Germanica (20 page)

Worse, he heard people laughing, laughing at him.

* * *

Neither Bud nor George liked hospitals and couldn’t think of anyone who did. Part of it was the medicinal smell and part was the sight of people in distress. They hated the apparent impersonality of hospitals but knew it had to be.

This evening, however, they had to go. Angelo Morelli was in there and he was one of them. He was a young lieutenant who’d only been in their unit for a couple of weeks before getting badly wounded. They’d had a couple of beers to strengthen their resolve, but it hadn’t worked very well and the medicinal smell almost made them nauseous.

Morelli had landed his plane early that morning, if you could call what happened a landing. He’d radioed that he was in trouble. His landing gear wasn’t functioning and there was a fire in the cockpit. He’d been hit by some flak. When he was told to get out he said that he couldn’t get the canopy to move. Bud and George had listened in horror as he got closer and closer to the ground. The fire spread and his last few seconds were spent screaming that he was burning, burning and howling for help and for his mother.

In what was either superb piloting or dumb luck, he’d landed the plane and it had skidded down the runway, finally coming to a stop only a short way from the emergency vehicles that were trying desperately to catch him. By the time they got to him, the screaming had stopped but precious seconds were lost trying to pry open the canopy. When they finally succeeded, they used extinguishers, and got Morelli out. Bud and George were close enough to see that his flight suit was smoldering.

Later they got word that he was alive and in a hospital only a few miles from where they were based. They borrowed a jeep and drove to the collection of tents that housed the facility.

Bud glared at the middle-aged nurse who was assigned to guide them. “How come our boys are in tents while the krauts are in real hospitals?”

The nurse was not fazed. “Because there are so damn many injured, both civilian and military, that no amount of so-called real hospitals exist that can hold everyone. Actually, we are under capacity right now since there is not that much real fighting going on. Don’t worry, we’re taking good care of your friend, at least as good as we can possibly do under the circumstances.”

“What are you saying?” asked Bud.

“I’m saying that he was terribly, horribly burned. So badly so that it’s a miracle of sorts that he’s still alive.”

“Is he going to make it?” George asked.

She gazed at them firmly but with compassion. “It is highly unlikely that he will survive the night. And even if he should survive and begin to recover, he may not wish to live.”

The comment stunned them. If you were hurt and got to a hospital, you got well, didn’t you? Now they knew better. She led them down rows of cots to a separate section. Many were empty but enough held casualties who were swathed in bandages. It was unnerving the way that they followed the two pilots with their eyes. Even more unnerving was the fact that some of the wounded had their eyes covered. They couldn’t help but wonder if the men were blind.

“This is where we put the burn patients. Lieutenant Morelli is the first one who is a pilot. Most pilots don’t survive what he’s gone through. He gets his own area, not only for privacy but so that his screams don’t terrify the others.”

Bud thought that he would again be ill. “Tell us what to expect.”

“Have you seen anybody who’d been burned to death?” They nodded. They had seen violent death. She continued, “In many cases the body looks like a very large overcooked steak or roast. Well, that’s what he looks like. The only difference is that he is still alive. His feet are gone and he might have a couple of fingers left. When the nerve endings in his body try to repair themselves his pain will be even more intolerable than it is right now. He is heavily sedated, but the pain still gets through after a while. If we give him too much, it might kill him, although that might not be a bad thing. His eyes are intact, but much of his face simply doesn’t exist. Now, do you still want to see him?”

“Can he hear us?” Bud asked.

“We doubt it, but don’t take a chance and talk about his condition. And don’t even think of touching him.”

They didn’t. They approached the thing on the bed. They had never seen a mummy before and now wished they hadn’t. The rise and fall of Morelli’s chest was the only indication that he was alive.

They leaned over him and told them who they were and that they were so glad he’d made it. They said that others would be visiting him as well and that he should stay tough. They added that the government was going to bill him for ruining the plane, but not even that got a rise out of him.

They left, but not before thanking the nurse who had turned away and was sobbing. “What would happen if he got far too much morphine?” George asked.

She smiled knowingly. “He would go to sleep peacefully and never wake up. He would never have to go through the unendurable agonies that would be his future.”

The two pilots shook her hand and went back to the officers club where they ordered more beers for themselves. Nobody joined them. It was obvious that they wanted to be alone.

“I guess there’s no good way to die,” said Bud. “The life of a pilot is glamorous until you get shot out of the sky or burned like Morelli. Of course we could have joined the bloody infantry and run the risk of being shot, bayonetted, or blown to atoms by artillery or by pilots just like us.”

George agreed. “Of course, we could have gotten into the navy but their pilots run the same risks as we do. And our base here is not likely to sink. Did you ever wonder how many sailors lived for how long in the bowels of the
Arizona
or the
Oklahoma
until their oxygen ran out? How many ships do you think went down with living crewmen screaming for help they were never going to get?”

Bud lit up a cigarette. “They say these’ll kill you too. I guess there’s no real good way to die, just some that are worse than others. What’s the old joke? Oh yeah, I want to die of a heart attack while getting laid at a hundred and ten. Only problem is, nobody wants to die. So what do we do?”

George smiled grimly. “I suggest we have another drink.”

CHAPTER 10

Staff Sergeant Billy Hill half lifted and half dragged the trembling and writhing young Nazi into a windowless room and seated him on an uncomfortable chair. He was tied to the arms of the chair but Hill did remove the blindfold.

“How long do you want me to keep him like that, Captain?” Hill asked after leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

Tanner thought for a moment. “Maybe until after I get done with a few things. Maybe I’ll go to lunch. That ought to be enough to get him thinking. According to his papers, he’s fourteen and lived in Stuttgart. He may think he’s tough, but I’ll bet he’s scared shitless. My bet is that he’ll tell us everything we want to know about the Werewolves without much prompting.”

Hill grinned. “Sir, you telling me I can’t pull out his toenails?”

“Not without first getting his mother’s permission.”

An hour later, Tanner and Cullen entered the room and sat across the table from Gruber. Hill stood behind him. At a signal, Hill yanked Gruber’s blindfold off. Gruber gasped and blinked in the sudden light. He was wide-eyed and looked around in growing desperation. The two American officers were seated in higher chairs and looking down on him, which was intimidating.

Tanner spoke first. “Hans Gruber, you are a Nazi war criminal and you will either be shot or sent to a Russian prison camp.”

“I’m a soldier,” Gruber blurted. “I’m not a war criminal. And you can’t give me to the Russians.”

Cullen moved beside the boy. “First of all, Gruber, you were not in anything resembling a uniform, which means you are a terrorist, a
franc-tireur
. German soldiers shoot people like that without even a trial. You are nothing more than a bandit or an assassin and you will be treated as such.”

Hans Gruber looked frightened. “I
did
have a uniform. I wore an armband. They said it would be sufficient if I was caught.”

Cullen waved a piece of cloth in his face. “You mean this shitty little rag? This is not a uniform and besides, I never saw it.” With that he threw it into a wastebasket and Gruber moaned.

Tanner laughed harshly. “Do you like Jews, Gruber? Of course you don’t. Jews are the scum of the earth. They are pigs who don’t eat pork. Your dead Hitler said that Jews weren’t even human and you believed him. You were told that Jews cheat real Germans and that they murdered Christ, weren’t you? How many Jews did you beat up? How many did you kill?”

Gruber gasped at the last question. Tanner and the others caught it. “So you have killed Jews. How wonderful. Did they fight you or did you just shoot them in the back?”

Gruber had begun to sob. “It was just one and I had to do it. General Hahn made me. He said I had to do it to prove I was a real Nazi. Besides, the Jew was dying.”

Tanner suppressed a shudder. “I’m sure you did, but before we send you to the Reds, the U.S. Army has a special job for you.”

He slid a number of eight-by-ten photos across the table. Gruber’s hands were untied so he could pick them up. The photos showed men in German uniforms handling mangled and half-decayed corpses. Some of the men handling the bodies wore uniforms with SS insignia.

When Gruber tried to look away, Tanner pushed the pictures into his face. “Do you remember the Nazi joke that the only good Jew is a dead Jew? Well, these were taken at Dachau and most of them are good dead Jews. The German prisoners you see are going to spend the next few months digging up dead Jews, some very long-dead Jews whose rotting flesh stinks to high heaven. They will be identifying them and then burying them with respect. When we leave here and before you go to the Reds, that is what you will be doing. And you will be working for other Jews who will beat you if you slack off. Does the thought of handling dead Jews make you happy?”

“No,” Gruber gasped.

“Rachel, come in,” Tanner ordered.

A young woman in a nondescript uniform with a white star of David on an armband entered and stared coldly at Gruber. “Is this the little shit who’s going to be helping us? Herr Gruber, I’m with the Palmach, the Jewish Army, and we’re going to make you work with dead Jews, eat with dead Jews and sleep with dead Jews. You will forever stink of dead Jews. And do you know why?” She rolled up her sleeve and showed him the numbers tattooed on her arm. “I spent a year in a death camp watching Germans kill my people, and now it’s my turn. I managed to survive but you will not. You are going to suffer for being a Nazi, you stinking little shit.”

The woman glared at him. “Have you ever had a woman, ever had sex with something other than your left hand?” When Gruber whimpered and shook his head, she laughed. “And I’ll bet you’re not circumcised either. Well, you will be when we get our hands on you and you can bet that your virginity will last forever. You can’t get up what you no longer have.”

Now Gruber was sobbing openly. “Please don’t. What can I do? Please don’t let that happen to me? I’ll tell you anything. I just want to go home.”

“How many Werewolves are there?” Tanner asked.

“There were supposed to be fifty, but a lot of them have deserted. Now there can’t be more than twenty and General Red Star is angry.”

Tanner was puzzled. “Who or what is General Red Star?”

Gruber sensed an opening. “If I tell you, will you protect me?”

“Talk and keep talking.”

“His name is SS General Alfonse Hahn and we call him General Red Star because he has a birthmark like a red star on his cheek.”

Tanner drew in his breath. Could this possibly be the man who had murdered Tucker and Peters so many eternities ago? It had to be. “Where is this General Hahn?”

Gruber was looking hopeful, like a kid who thought he had just passed a surprise test. “He’s deep inside the Redoubt, probably in Bregenz. They say he’s an important aide to Minister Goebbels himself,” he added proudly.

“I need fresh air,” Tanner said and walked outside into the still-cold air. Cullen nodded. He would complete the interrogation. There wasn’t that much more that a fourteen-year-old boy could tell them about the inner workings of the German Army.

Tanner saw Lena using a cloth she’d dipped into a bucket to wash her arm. “Will it come off?”

Lena smiled softly. “These numbers came from a pen and I wrote them lightly and they’ve almost completely disappeared. I’ve seen too many whose numbers were real tattoos and that represented horror. I’ve been very fortunate.” She angrily threw the cloth into the bucket. “I’ve never spoken like that to anyone, anytime, much less to a stupid child. And I never thought I would feel so good doing it. I don’t know whether to hate myself or be proud.”

“Be proud. You were very helpful in there. I thought you would want to help bring down the Nazis if you could.”

“You’re right. And please call on me again, and
again
, and
again
if I can help.” She took up the cloth again and looked at her arm. The numbers were gone. “What are you going to do with that boy?”

Tanner noted that she had referred to him as a boy, not a Nazi murderer. “We’re going to find him a German uniform and send him off to be a prisoner of war. With a little luck, he’ll be allowed to go home, if he has a home, in a year or so. As to the Jew he shot, he’s going to have to live with that. Hopefully, the handful of other Werewolves out there will somehow get the same message.”

“It sounds just. Incomplete and imperfect, but as good as it’s going to be.”

“Now let’s change the subject to something a little more pleasant, Lena. Have you ever had the pleasure of eating in an army mess hall?” Ordinarily, she and the other foreign nationals working for the division either ate field rations where they worked or food was brought to them. It was highly unusual for a foreign worker to eat with the soldiers.

She laughed and he realized that she had a very nice laugh. “How’s the food?”

“Generally pretty bad, but I’ll bet it’s better than what you and the other clerks have been getting.”

“Sounds good. If that’s an invitation, I accept.”

* * *

Small world, thought Ernie. The two thugs who’d jumped him in Bern and whom he was afraid he’d killed were sitting in a café along the waterfront of Arbon. They were sipping beers and had a fine view of the lake and couldn’t see him approaching from behind. Despite the apparent prohibition against private boats on the lake, a handful of white sailboats were enjoying the day. He wondered if Winnie would have liked going on one. It wasn’t going to happen. Word had come from Allen Dulles that they were not to go out on the water again. Nor were they to venture too close to the now reinforced and sealed German border.

With three heavily armed countries now having access to Lake Constance and two of them at war with each other, the lake had just become very dangerous. Ernie sometimes wondered if he should again talk to Dulles about getting back to the air force and becoming a pilot again. The last time he’d brought up the subject, Dulles had calmly reminded him that he was doing an important job in Arbon by keeping tabs on the Nazis just across the border. He’d closed his comments by telling Ernie that the Luftwaffe was almost nonexistent; therefore, who would he fly against? He might not even get a plane. He might be stuck at some base on Iceland doing clerical work instead of intelligence and spying for the USA. Ernie had agreed.

Dulles had then suggested that if Ernie was serious about getting back into the war he could arrange for him to be sent to the Pacific. “I still couldn’t guarantee you’d get a plane or, if you did, that there would be any Japs left to shoot at except those fools who want to kill themselves and others. I could, however, assure you of jungle rot, stifling heat, and boredom. Of course you would likely never see Winnie again.”

A contrite Ernie said he would love to remain in Switzerland and with the OSS.

But nothing had been said about what to do if he saw Nazis in Arbon. Should he assume that they too had diplomatic immunity? If so, then Germany’s diplomatic corps was going to hell. Still, he wondered what the two thugs were up to.

The Nazis got up and paid their bill. He could see that they didn’t leave much of a tip. The new Reich must not pay very well. Ernie waited until they were well clear of the café and began to follow them. There weren’t many people on the streets so he was careful not to be seen. When the two men turned down a side street, he picked up the pace. They might lead him to where they were staying and perhaps using as their own espionage headquarters.

He’d barely turned the corner when he went flying. He slid forward on his hands and knees. He tried to get up, but he got a kick in the ribs that knocked the wind out of him. He managed to see the two Germans standing above him, smiling. He couldn’t get up. He was helpless as more kicks struck his chest, back, and head. I’m going to die here, he thought and his world spun. He could hear the Germans laughing.

Finally, one of them grabbed him by his now bloody shirt and yanked him to his knees. “You thought we were stupid, didn’t you? You got us one time, but not a second.”

With that, they began hitting him again. He could hear screams and shouts in the distance. One of the Germans swore and they let him drop to the pavement. One more time he tried to get up and failed. His world was spinning and he decided to let it.

* * *

Ernie awoke to find himself in his bed at the warehouse. He tried to get up but fell back. The pain in his chest was too much. He wondered if his ribs had been broken. He checked the rest of his body and everything was pretty much there, just a lot of it was swollen and painful. So how the hell had he gotten to his bed?

After several tries he did manage to sit up and swing his legs onto the floor. He realized that he was fully clothed and bloody. He heard footsteps and his OSS landlord, Sam Valenti, approached.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” he said.

“How long?”

“Just a few hours. Some passersby heard the fight and the police came right away. It’s been recorded as an attempted mugging, but nobody believes that. Dulles has been notified and he’s not too happy.”

“Is he mad at me or the Germans? The Germans, I hope.”

“Both of you, I presume. Winnie’s not too thrilled either. She was in earlier and left crying. Anyhow, this is for you,” Valenti said as he handed over a package.

Ernie opened it gingerly. It hurt too much to stretch. Inside the package was a German Luger and two clips of ammunition. “Dulles said there’s one clip already in the gun, so you should be set.”

“I thought guns were illegal in Switzerland?” Ernie said.

“They are, so don’t get caught with it.”

“Ah, did Winnie say where she was going or when she would be back?”

“She’ll be gone for a couple of days, pal. Dulles has her off to Bern as a courier. He said she’ll have a gun too.”

* * *

The last time Tanner had seen so many tanks was that terrible day in December when scores of German Panzers had erupted from their hiding places and overwhelmed the men of the outnumbered and outgunned 106th Infantry Division.

This time it was different. The tanks were American Shermans and he counted forty of them leading an infantry attack on German positions near the entry to the Brenner Pass. Accompanying them was about the same number of M3 halftracks carrying infantry. That was just what he could
see
. Plans called for three full divisions to attack the German lines with two more in reserve. They were positioned to exploit the expected breakthrough.

Bombers and fighters had worked over the area where the German defenses were supposed to be the strongest. A long and thunderous artillery bombardment had followed the planes and preceded the tanks. The ground had shaken and the locations where the Germans were presumed to be had been enveloped by smoke and fire. The force of the explosions could be felt where he was with the division’s command.

“Pity the poor bastards,” muttered Cullen.

“Ours or theirs?” asked Tanner.

“Anybody who had a mother,” he answered.

No one was saying that the attack would be a cakewalk. The Germans were well dug in and well camouflaged. The 105th wasn’t the most experienced division in the Seventh Army, far from it, but even the most inexperienced soldier knew that the Germans would be difficult to pry from their fortresses.