Spoils of Victory (30 page)

A moment later, Schaeffer's train cleared all the cars onto the main line, and it picked up speed. Mason's lungs burned as he ran. He concentrated all his effort on catching the train. He stared at the handrail and pushed himself to the limit. Finally he grabbed the railing of the passenger car and hauled himself up onto the first step of the rear platform.

“Mason!”

Mason looked back. Abrams reached for Mason's hand as he ran flat out. Mason caught his arm and pulled him onto the step.

The train was running under full power now, speeding through the narrow valley. Mason and Abrams held tight to the railing of the
passenger car's platform as they tried to catch their breath. There was a single rear door with one small window, and as long as they kept their heads low, they were concealed. But from this position it was impossible to see how many of Schaeffer's men might be waiting inside.

As Mason reloaded his pistol, Abrams yelled over the noise, “How many?”

“At least five. Maybe more.”

“Are we the only ones?”

“I think I saw two of Densmore's men, but I'm not sure they made it.”

Mason looked back and saw a truck had pulled out onto the highway running parallel with the tracks. Even if it was Densmore with a squad of MPs coming to their aid, it would take too long for the truck to catch up. They had to do it alone.

Abrams's eyes were wide with fright. Being shot at had been bad enough, but now they had to charge blindly through the rear door of the passenger car of a fast-moving train. How many men? How many guns? Abrams looked at Mason.

Mason tried to calm Abrams with a confident smile. “Ready?”

Abrams nodded violently, making his helmet bob on his head. They both took deep breaths as they shifted in place just below the door's window. Mason grabbed the latch and counted to three.

He shoved the door open. Both ran in, yelling from fright and adrenaline, guns up and fingers on the triggers. They stopped fast. The two MPs from Densmore's squad that Mason had seen running alongside the train now had their Thompson submachine guns trained on six of Schaeffer's men. One of Schaeffer's men had a serious chest wound, while another had a superficial wound on his neck.

“How many more of Schaeffer's men?” Mason asked one of the MPs.

“We don't know.”

Abrams leaned over and took deep breaths.

“He all right?” the other MP asked.

“Just winded,” Mason said.

Abrams straightened, his face as pale as the snow outside.

“It's not over yet,” Mason said.

Abrams nodded. Mason moved through the passenger car, with Abrams following close behind. As he passed Densmore's men he said, “We're going up front.”

They stopped at the door, and Mason peered out the window. No one waited for them on the platform or the coupling area between the passenger car and first boxcar. They moved out onto the forward platform. The train rolled at close to full speed. The track, the ground, the snow-covered pine trees blurred by.

Mason yelled, “We have to go up and over.”

“Are you serious?”

“It's the only way.”

Abrams groaned, but he slid past Mason, climbed off the platform, and gingerly crossed the coupling. He grabbed on to the ladder leading up to the roof and took slow, careful steps upward. Mason followed. At the top of the ladder, Abrams peeked over the top and yelled, “Clear.”

They both climbed up and stood on the roof, bent at the waist. The clack of the train wheels and the roar of the locomotive echoed loudly in the narrow canyon.

“Just concentrate on your feet,” Mason yelled over the noise.

Abrams groaned and moved tentatively forward. Mason looked back. Densmore's truck was gaining, but still far behind. With careful steps on the rocking boxcar, they proceeded across the roof, then, three feet from the front edge of the roof, Mason signaled for them to crouch low. With guns up, they crept up to the edge and peered down. Two of Schaeffer's men clung to the boxcar rails and stood on the coupling.

Mason and Abrams took aim, and Mason yelled down, “Drop your weapons. Hands up!” When the two looked up in surprise, Mason said, “Do it now.”

The two MPs slowly jettisoned their weapons and raised their hands.

“Hello, Richardson,” Abrams said.

Richardson grimaced as if expecting something very painful in his immediate future, and he leapt off the train.

“Jesus,” the other man said.

Mason climbed down and checked the man for weapons. He then called up to Abrams, “Take him back to the passenger car.”

“What about you?”

Mason shrugged that there was nothing else they could do. After helping Abrams get their prisoner onto the roof, Mason began to cross the next set of boxcars. With each boxcar, he repeated the process, moving swiftly across, then checking each junction for more of Schaeffer's men. He had no idea what he would do if he encountered more men clinging to the cars, but fortunately the rest of the cars were clear.

On the lead boxcar, Mason crouched low at the gap between the car and the locomotive's tender. At that moment, the train's whistle blew long and loud. Mason rose high enough to see over the top of the locomotive. The train was barreling down on the town of Mittenwald at full speed. An unscheduled train hurtling through town could wreak havoc.

Mason jumped the gap and landed on the lower section of the tender. He crawled up to the higher lip of the coal storage section and looked down into the locomotive's cabin.

Schaeffer stood in the cabin with the engineer, fireman, and two MPs. One of the MPs had his pistol jammed into the engineer's neck. Mason aimed his pistol at the group.

“Nobody move!”

The MP holding the gun on the engineer whipped around and aimed at Mason. Mason fired once, and the MP went down. The rest of the group raised their hands.

“Stop this train. Now!” Mason yelled.

The engineer applied the brakes. The wheels screeched and steam billowed, engulfing the cabin and obscuring the men. Mason rolled quickly to the ladder, knowing Schaeffer would try something now.

The steam began to dissipate, but before Mason could reach the cabin platform, Schaeffer emerged, preparing to jump off the still-moving train. Mason was ready. He rushed across the cabin and grabbed Schaeffer by the collar. Rage gave him the strength to pull Schaeffer off his feet and propel him into a steel panel. Schaeffer's head bounced back from the impact, and he slumped in Mason's grasp. He then spun, but the second MP and the fireman grabbed him to hurl him off the train.

“Let him go or you're both dead!” Densmore said. He and three of his MP squad had caught up to the train as it stopped. Their guns were trained on the men in the cabin.

The men released Mason and held up their hands. Breathless, Mason acknowledged Densmore with a nod, then shoved Schaeffer's head up against the steel panel again. He pulled Schaeffer's head back by the hair so he could speak into his ear. “I'm going to watch you hang.”

B
y the time Mason and the rest returned to the way station the riot had been reasonably subdued. The Germans and Russians had at least been separated. Those injured in the melee were sent to the hospital triage tent and medic station. Considering the amount of gunfire exchanged, there were only a handful of casualties from both Mason's and Schaeffer's crews. Mason and Abrams saw that their men received priority treatment, then made sure they got into the first of the ambulances to arrive. The remnants of Schaeffer's crew were put into guarded trucks and sent back to Garmisch. Shortly after, two troop transport trucks of additional GIs arrived to ensure the Russians would, however reluctantly, get back on their train.

On the ride back to headquarters, Mason, Abrams, and Densmore celebrated by sharing a bottle from the Russians' supply of pilfered schnapps. But, like many moments in life, the elation rarely lasts, and theirs quickly evaporated when they were summoned to Major Gamin's office immediately upon their return.

Gamin and Udahl were waiting for them with glum faces. Mason, Abrams, and Densmore stopped in the middle of the room, their medic uniforms covered in mud, soot, and blood.

Gamin marched up to them. “You jokers really did it this time.”

“What would that be, sir?” Mason said. “Saving millions of dollars' worth of cargo?”

“Going behind my back. Risking men's lives. Taking on a dangerous gang with a dozen men—”

“Major Gamin, this is not productive,” Udahl said.

“These jokers are still under my command.”

“Bob, we just took into custody the ringleader of a vicious gang. They're not expecting marching bands and medals, but these men did their job.”

Mason said to the room, “I think the major is most upset about losing out on a portion of the profit.”

Gamin growled, “You son of a bitch—”

“Gentlemen, this is getting us nowhere!” Udahl said.

Gamin displayed a venomous smile. “It's all right. We've just about seen the last of Collins. You're both going back to Frankfurt for reassignment tomorrow morning, and in your case, Mr. Collins, I hope they send you to some mosquito-infested hellhole.”

“That's enough from both of you,” Udahl said and turned to Densmore. “You're the senior investigator. I'd like to hear a full report at this point.”

Densmore ran through the events: what they observed prior to the German POW train arriving, Schaeffer's crew commandeering the valuable cargo, the unexpected stop of the Russian POW train, then the riot and ensuing shoot-out and chase.

“These two were on the train for fifteen minutes,” Gamin said, indicating Mason and Abrams with a nod. “Did you check their pockets?”

“Major, please!” Udahl said.

A man cleared his throat just inside the office door. All turned to see Captain Hollister, the JAG senior trial counsel—the army equivalent of a senior prosecuting attorney—standing just inside the door. Mason had run across Hollister a few times with minor cases. With his craggy face, broad teeth, blazing red hair, and steel blue eyes, he gave
off the air of a man close to madness. He could fire up the oratory of a Baptist preacher and wither a witness down to a shattered mess. When not performing in a courtroom, the man never cracked a smile, and at this moment he displayed an epic frown.

He marched into the room with his briefcase steady at his side. Without moving his head, he greeted everyone with curt nods and a soft “Gentlemen.” Once he had his briefcase firmly planted on Gamin's desk, he turned to the room. “I've discussed the case with the deputy judge advocate general, the defense counsel assigned to Major Schaeffer, and the defendant. In my studied opinion, and from the advice of the deputy judge advocate general, the best prosecutable charges we have against the defendant are reckless endangerment, possession of unauthorized firearms, resisting arrest, possession of forged orders, and behavior unbecoming an officer—”

“What? Wait . . .” Mason said.

Hollister pivoted to face Mason. “Chief Warrant Officer Collins?”

“Mr. Collins is fine or we'll be here all day. What about murder, attempted murder, grand larceny, attempted larceny . . .”

“The defendant claims he fled in fear for his life. He says that in the confusion of the riot, he had no idea who was intent on killing whom. He observed you and your men advancing on him with weapons drawn after shots had been fired. You were not in uniforms identifying yourselves as military policemen, you did not call out who you were or your intentions—”

“Excuse me, sir,” Densmore said, interrupting, “but they opened fire on us, and I did declare who we were and our intentions.”

“
Major
Schaeffer,” Hollister said, putting the emphasis on a superior rank, “said that you did not, or, because of the noise of the riot, it was not sufficiently loud to be heard. He fled in fear for his life, and he had grave concerns about the precious cargo. He assumed you and your men were intent on stealing the cargo, and he felt it his duty to prevent you from doing so.”

Mason said, “He tried to take those five boxcars using forged papers—”

“Major Schaeffer was under the impression they were genuine. The orders were for him to take charge of the cargo and ensure its authorized delivery—”

“He had men under his command wearing false uniforms. He had Polish nationals posing as train crewmen—”

Hollister continued, talking over Mason, “He was to use whatever means necessary to carry out those orders, as there was grave concern that a theft of the cargo by rogue army personnel might occur, and he claims to have recruited these men in good faith in carrying out those orders. One might condemn him for poor judgment or naïveté, but we have no proof he intended to commit robbery or that he was aware that the orders were forgeries.”

“Don't you realize how ridiculous that all sounds? I have one of his partners in custody, and he's the one who informed me where Schaeffer would be, when, and for what purpose.”

“Where is this witness?”

“I have him in a secluded location.”

“The fact that you spirited him to a secret location without authorization, or neglected to take him to an authorized facility, is against regulations. Whatever testimony he may have provided will not hold up in any court of law.”

“It was for his own safety.”

“And could this witness claim he gave this information under duress?”

“Whose side are you on?” Mason growled.

“Mr. Collins . . .” Udahl warned for the second time.

Hollister's deadpan expression held steady as a marble statue. “I assume you are talking about Herr Ernst Volker. Frankly, I couldn't care less about this man's well-being. But if the man takes the stand as witness for the prosecution, the defense counsel will tear the case
apart. If what you say is true about Major Schaeffer, then I would be glad to bring the more severe charges against him, but until you can give me more credible witnesses or physical evidence, I can only bring the lesser charges to a court-martial hearing.”

“What does that mean in jail time?”

“A stripping of rank, two to four years in Leavenworth. But considering his wartime record of valor behind enemy lines, it could go as low as a slap on the wrist and six months in confinement.”

“Six months? He's either murdered or ordered the murders of a dozen people.”

Hollister inclined his head solemnly. “Then give me what I need.”

Gamin barked out a laugh. “Mr. Collins won't be around long enough to do that. He's on a train out of here tomorrow morning.”

“That's a shame,” Hollister said. “I tend to believe Mr. Collins, despite his ill-considered remark.” He looked at Mason. “It seems you have twelve hours to come up with something that could help me bring more severe charges.” With his head perfectly still, he rotated at the waist to scan everyone. “Any other questions?”

“Just see to it that Mr. Densmore picks Schaeffer's guards,” Mason said. “Some of the MPs in this detachment are on Schaeffer's payroll.”

Hollister nodded, but Gamin growled, “Couldn't resist another slanderous dig at my outfit, could you?”

Udahl said to Hollister, “Captain, you and I know that Major Schaeffer's story is extremely flimsy. He and his men fired on fellow soldiers.”

“I agree,” Hollister said. “However, there are no guarantees even those charges will stick. The judges may consider the major's take on the events as reasonable.”

“Then it's up to you, isn't it? I've heard you're the best prosecutor we have. I'm depending on you to bring the most severe punishment possible.”

Hollister bowed his head as a knight to a king's request. “If that will be all, I will return to my office.”

When no one objected, Hollister turned on his heels to leave. He paused and looked at Mason. “If you do manage to discover anything further against the defendant, I'll be in my office most of the evening.” With that, Captain Hollister left the room.

Mason felt like he'd been slugged in the stomach. He could endure any abuse Gamin cared to dish out, but hearing Hollister's concerns had taken the wind out of him.

A few minutes later the three investigators exited Gamin's office, and Densmore said, “I'm ready for an armload of drinks.”

Abrams eagerly agreed, but Mason shook his head. “I have somewhere to go.”

“Give it a rest,” Densmore said. “You're not going to dig up what Hollister needs in the hours you've got left.”

“I'll go with you,” Abrams said.

“Not this time.”

“Let him go,” Densmore said to Abrams. “He's like a bulldog with his teeth clamped on a bull's ankle. He won't let go until he's trampled to death.”

Mason refused to get into it with Densmore. The man had, after all, acted against his own self-interest when Mason had needed him most. “I appreciate what you did today,” he told Densmore. To Abrams he said, “Get drunk for the both of us.”

*   *   *

L
andsberg prison, or, as the army had renamed it, War Crimes Prison Number 1, was famous for hosting Hitler after his failed rebellion and for being the place where he wrote
Mein Kampf
. More recently, the facility had become the U.S. Army's principal repository and place of execution for the worst Nazi war criminals. It looked to Mason like a modernized medieval castle, with two turrets sprouting green onion domes that flanked the main building. And with the lack of surrounding high walls, barbed wire, or guard towers, it hardly looked like a high-security prison at all.

An MP from the prison detachment led Mason across the prison grounds, where, behind the castle-like entrance, four main wings formed an X and were connected by a central guard tower. The MP pointed out a smaller two-story building attached to the main wings. “That's where Hitler was housed. The Nazis turned it into a shrine.”

Mason said, “Can you imagine if a U.S. president had done time in prison that Americans would make a shrine out of it?”

“No accounting for taste, that's for sure.”

The MP brought him to another small building branching off from the rest. A moment later Mason stood outside Kessel's wooden cell door.

The MP tapped on the door with his nightstick. “Herr Kessel, there's a CID investigator who wants to talk to you.”

From inside came the creak of a bed frame. “Yes, come in.”

The MP unlocked the door and stepped aside. Mason entered a dark room. He could see Kessel's silhouette in the moonlight. Kessel sat on the simple framed bed with his feet on the ground. The MP went over to a small desk on the opposite wall and turned on a lamp. On the desk sat a few books and a half-finished letter.

The MP moved to the door. “I'll be just down the hall. Holler when you're done.”

Kessel spoke only when the sound of the guard's footsteps had faded in the hall. “Sending me to this prison. Was that meant as an insult?”

“You're alive, aren't you?”

“The worst kind of Nazis are here. The ones who ran the concentration camps. You've shamed me by putting me in the same place as those mass murderers.”

“Come on, Frieder. You're in a separate wing. All by yourself. Alive.”

“There was a hanging this afternoon. I don't know who. I couldn't see. But I heard. The whole prison was silent. I could hear the trapdoor, and the rope strain as it snapped his neck.”

Kessel fell into deep thought. Mason changed the subject to get him back on the problem at hand.

“We busted Schaeffer this evening, trying to steal the train Volker told us about.”

Kessel looked up at Mason. “Then what do you want from me?”

“The problem is, the prosecuting attorney doesn't have enough to convict Schaeffer for the attempted train theft, and Schaeffer has friends in high places. He may just get off with less than six months in jail. Maybe not even that. You think that hanging was a bad way to die, wait until Schaeffer gets out and comes looking for you.”

When Kessel said nothing, Mason said, “I've got to pin those murders on him, and you're the only one who can help me. Now's the time, while he's still in jail.”

“If Schaeffer has so many influential friends, then they'll just help him get away with it. It will be his word against that of an ex-SS man.”

“If your testimony was the only thing we could hold against him, then you'd probably be right. But we've got him for suspicion of attempted train robbery. Holding false orders. Shooting at military policemen. He's the manager of the Casa Carioca, which has been tied to shipments of contraband. One of the Casa's Polish waiters was killed attempting an armed assault on a police informant's family. Two Casa skaters, Hilda and Adelle, both murdered. Believe me, with all that around Schaeffer's neck, there's no way the army can ignore your eyewitness testimony of murder. If you don't want to live the rest of your life looking over your shoulder, then help me stop Schaeffer. If you want to make up for just a little bit of Adelle's death and everything else you've done, then help me get Schaeffer. It's the only way.”