Blackbone (18 page)

Chilton pushed the report across to Hopkins with a flourish that ended in a burnt-hand gesture. Hopkins studied it a long moment, impressed by the crisp typing and even paragraphing. Chilton did great work.

Hopkins unceremoniously tore the report in half, then in half again. He crumpled the pieces and dropped them into his wastebasket. Chilton was stunned.

“Nice work, Corporal,” said Hopkins. “Two weeks in L.A., earliest opportunity.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“On one condition?”
 

“Sir?”

“If that story gets back to you with some details a little out of joint, don’t bother to correct them, get me?”

Chilton didn’t quite get him, but he nodded anyway.

“After all,” said Hopkins, “losing your command for refusing an order and punching a general in the bargain—that’s bad news. Word gets around, former light colonel Gilman could lose whatever friends he’s making here.”

Chilton was puzzled. “Yes, sir, but... it was more the general’s fault, don’t you think?”

Hopkins eyed him coldly. “The way I hear the story, it sounds more like Oilman blew it. It’s going to sound that way to you, too, when you come back from L.A.”

Chilton stared at him. Finally, he got it.

Hopkins seemed uncommonly smug when he reported to Gilman after the morning roll call. Gilman ignored it and showed him a dispatch. “Got a job suited to your talents, Hopkins. Prepare accommodations for a visitor. Someone from the State Department is en route here to interview the prisoner Kirst. What are you grinning at?”

“Nothing much, sir,” said Hopkins. “Just recalling that last night you wouldn’t let me put the screws to him, now here comes the State Department.”

“I doubt the two things are related, and I hope whoever they’re sending is at least marginally more qualified than you.”

Hopkins’ grin froze.

“Let’s just concentrate on the job at hand, okay? State wants to question a captured German submariner, that’s all there is to it. So we’ll go out of our way to cooperate with this”—he glanced at the cable—”Mr. Holloway.”

There were a dozen men in Hut 10 when Gebhard entered. Everybody else was outside, involved in a mass soccer game. The Luftwaffe had challenged the Navy. Gebhard couldn’t care less: he was interested neither in soccer nor interservice rivalry. At the moment he was disgusted, angry, and brooding. Spotting Kirst on a sofa, Gebhard walked past him, glared at him, then took a table less than five yards away.

Gebhard picked up a worn deck of cards and began shuffling. He looked around. The others were occupied in relaxing. There was a sullenness among them that Gebhard attributed to last night’s events and Kirst’s presence in the room. Nobody liked him now, Gebhard realized with satisfaction. Even his own wild suspicions no longer mattered: he had something else to hate Kirst for.

Directly or indirectly, in Gebhard’s view, Kirst was responsible for the shower hut being closed. For that, Gebhard could never forgive him. Gebhard loved his showers.

Dortmunder and Hoffman finished a game of gin rummy and leaned back, studying Kirst. “How’s your periscope, Kirst?” said Hoffman. Dortmunder spat a laugh. Kirst didn’t move. Not getting a rise out of him, Hoffman looked around for someone else to needle.

Eckmann walked in, happier than usual, waving a letter from his wife.

Hoffman scooted up to the table, grabbed the cards, expertly shuffled and cut, winked at Dortmunder, then said, “Eckmann, what’s that you’ve got there?”

Eckmann came over, proudly displaying the letter. “From Frieda,” he said.

“Is that so?” said Hoffman, hardly surprised. Eckmann got them at the rate of one or two a month. His wife was a devoted pen pal. “Come and sit down, Eckmann.”

Eckmann drew up a chair and held the letter in his outstretched hands. The envelope was slit. He had already read it. Probably ten times, Hoffman decided.

“Eckmann,” he said, “you depend too much on those letters. You don’t play soccer, you don’t play cards, you don’t joke—your whole life is wrapped up in Frieda.”

Dortmunder snickered. He leaned toward Eckmann. “Come and sit on my lap, little Frieda!” He snatched Eckmann’s letter and placed it on his thigh. Eckmann tried to grab it back, but Dortmunder scooted his chair aside.

“Easy, Eckmann,” said Hoffman. “Dortmunder just wants to hold it. You know, he hasn’t held anything softer than Bruckner’s dog since he arrived here.”

Eckmann hesitated, frowning. They were always playing games, these two. Ordinarily he could take it, but he hated it when they picked on his devotion to Frieda.

Dortmunder rubbed the letter across his crotch. “Ah, my gorgeous Frieda,” he murmured. “Your breasts white as twin alps, your legs like alabaster columns, your cunt—” He slapped the letter up to his nose and sniffed.

Eckmann jumped up. Hoffman got between them. Dortmunder opened the letter and shoved his fingers into the envelope, stirring them about with a lascivious grin. Eckmann shook with anger at the way his property was being defiled.

Dortmunder drew something out of the envelope and held it pressed between his thumb and forefinger. It was a single curly hair. “God in heaven,” he said. “She has sent him a hair from her pussy!”

“Damn you!” Eckmann lunged at Dortmunder. Hoffman slammed him backward. Eckmann collapsed into his chair.

Fascinated, Dortmunder waved the hair before his eyes. “Brunette.... Eckmann, I thought your Frieda was a blonde.”

“Go disembowel yourself.”

Dortmunder brought the hair to his nose, swayed in ecstasy, then sniffed loudly. He grimaced and dropped the hair with a cry of disgust.

“What’s the matter?” said Hoffman.

Dortmunder wrinkled his nose. “Christ, that’s not from her pussy at all. It’s from her asshole.”

Eckmann kicked his chair back then grabbed the table and overturned it. Cards scattered. He snatched his letter from Dortmunder’s lap.

“I’m not finished,” Dortmunder said.

“You—you—” Eckmann could hardly get the words out. “My wife is the most beautiful woman on earth! You would be lucky if she lowered herself to look at you—”

“I would be lucky if she lowered herself on this.” Dortmunder gripped his crotch. “And that’s probably what she’s been doing since you’ve been gone. Face it, Eckmann—you had one day of marriage. Letters are easy to write. Keeping her legs closed is a bit harder.”

“He’s right,” Hoffman agreed. “No woman would put that much on paper unless she had a lot to atone for. She does it to conceal her sins.”

Shaken, Eckmann stuffed the letter into his pocket and backed away from them and turned—

To see Kirst staring at him.

He whirled and ran for the door, pursued by laughter.

Through it all, Gebhard had watched Kirst. As soon as Hoffman and Dortmunder started their game, Kirst’s face had become a mask. Whatever his response to Eckmann’s razzing—if he had a response—he was not letting it show. Now the empty look shifted to Gebhard.

And for just a flash, Gebhard thought he saw an indescribably hideous grin.

The soccer game was raucous and half-assed. Rules were ignored because everybody knew the game was merely a cover for committee meetings, which were always held during mass physical activity in order to foil the MPs. There was no way so many key people could meet at night or in the huts without attracting the sentries’ attention.

The committees were everywhere. The food committee was meeting among a cheering section of Luftwaffe officers, discussing how to more equitably divide up the Red Cross parcels due the following week. The health committee was meeting outside the
Krankenhaus,
where the medic, Leutnant Cuno, had set up an emergency field hospital complete with two stretchers and a first-aid table. Behind him, two National Socialist army officers argued with the number two medic, Leutnant Heilbruner, about getting priority care in the event of a flu epidemic. Heilbruner stated flatly that, if that were enforced, he would withhold services.

The escape committee was on the warm-up bench and, like the players, stripped down to shorts, undershirts, and bare feet. The ground was icy cold, so most sat cross-legged or with legs tucked beneath them. There were Steuben, Bruckner and Churchill, and three others.

Steuben and Bruckner applauded as their side thwarted a near goal. In the ensuing brawl, two Navy men were flattened and had to be carried off amid much boisterous laughter.

Steuben nodded to Mueller that he could join them now. Mueller strolled over and squatted down in front of the escape committee. “All right, Mueller,” said Steuben, “let’s hear your plan.”

Mueller nodded toward Blackbone Mountain. “The old mine cave-in near the fence.”

“What about it?” said Steuben.

“Look at it.”

They all looked. Not much of it was visible, just a depression in the ground surrounded by winter-dried bushes, behind it a bulge in the hill, and above that the fence line.

“Digging at night, I believe I can cut through that and get into the main shaft.”

“With what?” said Bruckner.

“Tools made from ration tins, homemade shovels, and scoops concealed beneath one of the huts.”

“You’d be seen easily.”

“I can rig a simple lean-to around those bushes with sticks sunk into the ground, a blanket thrown over them, and a layer of dirt over that. Even in daylight, it will look exactly as it does now. And if it snows—even better.”

“How long to do the digging?” Steuben asked.

“Not more than a few days.”

Steuben eyed the cave-in skeptically. “Not enough time. As soon as supplies arrive, they’re going to move that fence. In any case, I would think the entire shaft collapsed back when they blew up that entrance.”

“If that were true,” said Mueller, “you would see depressed ground all the way up to the fence and beyond. I’m convinced that no more than the first twenty feet could have sustained damage. We can get through that easily. The important thing is that this shaft goes up into the mountains and lets out on the other side of Blackbone. I’ve heard the MPs mention a river over there. The miners who used to work here had to have a river to transport ore, which means that this is the back door... and the main entrance is on the
river
side. They blew up this end to keep us from using the tunnel, but they wouldn’t have bothered with the other side. It
should
still be open.” Mueller beamed. “And as for moving the fence, we’ll worry about that when those supplies arrive.”

“They could have closed the other end,” said Steuben. “It could have collapsed. You just don’t know.”

“Could it hurt to go in and find out?”

Steuben hesitated.

“Sir, I’m sure we can get through. We can find the river, wade upstream so we don’t leave a trail, find a farmhouse, steal a vehicle and some food—Why are you laughing?”

Steuben forced himself to be serious. “Where will you go?”

“Canada.”

“Ah, yes, Canada. One of the Fatherland’s staunchest allies, Herr Mueller. Good thinking. Bold, daring—you’re a determined adventurer, but unrealistic. You have no maps, no idea of terrain or distance, or whether there are any nearby farms, or whether they have vehicles or food, or whether the river flows north, south, west, or east.... This is winter. The big storms are about to hit us. You’re in enemy country, planning to escape to another enemy country. Trading one bad situation for another. And all to no purpose. No, Leutnant Mueller, I cannot permit you to endanger your life and the lives of others.”

The soccer game erupted in their laps. The ball arrived on a rebound off someone’s knee. With it came a frantic pile of players. The escape committee scattered off the bench and re-formed at the goal line. Mueller was incensed. “It is the duty of officers to escape,” he told Steuben.

“I know that, Mueller. But there is no point in being utterly foolish. If you wish to present the committee with a more viable plan, we are prepared to hear you. But forget this—it won’t work.” He turned to the others. “Do I speak for all of us?”

They nodded. Bruckner added, “I hope you realize, Major, that the very reasons you’re giving Mueller apply to
any
escape attempt.” He looked around the valley and said, “Escape to where?”

Mueller wheeled and departed angrily. The committee broke up. Several of them joined the game as replacements. Bruckner took Churchill for a pee and a drink. Steuben reflected on what Bruckner had said—Of course there was nowhere to go, and the committee would go on rejecting ideas that risked lives. But they couldn’t flatly turn down every single escape plan. Some attempts might be worthwhile—even if they failed, they would cause the Americans considerable trouble. Orders were the same for all prisoners everywhere—escape if you can—confuse and confound the enemy. But Mueller was a fanatic for personal reasons, and that made him dangerous.

Steuben saw Hopkins approaching, flanked by MPs and grinning at Steuben’s underwear. He called out, “Too bad your men are working up such a glorious sweat. The shower hut is still off limits. I don’t suppose Kirst has confessed yet, has he?”

“No.”