep, dark hole if the Germans ever tried to attack.”

“Something went wrong,” Pierre guessed.

Jake nodded. “Connors failed to take into account the command mentality of the Sixth Army's chief, General George Patton. Patton hates these pencil pushers almost as much as I do.”

“As
we
do, mon Capitaine,” Pierre corrected. “Don't leave me out of this.”

“Right. So according to scuttlebutt, what followed then were the six most harrowing months of Connors' life. He survived—”

“Alas,” Pierre interjected. “While too many good men went down.”

“And he gained his colonel's wings,” Jake went on. “But he also gained a reputation among the battle-hardened officers.”

“One with the fragrance of sun-ripened Gorgonzola,” Pierre suggested.

“Something like that. So instead of being posted to Nuremberg or Berlin or another of the great centers of post-war activity, Connors found himself relegated to this backwater near the French border.”

“Not the place where one might be expected to have the chance to gain a general's star.” Pierre shook his head. “What a pity.”

“Rumor has it,” Jake replied, “that his commanding officer told him he had almost as much chance of making general as the porcupine did of becoming America's favorite house pet.”

“A bitter pill,” Pierre said.

“So when I arrived in Oberkirch, I found the gallant colonel busy gathering a company of toughs in MP uniforms. Why, nobody could figure out, but there were a lot of ideas floating
around. The one I liked best was that the general's straight talk had turned Colonel Connors into a certified loon.”

Sally Anders put it more succinctly that evening over dinner. “Connors is a toad,” she declared.

Jake feigned shock. “You're speaking of a superior officer.”

“A great hairy toad,” she insisted.

“Toads don't have hair,” Pierre pointed out.

“This one does,” she countered.

“Not that much,” Jake said.

“And warts,” Sally went on. “I bet he even catches flies with his tongue.”

They ate together in the Officers' Mess because Sally had refused to dine with either of them alone, although both had invited her. Jake had even asked twice. Her reply was, you make too good a team to have it broken up fighting over a woman.

Pierre said, “I still don't understand why Connors went after you that way.”

“All this fuss over a football game,” Jake agreed.

“It doesn't have anything to do with the game,” Sally replied. “Not directly, anyway.”

“I don't understand.”

“You gave people something they've been looking for,” Sally explained. “A good reason to laugh at Connors. A group of half-starved German POWs beat Connors' prize battalion at their own game, and did it because they used strategy instead of strength. You punctured the balloon of his dignity, Jake. You showed him for the pompous idiot he is. And he hates you for it.”

“How do you know Connors so well?” Pierre asked.

“Jake isn't the only one Connors has bulldozed. We've got several here on our staff who are still nursing wounds.”

“We have?”

“Anybody who's seen as a threat to Connors' ambitions is given the chopping block as soon as possible.” Sally smiled
at Jake. “Given the level of your diplomatic skills, soldier, I'm surprised you lasted as long as you did.”

“You should have heard Connors today,” Pierre said, and related the episode on the HQ front steps.

“That man is a menace in uniform,” Sally declared.

“You won't find much argument with us on that point,” Jake said.

“I can't believe he'd do such a thing to innocent men,” she fumed. “You're going to have to do something, Jake.”

He nodded. “I've been thinking about that.”

“And watch your step. You're taking care of a lot right now. Don't forget yourself.” She lit up. “No, wait; I've got an idea.”

“Suddenly there's a dangerous light in your eyes,” Jake said anxiously.

Sally leaned conspiratorially across the table. “Do we agree that Connors shouldn't be allowed to get away with this?”

“Sure, but—”

“No buts,” she said sharply. “Did you know that the man's in love with his jeep?”

“He is?” Pierre asked.

“Sure,” Jake replied. “Everybody who's ever served with Connors knows about that jeep. He keeps it in a special shed just outside the Oberkirch camp. Every day he manages to catch some poor enlisted man doing something wrong, just so he can order him to wash and wax it.”

Pierre's eyes widened. “Wax a jeep?”

“It's the truth, I promise,” Jake said. “Had these little throw rugs on the floor, made us scrape off our boots before getting in. Crazy.”

“Okay, okay,” Sally interrupted. “We already know the man's a maniac. Now what I suggest is we hit him where it hurts.”

“The question is,” Jake countered. “How much is it going to hurt us?”

“Not at all if we're careful.” Sally was on her feet. “You
two go get into your dirtiest fatigues. Meet me back here in an hour.”

“Where are you going?”

“I've got to see a friend in Stores.”

Chapter Nine

The next day, Jake tried to still his queasy stomach as he knocked on Colonel Beecham's door. He found some comfort in the greenish, pasty shade of Servais' face. When the muffled voice thundered from within, Jake swallowed once, turned the handle, and entered.

Beecham's weary expression deepened when they came into view. “Not you two,” he groaned. “What do you want now?”

“You sent for us, sir,” Jake pointed out.

“Impossible. The only reason I'd do that would be to hand you a pair of postings to Antarctica.”

“Does that mean we're dismissed, sir?”

“No, you're here, so I might as well get to the bottom of this.” He inspected the two men. “What are you doing in dress uniforms?”

“Our fatigues were, ah, stained, sir.”

“Well, go over to Stores and draw out some more. I can't have my men marching around looking like a pair of parade-ground heroes.” The colonel shuffled through his papers until he found one. “I've got a requisition order from Stores here. Do you know anything about it?”

Jake and Pierre exchanged baffled glances. “We haven't asked for anything, sir.”

“Not you directly. It's from some doctor or other. Le'see, he wants syringes, inoculations for everything from typhus to the yellow peril, and enough other stuff to outfit a field hospital.” Beecham lowered the page. “Does this have something to do with those kids?”