Rhineland Inheritance (2 page)

“It's like that, is it? You got somebody waiting for you back home?”

“Not anymore,” Jake replied bitterly.

“She dear-johned you?”

“Six months ago, sir.” The letter had simply said, don't come back expecting to find things like they used to be, because what used to be isn't there anymore. “Guess she got tired of waiting.”

“Family?”

“Not anymore,” Jake repeated, more softly this time.

The colonel's leathery features creased with concern. “While you were over here?”

Jake nodded. “Both at once. They had an automobile accident.”

The letter had been waiting for him when his platoon had marched into Rome. The fact that he hadn't slept for three days had partly numbed the pain. The letter had been written by their elderly next-door neighbor and family friend. Snowstorm. Icy road. Oncoming truck. His dad had not made it to the hospital. His mother had died two days later in her sleep. No apparent injuries, the doctors couldn't explain it. Jake was sad but not sorry. His mother would have been lost without his father around.

“Tough,” the colonel said, and clearly meant it. “What about brothers or sisters?”

“One brother,” Jake said, telling the rest in a weary voice. “He was leading a mortar squad on D-Day. They were coming off the boat ramp onto the beach at Normandy. A German '88 round hit the ramp and took out the whole squad.”

The colonel said softly, “I lost a son on the beaches.”

Both men gazed at a spot somewhere between them for a moment of pained and silent remembering. The colonel was the first to speak again. “Sounds as if the only family you've got left is the army.”

If you could call a group that had tried its level best to get him killed for two solid years a family. “Guess that's about it, sir.”

“Well, we'll see if we can't bring you around to our way of thinking. We've got seven weeks to soften you up.” Colonel Beecham leaned back and hefted a pair of size thirteens onto the corner of his desk. “Am I to assume that Colonel Connors did a thorough job of briefing you on your new responsibilities?”

“All I know,” Jake replied, “is that right now I'm sitting in a squad room in what I hope is Badenburg. Sir.”

“Okay, here's the scoop. As you may know, the Allies are in the process of splitting Germany into four sections, each to be governed by a different occupying force. France has been given responsibility for two portions extending out from their border. One of the sections is right here, the other is up on the other side of Karlsruhe.

“For the past few months, the French have been too busy taking care of business at home to worry much about this region, so we've been holding the fort for them. Sort of, anyway. Temporary measures tend not to hold too well in the army. But that's almost over now. The French are due in here the week after Christmas. The only American base that will remain in this area is Karlsruhe, which is where we are
planning to consolidate. There and Stuttgart and Pforzheim, which remain in the American zone. Are you with me?”

“So far, yessir.”

“Right.” Without turning around, Beecham pointed toward the map on the wall behind him. “That red line you see there is the border between France and Germany. That's our responsibility. The place is like a sieve right now. We've got upwards of a thousand refugees pouring through there every night. I don't know where they're hoping to go, 'cause the French sure don't want them. Now that it's getting cold, the morning patrols are coming across bodies. It's a bad business, Captain. We didn't fight this dang war to have civilians dying in the bushes. Not in my area. The way I see it, we've got a responsibility to these people. If the war's over, then it's over, and we've got to start treating them like the human beings they are. Have you got any problems with that?”

“None at all, sir.”

“Okay. Now, I've got seventeen hundred men under my command right now, but like all these places around here, we're losing them fast. The border area isn't as high up on the brass's list of priorities as I think it should be. As far as they're concerned, if these Eastern European refugees want to keep running until they drop, that's their business. But not for me. Nossir. They need to be properly cared for in the camps until we can get some kind of permanent billet sorted out. Am I getting through?”

“Loud and clear, sir.”

“As I said, there's an American contingent up here at Karlsruhe. They're supposed to be helping out, at least until the French are settled in and up to snuff. But they're so tied up trying to find space for all the incoming personnel and equipment, they're busier than a one-legged man in a polka contest.”

The colonel pointed a finger the size of a large-caliber gun barrel directly at Jake's chest. “That's your job, son. I want a concerted effort by all the military in this region, both those
here now and those coming in, to help us close that border. Think you can do that?”

“I'll sure give it a try, sir.”

“Good man. Our responsibility runs all the way from Karlsruhe right down to the Swiss border below Mulhouse. Almost exactly one hundred miles, a lot of which is heavily forested. What isn't covered in woodland, well, this war has made to look like something dragged up from hell.”

“A tough job,” Burnes said.

“An impossible job, with the men I've got right now,” Beecham corrected. Which means it is positively vital that you get the other forces to help us out.”

“From the sound of your voice I guess they're not all that interested.”

“Some are, some aren't. Some of our commanders are still too busy fighting an enemy that has already surrendered to worry about civilian casualties. Others just don't care.”

“There are men like that in every army, sir.”

“Tell me about it,” Beecham agreed wearily. “So your job, Captain, is to make them care.”

“Yessir,” Burnes said, rising to his feet.

“One more thing.” The colonel's tone turned cold. “You're going to hear about it soon enough, so I might as well be the one to tell you. There's a lot of scuttlebutt going around just now about Nazi treasure. You know the SS used Badenburg as a sort of private resort.”

“I've heard the same stories as everybody else, sir.”

“So you've probably heard the tales about them burying everything from the Mongol diamond to Cleopatra's throne in the hills around here.” The colonel rose to his feet. “I'm not going to waste my breath by ordering you not to go treasure hunting, Captain. But if I ever find out you've been in derelict of duty because of some fairy tale about the lost kingdom of Nod, or hear you've been out gallivanting on army time, I'll personally have your hide. You reading me, Captain?”

“Loud and clear, sir.”

“You'll be working with a Captain Servais, who used to be with the Fighting Free French. Good man. Served with the Americans for a time. Highly decorated. You two should get along fine.”

“I'm sure we will, sir.”

“I've got a woman on my staff who was seconded from the new government staffers arriving in Berlin. Her name is Anders—Sally Anders. They sent her here to act as liaison with the incoming French forces. Quite a dynamo. She's off somewhere in the city just now, but any paperwork you need doing or red tape that gets in your way, she's your gal.”

“I'll give it my best shot, sir.”

“That's what I like to hear.” The colonel's attention was already caught by something else on his desk. “Have Sergeant Morrows show you to your billet. Dismissed.”

The colonel's office was in staff headquarters, which was situated in what appeared to be the only intact building on the road leading to town. It had formerly been a large manor house, and its ornate brick and iron fencing was now topped off with military-issue barbed wire. The great iron gates had been replaced by a guardhouse and standard checkpoint crossbar. The large formal grounds were now sectioned off into smaller self-contained units for stores, motor pool, staff quarters, infirmary, and parade ground.

The main base was a mile farther up the road running away from town, and had clearly been designed for a much larger contingent than the one which now occupied it. The camp was built on a hill overlooking the ruins of Badenburg. The ground had been cleared from the dense forest that surrounded them on all sides. Fresh-cut tree stumps, some of them as broad as six feet across, jutted from the snow-covered ground between the huts. Rutted tracks frozen to iron hardness ran in long straight army lines between the rows of billets. The Quonsets lumped across the hilltop like rows of metal measles.

Sergeant Morrows drove Jake across the frozen, rutted
ground. He stopped before a Quonset, distinct from its neighbors only by the number painted on its side. Beecham's aide was a heavy-set sergeant who slid and cursed his way over the icy earth toward the entrance. “It ain't supposed to turn this cold for another three months, so they say. Guess we're in for one hard winter. You ever seen anything like this freeze, Captain?”

“I came up via Italy,” Jake replied. “Never had much time for cold weather.”

“Italy, huh. Fought with Patton?”

“So they say.”

“Yeah, I never had much time for the high brass myself.” Morrow's grin exposed a great expanse of yellow. “You liberate many of those signorinas yourself, Captain?”

Burnes shook his head. The colonel's aide was a man to keep as an ally. If possible. “The stories never tell you about how all the signorinas have fathers,” Jake replied. “Or how all the fathers have shotguns.”

“Yeah? Well, you won't have that trouble around here.” The sergeant leered and shouldered the door open. “This is your billet, Captain. The whole barracks for the two of you. And look who's here. Captain Servais, this is your new teammate, Captain Burnes, late of Patton's army.”

The man rolled from his bunk in the fluid motion of one accustomed to coming instantly awake. The man walked forward with the cautious gaze of someone who had learned in life-and-death struggles to measure all partners with great care. “Captain Burnes, did I hear that correctly?”

“You speak English,” Jake said, accepting the man's iron-hard grip. “You don't know what a relief that is.”

“Captain Burnes here don't have no French, but he speaks the local Kraut lingo,” Morrows drawled. “Well, I'll leave you gents to get acquainted. Anything you need, Captain, and all that.” Morrows turned and stomped away.

Jake watched Morrows' broad back retreating. When the door closed, he turned to find Servais watching him with a
knowing gaze. “Sergeant Morrows has the ability to find anything, anywhere, anytime.”

“I figured the colonel wasn't keeping him around for his charm,” Jake said.

“Put the sergeant down in the middle of Antarctica, and in thirty minutes he'd have enough gear to equip an entire platoon,” Servais said, motioning toward the hut's murky depths. “Will you take coffee? I don't have anything stronger, I'm afraid.”

“Coffee's fine,” Burnes replied, following Servais between bunks of rusted springs and rolled-up mattresses. “I can't get over how well you speak English. You sound almost American.”

“I spent my summers as a waiter serving tourists on the French Riviera, starting when I was twelve,” Servais explained, placing a battered pot on a small gas burner. “I soon discovered that the English gave better tips if I could speak to them. Then during the war I spent some time with American troops.”

“Free French?” Burnes asked, dropping his gear beside a bunk.

Servais nodded. He filled a mug with coffee and handed it over. “Condensed milk there on the table beside you.”

“Thanks.” Burnes poured in some milk and took a noisy sip. “I heard some good things about the FFF. Never had a chance to see for myself.”

“Where did you serve?”

“Italy, mostly,” Burnes replied. “I walked every road from Salerno to Milan, or so it felt at the time. How about you?”

“North Africa, then here.” Servais glanced at the medals decorating Jake's uniform. “I take it the pretty ribbons were not earned from the backseat of a command jeep.”

“Not all of them, anyway.” Jake motioned toward a dress jacket hanging from a nail in the wall, its array of medals glimmering in the glare of the single overhead bulb. “Looks like you carry your own set of stories.”

Servais had the sort of strong, ugly face that many women would find irresistible—all jutting angles and craggy folds. His nose was a great lump jutting above a full mouth, his eyes black and piercing. He was not a big man, standing well short of six feet and slender to the point of appearing permanently hungry. But he carried himself with the solid assurance of one well used to his own strength. “What do you call yourself?”

“Jake. What about you?”

“Pierre.” Servais glanced at his watch. “I'm scheduled for a patrol. But first I have to go by and pick up orders at HQ. You could change into fatigues and join me, if you like.”

As with most army jeeps, the canvas top had long since worn out, there was no heat, and the exhaust puffed through holes in the flooring, nearly choking them every time Servais slowed down. Which he seldom did.

“I'm splitting my men up so the ones with field experience outnumber the newcomers two to one,” Pierre shouted over the whining motor. “I don't know how long that will last, if they keep sending in new recruits as fast as they are now.”

As far as Burnes could see, the only good thing about Pierre's driving was that he hit the bumps so hard it lifted Jake's backside off the seat and kept him from freezing solid to the cracked leather padding. “You survived the war just to die now?” Jake asked, keeping a white-knuckled grip on the jeep's rattling frame.

“A lot of my soldiers are just barely eighteen,” Pierre went on. “They come from the newly liberated provinces, and they want to show their patriotism by acting tough toward the defeated Germans. I need the soldiers who actually experienced the war to keep them in line. The problem is, my best men are leaving. Their time is up and they're being discharged. Either that, or they are being rounded up and sent to Indochina. I don't know how I'm going to be able to handle the new ones without them.”