On Desperate Ground (8 page)

As he brought the glass to his lips he noticed that his hand was shaking and the lip of the glass rattled against his teeth as he drained it in a single, thankful gulp. Prescott took only a small drink of his. They both sat in silence, Mack waiting for what he knew was coming. He had no idea what Prescott had in mind, but he knew something was up as Prescott eyed the map between sips. Mack drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and fidgeted in his seat. Finally he spoke.

“OK, I can’t stand the suspense. What’s up? What do you mean by end game?”
 

Prescott smiled.
 

“Endgame is a chess term. It refers to the last phase of the game, when forces have been reduced and checkmate is in sight.”

 
They both looked at the map at the same time. On the eastern front, red arrows pushed toward German territory, the result of a major Soviet offensive launched a few days ago. To the west, the remnants of the Bulge still showed in southern Belgium and Luxembourg. Along the rest of the line, British, Canadian, American and French armies stood roughly along the German border.

“Patton’s due to begin cutting off the Bulge in a few days. Once we eliminate the escape route for the remaining German forces there, we’ll start pushing east all along the line,” proclaimed Prescott.
 

“It always amazes me how easy it is to move units around a mapboard at headquarters,” answered Mack, remembering life at the front, the howling, freezing wind and living outside in unbearable conditions. He shivered, even with the room warmed by the fire.

“I know, Mack,” Prescott answered soberly. “As a matter of fact, that’s one of the reasons we wanted you back here so fast. You know what it’s like at the front and the kind of dope we need here. We have got a job for you, but no behind the lines stuff. A nice staff job. We need to be sure the intelligence we’re getting is up to the minute and matches the reality at the front.”

Mack was suspicious. It seemed too good to be true.
 

“Tell me more,” he said cautiously.
 

“Ike will tell you all about it. We’re having dinner with him tonight.”

Mack felt his gut tighten.
 

“Can I have another drink?”
 

* * *

Two hours later Prescott and Mack arrived at Eisenhower’s residence, Telegraph Cottage, outside of London. Lord Tedder, Marshal of the Royal Air Force and Eisenhower’s deputy commander at SHAEF, was in attendance, as were three other officers and two American journalists. Kay Summersby, Ike’s British driver and confidante, circulated among the men, refreshing drinks and providing a subtle feminine influence upon the gathering.
 

 
The two journalists had cornered Eisenhower, so he had been unable to greet Mack when he saw him enter the room. Kay had noticed and intervened to steer the reporters to the bar, allowing Ike to escape. He looked trim and fit as always, wearing his trademark short “Ike” jacket and finely tailored trousers. Except for dark bags under his eyes, he looked relaxed. Mack knew that behind the façade lurked a tremendous burden of stress and responsibility.
 

“Matthew!” Ike exclaimed, flashing his famous toothy grin and calling Mack by his proper name, as he always did.
 

“General, how are you?” asked Mack as they shook hands.
 

Eisenhower made it a rule that these gatherings at Telegraph Cottage were informal affairs, devoid of the military correctness he required in public. Handshakes and claps on the back replaced salutes here; otherwise, Ike was demanding and strict when it came to military protocol.

“Just fine, my boy. Good to see you up and around, Matthew. I had a bad moment when I heard you were wounded. Glad you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, sir. Happy to be on my feet and in one piece.”

Mack had planned to tell Ike about his injuries and his early release from the hospital, but as he faced him, he could not bear to add to his burdens by complaining. He had been ready to tell Eisenhower that he needed a month’s leave to recover. But as soon as he saw his smiling but weary face, and the dark, heavy bags under his eyes, his resolve weakened. It totally vanished as Ike praised him for his mission in the Ardennes.

“You did a damn fine job in Belgium, son. It would have been a disaster if word had leaked out that one of our own generals looted art treasures in an allied nation he was supposed to be liberating. Or worse, if he got away with it. Too bad you walked right into the German offensive,” Ike said, his hand on Mack’s shoulder. This last mission had been focused on averting a diplomatic crisis, after Mack had stumbled across evidence of an American general shipping artwork back to the states from his Belgium headquarters. Out of the corner of his eye, Ike saw one of the reporters heading for their small group.

“Let’s step into the study for a few minutes. We won’t be able to talk freely here or at dinner.”
 

The SHAEF commander led Prescott and Mack into his study, shutting and locking the door behind them.

“Matthew, as you well know, we got caught with our pants down in the Ardennes,” Eisenhower said, pausing and tapping his fingers hard on the edge of his desk. “You saw the effect that had and I do not intend to let it happen again. Never. I’m not going let our boys get chewed up by another surprise. I want to know
everything
that’s happening out there.”

“Sir,” Mack interrupted as he looked at Ike and Prescott, “what does this have to do with me? How can I tell you more than all the Intelligence guys out there? You already have G-2s from every division along the front reporting to Army Group.”

 
Eisenhower nodded to Prescott, indicating he should continue.

“Captain, we have more intelligence data coming in here than we know what to do with,” Prescott said. “The more we get, the harder it is to sift the wheat from the chaff. We need eyes and ears at the front, where the intelligence comes from, to tell us the difference between what’s really going on and what each level of military bureaucracy tells us that they think we want to hear.”

“Or what they wish were going on,” Ike said with a tired grin.
 

“Right,” echoed Prescott. “By the time reports get to SHAEF, they’ve often gone through too many layers of wishful thinking and brown-nosing to be of any use.”

“But what about your other sources of G-2?” asked Mack. “I know you don’t get everything from the front.”
 

His mind raced to find a way to talk them out of this, to stop the flow of logic that he knew would end up with his life at risk. He caught a quick exchange of glances between the two men.

“Let’s just say we have a variety of sources, and leave it at that,” Prescott said. “The main point is, we need to combine every source into a discernable whole in order to understand the full picture. To do that, we need direct and unfiltered information from the front.”

“Direct from the front, Colonel?”

“Relax, Matthew,” Eisenhower interjected. “I know you’ve come through a rough time, and we have worked you hard in the past. This assignment should make up for that, and contribute to the successful conclusion of the war.”

Eisenhower pulled open a bottom desk drawer and withdrew an envelope with the SHAEF shield on it. He handed it to Mack.

“These are your orders, Matthew. You are to proceed to First Army Headquarters, where you will be attached to their G-2 Intelligence Section. The orders make it clear that you will report to Colonel Prescott, and through him to me.”

As Eisenhower paused, Mack could only think that this arrangement would hardly make him popular at First Army HQ, where he would probably be seen as a SHAEF spy. It occurred to him that this was exactly what Prescott and Ike had in mind. He leaned forward and directed his question to Eisenhower.

“General, are you asking me to
spy
on First Army for you?”

“No, Captain,” Prescott cut in abruptly. “You will have access to all First Army G-2 and other readiness reports. What will be different is that we will also provide you, via courier, with summaries of all intelligence reports received here, from G-2 staff throughout Northwestern Europe. It will be your job to then compare that data with the situation in front of First Army.”

“I want to hear from you directly, Matthew,” Eisenhower said. “If Army Group G-2 tells us that the enemy is weakening and running away in droves, I want you to tell me if First Army GIs are seeing their boot heels.”

“What’s so special about First Army?” asked Mack. “What about Patton’s Third Army?”

“We are also sending liaison officers out to Third, Seventh and Ninth Armies as well,” Ike explained. “But I chose you for First Army because I’m concerned about their area of operations. Their line of attack will ultimately bring them south of Berlin. This puts them astride the route between Berlin and this Alpine Redoubt we’ve been hearing about.”

There were rumors of a Nazi stronghold in the Bavarian and Austrian Alps, where Hitler could hold out for an extended period of time and cause immense Allied casualties. Plenty of German troops were retreating from Italy, the Balkans, Russia, and the western front, and all of them could end up in the Alps, where the Allies would have to fight for every pass and mountain top.

“Be on the lookout for any surprises as the Wehrmacht pulls back to defend Berlin, or for indications of large-scale troop movements into the Alps.”

Prescott tapped the sealed envelope Mack held.

“These orders give you full access to all the resources you will need to get the job done, including the use of a Reconnaissance Platoon from First Army’s Headquarters Company. General Hodges has been notified of your assignment, and General Eisenhower has personally asked him to extend you every courtesy.”

“I understand,” Mack told the two men. “When do you want me there?”

Mentally he surrendered to the inexorable. Everything had been planned for him. Generals were waiting for him. After the Generals were the GIs. Then the Germans.
 

 
“Transport has been arranged for the morning,” Prescott said.

“Gentleman,” Ike said with a smile, “shall we join the others?”

Mack felt little to smile about. He followed Ike out of the room, placing the sealed orders in his inside tunic pocket. As he did, he felt his rapidly beating heart and the sweat soaking through his shirt. Fear crawled over him, and a now familiar shudder ran through his body. They had not asked him if he wanted to go, or if he felt he was up to it. Or even if he wanted to spend his last night out on the town, instead of spending the evening making small talk with staff officers and journalists. He followed them, feeling weak, used, and foolish. After all he had done and endured for them, they were blithely ordering him to the front again. Using him again. Using him up.

 
The conversation drifted past Mack as he sat through dinner. The other guests ignored him as they engaged in the witty chitchat of the powerful and the sure. They spoke with the certainty of those who knew they would not spend a single night in a freezing foxhole or ever be far from a warm meal or the cocktail hour. The orders in his tunic pocket pressed against his skin and reminded him that another, far different and uncertain world awaited him. He drank heavily and it did not help.

CHAPTER SIX

22 January 1945

Saint Ludwig’s Hospital

Berlin, Germany

Sister Anneliese strode to the desk of Elsa Klein, her gray nurse’s uniform flapping with purpose. She carried a clipboard thick with patient charts, her mouth set in a stern frown.

“Elsa,” the sister said, “where is
Feldwebel
Jost Brunner? He is supposed to be taking physical therapy for his leg this morning.”

Sister Anneliese tapped the file with her pencil as she lifted an eyebrow at Elsa, impatiently waiting for her response. Elsa Klein, Saint Ludwig’s Chief Social Worker, was responsible for the needs of the poorer patients following their discharge from the charity wards. St. Ludwig’s was a Catholic hospital, and every nurse here was a nun, while staff like Elsa were lay people. Sister Anneliese was Head Nurse, a formidable figure in every sense of the word. She came from sturdy northern German peasant stock, and her wide, strong form towered over the desk where Elsa sat.
 

“I only have three Sisters to work in the physical therapy ward,
Fräulein
Klein. When a patient fails to show up for his appointment we waste valuable time. Do you know how many men with leg wounds we have here?”

Elsa knew very well. In November 1943, the Wehrmacht informed the hospital that except for an emergency room and an outpatient clinic, all beds were to be reserved for military casualties. Civilian patients were to be transferred out within two weeks. Elsa’s job had changed from social worker to rehabilitation specialist, but not until she had overseen the discharge of hundreds of patients, many not well enough to survive without medical care.

As the Sister waited for her answer, a group of doctors with a high-ranking SS officer walked by. The SS man had been slightly injured in last night’s bombing raid, and the Chief Surgeon and his assistant were giving him a tour of the facility before he left. The white sling holding his left arm against his black uniform only deepened the darkness surrounding it. Elsa looked into Anneliese’s eyes and meaningfully glanced to the SS officer, to be sure the Sister took notice of him.