Order of Battle (17 page)

The captain at once brought up his tommy gun, but in the instant the shots were fired, the GI jammed his carbine in the officer’s side.

“Don’t!” he said sharply. His voice was utterly without emotion. “Drop it!”

The tommy gun clattered to the ground.

Waffen SS Lieutenant Willi Richter glanced at the dead man on the ground before him. Mission accomplished. He felt nothing. He had a fleeting vision of the butchered SS guards sprawled across the Jew gold. He almost heard the protesting cries of the outraged crows. He felt strangely let down, now that it was done. But at least, this time, the bodies were not German.

Willi turned to the “injured” German soldier. He nodded toward the courier. “He’s all yours, Steiner,” he said.

Steiner lifted his hand from the sling and carefully closed his belt buckle. He smiled coldly to himself, remembering the last time he’d fired the gun. Back at Thürenberg. To impress that pompous little jackass from Berlin. This time there’d be no property of the Reich to account for!

He stepped over T5 Graham and walked up to the officer courier. He smiled.

“Your dispatches, please!”

He held out his hand.

Weiden

0749 hrs

So far so good,
Erik thought. He was holding the Plewig biographical notes before him, apparently studying them. So far only routine questions—and routine answers. But good ones. Plausible. The man was good—or he really was what he maintained

136

he was, an ordinary discharged Wehrmacht soldier trying to get home. Erik frowned at the papers. Could it be that he just had a bad memory? Made mistakes? The beginning of a nagging doubt brushed the edges of Erik’s mind. He dismissed it. Time to drop the pleasantries, he thought grimly. Time for that elusive moment of truth. He was conscious of the familiar keyed-up feeling. Like a hound before the hunt . . .

“Now, you say here you were a member of the 3rd Platoon, 2nd Company of the 173rd Engineer Battalion. Is that correct?”

Plewig clicked his heels.

“Correct, Herr Hauptmann.”

He felt confident. He’d answered all the American officer’s questions. Without hesitation. Straightforward. He
must
have made a good impression.

Erik put down the papers with deliberation. He looked directly at Plewig.

“I see,” he said. He seemed to think for a moment. “That’s a—a partly motorized company whose main function is mine laying. Was that your chief duty?”

Plewig suddenly tensed. He thought fast. That damned American knows more than he ought to know. Is he right? Yes. Yes, that is the TO. Suppose he wants to know where? No problem. I can always give him some location he can’t check out. Plewig’s guileless blue eyes narrowed imperceptibly, as he met Erik’s searching gaze. There was new respect in them. New wariness. That American could be dangerous after all, he thought. Better watch what I say. Don’t volunteer anything. Aloud he said:

“Yes, sir.”

Erik didn’t take his eyes off him.

“When the company was disbanded a week ago, was it up to full strength?”

Dammit! He had to decide. Quick. Plewig’s thoughts raced. It’s the end of the fighting. Wouldn’t be logical to expect any unit to be full strength. Half? The hesitation was only momentary. He wasn’t going to be that easy to catch!

“About half strength, Herr Hauptmann.”

Erik looked away.

“I see.” He made a note on the paper. “Around—uh—one hundred eighty men, would you say?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

He felt a little relieved. It’s easier when he answers his own damned questions, he thought. He does seem to know quite a bit about the organization of our army. Showing off?

Erik looked at him again.

“And did the company have its full complement of twelve light machine guns and two antitank guns?” he asked.

Plewig felt his confidence return. He’d outfox them. Of course. He could give them any plausible answer. They could never prove him wrong.

“One of the AT guns was destroyed,” he answered. “We lost five or six of the MGs.”

“And you belonged to this company until a week ago?”

“Yes, sir.”

Suddenly Erik’s matter-of-fact attitude changed. His face grew hard. His eyes blazed coldly at the German. His voice snapped like a whip.

“Then how do you explain that you don’t know that one hundred eighty men is
full
company strength,
not half?
”

Plewig suddenly grew rigid. Chilled. He stared at the American—suddenly the real face of the enemy. He felt the blood drain from his face, powerless to stop it. Desperately he cast about in his swirling mind for a way out. A believable explanation. Anything . . .

“I—I—”

But the chase had begun. There would be no letup until the quarry had been run to ground.

Erik snapped at him:

“The company machine gun complement is
nine
—not
twelve.
”

Don suddenly joined the charge. Startled, Plewig’s eyes darted toward this new source of attack.

“The 73rd Division’s personnel is
Bavarian. You
are a Rhinelander. How come?”

“Major von Wetterling was killed in France. Long before you said you served under him. Explain!”

The questions came like quick hammer blows.

“How could he have been your CO on the Russian front when he was dead?”

“You say so right here!”

Erik slammed his hand down on the Plewig notes. Plewig looked frantically from one to the other. Automatically he’d snapped to attention—an instinctive effort to seek strength in the comforting familiarity of discipline. He tried to wet bloodless lips with a suddenly dry tongue. Little beads of sweat began to form on his forehead, and a tiny artery in his temple started to beat and beat and beat. . . .

The two CIC agents hammered relentlessly at him.

“Who was
really
the battalion CO?”

“You don’t know, do you?”

“Your company has only
one
AT gun. Why did you say
two?
”

“Because you never
were
an engineer!”

“Because you lie!”

Plewig was terrified. He could feel the two pursuers snap at his mind. His world was crumbling. He did not know where to run. He had to face his tormentors. He had to make a stand. . . .

“No!” he cried. “
No!
”

Erik stood up with explosive abruptness. He thrust the papers at Plewig.

“
This is the truth?
” It was a terrifying shout.

Plewig stood rigid.

“No . . . yes! . . . That is . . . I . . .” His words trailed off.

There was sudden and complete silence in the room. Plewig was acutely aware of the rapid, rhythmic surge in his ears. Erik threw the papers on the desk. Quietly he sat down. His voice was tired, disinterested, and he didn’t look at Plewig when he finally spoke.

“It’s no use, Plewig. We know you’re lying.”

Don waved a hand at the scattered papers.

“Too many little errors in your phony military history, my friend.”

Erik looked up at Plewig.

“It’s impossible to memorize every little detail, isn’t it?”

He sounded almost kind, a little regretful. He raised his voice.

“Sergeant Murphy!”

Murphy at once appeared at the door.

“Yes, sir?”

“You may remove the prisoner, Sergeant. Section 97, Article 4.”

Murphy drew his .45. He looked alert, ready for trouble. Plewig started. He looked toward the two CIC agents at the desk. They had apparently lost all interest in him. They were looking over some papers. He cleared his throat. He suddenly felt he had to get their attention at any cost. Murphy motioned with his gun.

“Let’s go,” he ordered curtly.

Plewig took a step toward the door. He stopped. With a visible effort he brought himself under control. He turned toward Erik.

“Excuse me, Herr Hauptmann.”

Erik looked up impatiently.

“Well?”

“What—what happens to me now?”

Erik looked slightly surprised.

“What happens? I’m sure you know the International Articles of War, Plewig. And we
are
at war.” He contemplated the German for a moment, then he shrugged.

“You are obviously not what you pretend to be, so you must be a saboteur. Or a spy. In a combat area. Since you’re not in uniform, you can’t be considered a prisoner of war under the Geneva Conventions.”

It was a dismissal. Erik returned to his papers. Plewig ran a nervous tongue over his lips. The silence hung like an oppressive fog in the room. Motion had died. Time swam endless in his mind. . . .

At last he said:

“Then I . . . ?”

Erik looked up briefly.

“You will be shot.”

It was a completely prosaic statement.

Don said, “That’s all. Take him away.”

Again Murphy gun-gestured.

“Come on!”

Plewig’s eyes opened wide.

“No! Wait! Please . . .”

With a show of irritation Erik threw the papers on the desk.

“What now?” he snapped.

Plewig looked from one to the other. He was obviously deeply torn. His drawn face showed the strain on his mind. Then suddenly the words rushed out:

“If I talk, Herr Hauptmann? If I talk?”

Erik’s expression did not change. But he felt the quick surge of excitement.
It worked again!
Calmly he studied the German before him.

“What have you got to say?” he asked.

“If I tell you what I . . . if . . . I talk. Will you let me go?”

Erik frowned.

“We make no bargains. But I’ll see what I can do.”

He had been run to ground. Suddenly the enormity of it all hit him. He, Plewig? He stood mute.

“
Well?
”

“There’s no such thing as a friend!” The motto was suddenly sharp in Plewig’s mind. “If your mission is at stake, attack him. If need be kill him!” His thoughts were a black whirlpool. The Himmler motto. It didn’t say anything about your
own
life, did it? No. If he did talk, he could save his life. If he did talk, all right, some of his comrades might be caught. Killed. He’d tell the Americans only what he
had
to tell them to save his life. As little as possible. To save himself. His own mission. Well, wasn’t that what they said? Your comrades are expendable? Wasn’t it?

He looked steadily at Erik.

“
I am a Werewolf”
he said.

The effect on the three Americans was instantaneous. If Plewig had not been filled with anxiety about himself he might have caught it. Murphy’s mouth dropped open. Don suddenly coughed on his cigarette smoke. Erik looked startled. It was the first time any interrogation subject had said: “I am a Werewolf!” He had a flash urge to laugh. It sounded so ludicrous, coming from a frightened little blue-eyed clod-kicker like Plewig. He quickly regained his composure. He managed to look bored.

“So you’re one of them,” he observed, unimpressed. “Just another Werewolf. You won’t have much to tell us we don’t already know.”

Plewig was taken aback. Confused. He suddenly noticed his palms were sweaty. Funny. He never had sweaty hands. He stared at Erik. He didn’t know what to say. Erik deliberately got up from the desk and walked over to him.

“Did you think you’re something special because you call yourself a Werewolf?” There was scorn in his voice. And disgust. “You’re nothing but a garden-variety terrorist. A saboteur. A spy. Take your pick. It all adds up the same.”

Plewig felt betrayed. His plan wasn’t going to work. They weren’t even interested in the Werewolves. Didn’t they
know,
for God’s sake? Quickly he said:

“Perhaps I
can
tell you things you don’t know.”

Erik regarded him coldly, skeptically. He said nothing.

“I was with them from the start,” Plewig went on. “When Heinrich Himmler himself ordered the first school for guerrillas and Werewolves set up. In Poland. In 1943 . . .”

Don half rose in his chair.

“Nineteen forty-three! We weren’t even on the continent!” He sounded incredulous. Erik quickly broke in:

“What were
your
duties?”

“At first I was the general’s personal driver,” Plewig answered quickly. Perhaps he could still get them interested enough to save his neck. Without giving too much away.

“General Krueger,” he continued eagerly. “Karl Krueger. He was only a colonel then.”

He stopped. He’d play it by ear. Pick out unimportant items of information. Easy . . . easy . . .

“Go on!”

“He was the commandant of the school, Herr Hauptmann. And he’s in command of all the Werewolves now. Under SS Obergruppenführer Prützmann himself. And he works very closely with Axman, the Hitler Youth leader. I was his personal orderly. He likes to live well, the general does. He likes the very best French Armagnac. And flowers. I took care of his flowers for him, too. He likes roses very much. . . .”

Erik interrupted him sharply. He knew that game too well. Talk a lot and say nothing.

“Stick to your military duties,” he ordered. He went back to sit on the edge of the desk. He didn’t look at Don. He wondered if Don felt the same excitement inside as he did. He was sure of it. But they couldn’t let on that they were learning anything new. Or important.

Plewig had regained some of his confidence. It was really only a matter of
how
much he had to tell. He decided to go as far as necessary.

It really couldn’t do much damage. It was too late. The Werewolves couldn’t be stopped now. He clicked his heels smartly.

“
Jawohl,
Herr Hauptmann,” he said. “When the school was moved from Poland to Thürenberg in Czechoslovakia in September 1944, I was put in the training cadre. To train Werewolves. It was called
Unternehmung Werwolf
—Operation Werewolf.”

“Where are these Werewolves now?”

“All the ones that were graduated and left the school—about seventeen hundred, I think—I don’t know where they are.”