On Desperate Ground (16 page)

Hettstedt looked at the unfamiliar buildings. Three identical, two-story, long rectangles, each painted a drab gray, stood before him. He chose the one on the right and entered the main door. It opened to a hallway, noise and laughter spilling out from a door marked ‘Officer’s Mess’. Hettstedt looked around, saw no one else, and decided someone there might know where to find Colonel Faust. The room was small, smoke-filled, and crowded with junior officers. Most were eating their mid-day meal, some were drinking, and a tall
Leutnant
wearing the blue field uniform of the Luftwaffe parachute troops was playing a piano in the far corner. Loudly. It was a jazz tune, and his long-fingered hands danced across the keys. Hettstedt puffed out his chest and wove between the tables of officers, some of whom were tapping their feet in time to the music.

“How dare you play this degenerate Negroid music! In a military establishment of all places! Don’t you know this form of music has been outlawed?” Hettstedt imagined he cut a terrifying figure in his black boots, SS uniform and black leather trench coat.  
The young
Leutnant
looked up with a barely suppressed laugh on his face. “Hey boys, who let the doorman in?”
 

The room erupted in raucous laughter.
 

“I will put you on report for this!” raged Hettstedt, his voice shaking with fury as he turned to scan the room. “All of you. I’ll see you in a penal battalion!”

Leutnant
Herbert Benedikt unfolded his six-foot three-inch frame from the piano bench. He stood very close to Hettstedt, looking down at him. “Good, go ahead. I don’t give a damn. It could not be worse than this farce of an operation. What are you doing here? This area is restricted.”
 

“I am here for a meeting with Colonel Faust,” Hettstedt said officiously, seeing that he was not intimidating this young officer. He tried a different tack. “Take me to him now.”

Benedikt glanced at his watch, shrugging his shoulders. “It is about time. Follow me.” Glancing at his fellow officers lounging around the tables, he smiled at them and said, “Don’t drink all the beer, boys. I will be back with my new friend, and he will need a drink.”

Everyone laughed, and Hettstedt suddenly felt very uneasy.

Leutnant
Benedikt strode toward the last barracks building, which housed Colonel Faust and the staff overseeing Operation Gambit. Hettstedt huffed and half-ran to keep up with the paratroop officer, whose half-smile never seemed to leave his lips.

Herbert Benedikt had joined the elite Luftwaffe parachute troops as soon as he was old enough. His dream had always been to jump into thin air and float to the ground. The idea had fascinated him, as had music in all its forms. He was as likely to play Beethoven or other approved composers as he was jazz or ragtime, but it appealed to his sense of humor that the SS officer had come in as he was in the middle of a jazz riff. His comrades had nicknamed him Benny because he liked big band music and listened to the outlawed BBC broadcasts whenever he could.

He had gotten out of the potentially dangerous situation with Hettstedt by bluffing and attacking, throwing his adversary off guard. It had worked today just like it had worked in combat many times. He had been in training at the start of the war, but quickly became a combat veteran after drops in Crete and Sicily. He had fought in the Italian mountains and in
bocage
country in northwestern France. He had gone into the Battle of the Bulge leading a reinforced company of paratroopers riding on the backs of Tiger tanks. Now that company was less than half the size, made up of hardened veterans, some of whom had been with Benedikt since the beginning. They had been assigned to Operation Gambit as part of the covering force, in support of the Russian and American uniformed elements. Benedikt thought the plan was crazy, and after surviving four years of combat, did not relish the thought of ending the war by purposefully placing himself and his men right between the advancing Allied forces. He fervently hoped the plan would never need be put into operation.
Orders are orders,
he thought as he opened the door to the main barracks with a sigh,
but these are insane
. While he had obeyed every order given him, he had done so with an open disdain and sarcasm so obvious he was sure Faust would dismiss him. No such luck came his way. Faust cared only about results, not appearances, and Benedikt had delivered, more than Faust had even hoped for. He led Hettstedt through the outer offices, where clerks and a radio operator scurried through their duties.
 

* * *

Dieter Neukirk walked up to the wall map with a radio transcript in his hand. Pulling a red pencil from his pocket he drew arrows approaching Küstrin and Sagan in the east. With a blue pencil he marked the Rhine town of Remagen, which the Americans were drawing close. He stepped back, trying to see the plan that Faust divined, the pattern that had drawn him here, to work for Johann Faust once again.
 

Dieter had arrived at Zossen two weeks ago in a motorcycle sidecar, soaked to the bone and demanding an explanation. Faust had greeted him warmly and arranged for dry clothes, warm food and drink. In Faust’s office, settled in front of a wood stove, warming his chilled body with heat and schnapps, Dieter had listened as Faust spoke of his fears for Germany and the coming retribution if the Russians overran the Fatherland. He outlined his plan, describing the meeting in the Reich Chancellery. In Faust’s mind, it was divine Providence that had given him this vision, this plan, and placed him in the
Führer’s
presence that day in order to secure his blessing.
 

Faust had flattered and cajoled Dieter. He needed him to head up the Russian uniformed detachment. He had known Dieter since 1939, understood and trusted him. Only Dieter could lead his Russian Hiwis against the Americans. They would follow Dieter into battle against any foe. Would Dieter follow him?
 

Of course. What else was there to do? Keep falling back as they had since 1943? They were running out of room on all sides. Faust dangled the idea of a sharp, bold move by a small group of men that would alter the course of the war. Dieter took the bait as if he were a starving animal, without thought or consideration.
 

Dieter had found himself swept up in the idealism of the idea. He had not felt this way since early in the war, when he believed he was fighting for a Germany surrounded on all sides by enemies, a Germany that had to fight, expand or die. He had ideals. Since then he had done many things and seen many worse. The war had become an endless retreat, a trail of death, a horror that would not cease. He had failed at the front, and also failed his friends in their desperate attempt to assassinate Hitler. Now Faust offered redemption, allowing Dieter to play a penultimate role in an audacious plan, reclaim his idealism, save his nation, and most importantly, Elsa.
 

The operational planning had given Dieter a purpose, a sense of hope in the midst of defeat. He knew it was a fantasy, but he dreamt of the Western Allies joining with his comrades to push the Russians back, back over the Oder River, back into the East, away from Germany and all he held dear.
 

Faust had worked even harder than Dieter these past weeks. The full force of his personality and intellect was focused on Gambit. Nothing else entered his life, nothing else concerned him. Gambit consumed him. He went out on field exercises with the Hiwis and their German officers and non-coms. They practiced Russian tactics, re-learning the crude movements of their original army. He visited the airfields where his air support units were carefully camouflaged, and aviation fuel was secretly hoarded. He worked out an extensive radio network for all units to communicate over, and scouted out roads and other approaches to the anticipated battle area.
 

 
Now Faust was focused on outfitting his Russian and American forces. The Abwehr and the Brandenburgers had stocks of Russian uniforms and weapons from their eastern front operations, using Hiwis and Cossack formations. The openness of the eastern front lent itself to infiltration and raids on enemy rear areas, so there was little trouble in gathering the needed supplies. Men, uniforms and equipment were all in good order. With Dieter’s Hiwis and German Russia-speaking Brandenburgers, plus other Hiwis and a group of Cossack volunteers, there were now two fully equipped battalions, over seven hundred men.
 

It was not the same with the American unit, which was the subject of today’s meeting.

Hettstedt and Benedikt entered the office and walked to the conference table opposite the wall map. Colonel Faust sat at the head of the table, reading through the latest intelligence reports from the western front. He did not acknowledge them. Dieter turned from the map and sat to the right of the silent Faust. Benedikt nodded to Dieter with a smile as he took his seat. Hettstedt busied himself with his briefcase, removing a file and arranging it neatly in front of him on the table.
 

“Colonel,” he began, “I—”

Without looking up, Faust raised the flat of his hand toward Hettstedt, motioning him to be silent. He continued to read. Finishing the last page of the report, he closed the folder and stood. He leaned forward, hands placed on the table. His mouth was set in a grim frown and at his neck the Iron Cross swayed as he angled his body closer to the seated men. The room was silent.

“Gentlemen,” Faust began. “The British and Americans are approaching the Rhine in several places. Montgomery is planning a major offensive. As we speak the U.S. First Army is approaching Remagen, where the Ludendorf rail bridge has not yet been blown. Patton’s Third Army is approaching the Rhine in the Mainz area. When the Rhine is crossed…”

“Never!” interrupted Hettstedt, “The
Führer
has decreed—”

“Shut up, you idiot! The
Führer
decreed that we would hold Stalingrad and that the Allies would be thrown into the sea in Normandy! Now they are on German soil! Wake up!” Faust screamed these last words, slammed his hand down on the table, his face contorted in fury. A deep breath the only hint at the effort it took him to regain self-control, Faust went on as if nothing had happened.
 

“We must be operational by 15 March, less than two weeks from now. All units must be ready to move once the Americans cross the Rhine, or the Russians force the line at the Neisse River, then the Spree.” Faust walked around to Dieter’s side of the table and clapped his hand on his shoulder, as if anointing him with the familiar gesture. “
Hauptmann
Neukirk has the responsibility for outfitting the Russian-uniformed contingent of Special Detachment 200. Report on your readiness,
Hauptmann.
”

“Colonel, we have two battalions organized under Russian infantry structure. There are 437 Hiwis, 112 Cossacks, and 104 Russian-speaking German officers, non-coms and enlisted ranks. A total of 753 men. All are outfitted in Russian uniforms and gear. The coats are somewhat of a mix, but that is the case for most Russian infantry anyway.”

“Arms and ammunition?”

“We have sufficient stocks of Tokarev pistols for officers and non-coms. Plus 61 operational DPM light machine guns, about one per squad. There are ample numbers of PPS-43 submachine guns, but only enough ammunition for a maximum of 500 to be issued. The two best marksmen in each squad will be issued Mosin-Nagant rifles, to conserve ammunition and to give us some longer-range accuracy.”

“Excellent. Now,
Sturmbannführer
Hettstedt, we have been eagerly awaiting a report on what the SS has to offer for the American side of our operation. To date, we have seen less than fifty English-speaking candidates, half of whom were unfit for various reasons. The equipment sent to us is laughable, nothing but broken down Jeeps, bloodstained uniforms and a handful of weapons.”

“Colonel, Panzer Brigade 150 under Colonel Skorzeny utilized all of our resources for operations behind American lines in the Ardennes Offensive. Our stocks of American equipment and personnel proficient in American English are completely exhausted.” Hettstedt blurted this out in a rush, having carefully prepared his excuse and practiced it many times. He realized he was sweating as a trickle ran down his right temple.
 

“Where is Panzer Brigade 150 now?” demanded Faust.

“The formation sustained heavy losses,” Hettstedt shrugged, pretending a nonchalance he did not possess. “The survivors were drafted into Skorzeny’s
Kommando Abteilung.
The unit is currently committed to operations in East Prussia.”

“So the SS is unwilling to provide the necessary resources in support of Operation Gambit, as required by the
Führer
Directive of 13 February?” Faust asked, with a raised eyebrow.

“Not unwilling!” Hettstedt stiffened in his seat. “Unable, Colonel.”

“Unable. That does accurately describe your contribution to this effort,
Sturmbannführer.
That is why I detailed
Leutnant
Benedikt and his paratroop company to secure the required equipment.”

Hettstedt looked astonished. “But the Luftwaffe has no such supplies.”

“No,
Sturmbannführer,
” Benedikt cut in, “but the
Amis
have plenty. Apparently it never occurred to the SS to go directly to the source. It is a little more difficult than arresting nuns, I’ll admit.” Dieter had to suppress a laugh, and even Faust seemed to be smiling behind his grim demeanor.
 

“This is outrageous!” Hettstedt rose violently from his seat and kicked back his chair. “Do you know who you are dealing with? I report directly to
Reichsführer
Himmler!”