On Desperate Ground (15 page)

The Reconnaissance Platoon had been built up after the Battle of the Bulge, with fresh troops and veteran G.I.s. Some of the veterans came from specialized units in Italy that had been disbanded that winter, including Rangers and the 1
^st
Special Service Force, a combined U.S. and Canadian commando brigade. These were tough and aggressive soldiers, who uniformly chafed at the notion of serving as bodyguards to HQ and other rear-area troops. But the brass had been badly shaken by German commandos in U.S. uniforms running around behind their lines during the Bulge, and now slept better at night knowing they had a substantial guard of well-armed and experienced G.I.s protecting them.

Mack had worked them up and down the line, going out on patrol to bring back prisoners and watch enemy night movements. Tonight, they had gone out to see what was happening east of Ramersbach, a few kilometers from the Rhine River. There had been increased German patrol activity and a series of small, sharp probes against the American line in that sector. Since there was no similar activity in other sectors, Mack wanted to find out what was behind it. He hated the idea of being out here, but remembered Eisenhower’s heartfelt desire to not be surprised again.

Across from his vantage point, a dirt road ran along a low valley, where two German trucks and a staff car had pulled off to the side in a stand of tall fir trees. Drivers, officers, and guards stood nearby, stamping their feet in the cold, and smoking. Mack wondered what they were waiting for. After a few minutes of watching, small arms fire and grenade explosions sounded in the distance, several ridges to their south. This alerted the Germans, who began to watch the approach from the direction of the firing. That was when Mack took Kowalski for a closer look. Sergeant Willie Kowalski, now tired, cold and bored, was getting on Mack’s nerves.

“Listen, Kowalski, we’re staying here until I figure out what those Jerries are doing. What’s that?” Both men turned as they heard a noise behind them. Kowalski leveled his Thompson directly at the sound.
 

“Juniper.”

“Well-water.”

“Come on in,” said Kowalski, satisfied at the exchange of passwords. A large shadowy form crawled toward the two men. Lieutenant Jeffrey Rose liked passwords that Germans would have a hard time pronouncing, making sure to always use a J or W. It was attention to small details that had kept him alive in the Italian Campaign, where he started off as a private in the 1
^st
SSF and became an officer with a battlefield commission. Rose slithered into the small depression, his six-foot frame and wide shoulders leaving little room left over.
 

“What’s so fuckin’ interesting up here, Mackenzie?” asked Rose. The lieutenant managed to adhere to military protocol back at headquarters, but at the front he acted as if they were all privates. He often said that if he ever saw a general up at the front, he’d be glad to call him by his rank, but after two years of fighting, the opportunity had not presented itself.
 

Without waiting for an answer, Rose lifted his Springfield M1903A4 sniper rifle to the edge of the ridge and scanned the road opposite them through the telescope mount. As an officer he was expected to carry the light M1 .30 caliber carbine, as did Mack. Rose preferred the accuracy and distance the bolt action sniper rifle gave him, and he was an excellent shot. For close work he kept an M3 submachine gun strapped on his back. Known as the grease gun, the M3 was not very accurate, but was light and fully automatic, with a 30 round clip of .45 caliber ammo.
 

The Germans in their long greatcoats showed up well against the white snow, even on this cloudy night with only a partial moon. “I can drop the two officers from here, if you want.” Rose said, looking at Mack, and then at the shivering Corporal. “Kowalski, head back to the rest of the squad. Keep a look out.”
 

“Okay, Rosie,” said a grateful Kowalski, who was gone in a silent moment.
 

“Why is it okay for him to call you ‘Rosie’? You near took my head off when I tried that,” asked Mack.

“We don’t know each other well enough. Kowalski and me have been in it since the Aleutians.”
 

“I don’t plan on being here that long. Did you hear the firing down the line?” Mack asked.

“Yeah, sounds like 5
^th
Battalion got hit.” Rose answered, not moving his eyes from the scope.

“I have a feeling those Jerries are waiting for their patrol to come in. Why? Why not let them walk all the way back? And why only two trucks and a car? Sounds like there was more men in the attack than that.”
 

“Prisoners?”
 

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Let’s get closer, over to those stacks of timber.” Cut pine logs were stacked along the road, on the side closest to them. They could approach under cover and hide among the logs, barely forty meters from the closest truck.
 

Mack nodded, and without a word the two men crawled over the edge of the ridge towards the road. As they drew closer, the sounds of the Germans around the trucks grew clearer. They were obviously not worried about revealing their position this far behind their own lines. Laughter, truck doors slamming, and cigarette smoke carried out to Mack and Rose. Suddenly, they heard a sharp
Achtung!
and froze in place. Mack’s heart was pounding. If they had been seen out in the open, he could expect nothing but a hail of bullets within seconds.
 

“Go!” whispered Rose, “it’s the patrol coming back.”

Mack looked up and saw the Germans facing off to their right, looking toward the treeline at a column of approaching figures. The staff car headlights flicked twice, signaling their location, and the two men sprinted to cover while the waiting Germans were distracted by the incoming patrol. They caught their breath for a moment, before Rose lifted his head over the top of the woodpile. He tapped Mack’s helmet, signaling him to take a look, at the same time slinging the sniper rifle and pulling out the grease gun.
 

It was a large patrol, almost a full company. They descended a small hill and came out on the track near the trucks. The first group peeled off away from the trucks and toward a small village further down the road. Mack and Rose glanced at each other, not expecting this turn of events. Then they saw the line of prisoners. Eight Americans, walking single file in the middle of the road, flanked by Germans. This group turned toward the trucks. Following them was a rear guard of five Germans, each carrying his own weapon and burdened with others. M1 Garands, carbines, and Thompsons, and one bazooka. Some also carried American rucksacks and ammo belts.
 

Mack slumped back behind the woodpile, thinking.
OK, prisoners I get. But why weapons? They have plenty, some better than ours. Why a bazooka, when they have the Panzerfaust?
 

Rose tapped him again. As Mack peered over the edge, Rose indicated the forward truck with a slight movement of his finger. The drivers and guards were throwing down bundles of something. Blankets?
Why? What’s happening here?

The last of the German troops came out of the woods. Mack could see by their distinctive helmets and camouflage smocks that most of these Germans were paratroops. The troops that had turned down the road were regular Wehrmacht.
Interesting.
 

A tall, young paratroop officer ordered the POWs into a line. With a quick gesture, he ordered the captured weapons loaded into one of the trucks. Then, in slow and halting English, he ordered the prisoners to remove their clothing and put on the clothes that had been dropped from the truck. This was greeted by confusion, the Americans looking at each other in disbelief.
 

“Now!” shouted the officer, in a loud and clear voice. Muttering ceased and men began taking off their overcoats, shirts and pants. The paratroopers pointed at their boots with their weapons, and the POWs soon got the idea. Clothing and boots were carefully gathered up, as the replacement clothing was distributed. Before handing a bundle to a prisoner, their dogtags were removed. The officer then collected these, as the POWs hurried into their new clothes, a variety of old and worn military items. Mack recognized a French greatcoat and saw some blue naval coats of an unidentified nationality. All had “US KG” stenciled on the back.
Kreigsgefangener
. Prisoner of War. These guys were prepared.

Wehrmacht troops took up guard positions on either side of the prisoners as the paratroops jumped into the trucks, their officer joining the others in the staff car. The POWs and their guard marched down the road, toward the village. The trucks and staff car sped off into the opposite direction. Within minutes, the scene was empty, the line of marching troops vanishing around a corner, the sound of the vehicles fading in the distance.
 

Rose stood up and stretched his legs. “Now what the fuck was that all about?”
 

“Nothing good. Those paratroopers weren’t here for prisoners, they only wanted the uniforms and weapons. They had replacement clothing ready.”

“Well, they’re gone, but those POWs aren’t that far away. With the rest of the squad we could catch up.”

“No,” Mack held his hand up. “We can’t. We don’t have enough strength to take them and get away. And, we can’t let them know we know about this.”

“Listen, you bastard, those are our guys being marched off down that road!”

“Don’t you think I know that? If we tangle with those guards, some of our guys are bound to get hit. Our job is to get this information back without the Krauts knowing about it.”

“Okay, okay. You’re right.” Rose said, gazing down the road, hating the thought of leaving those men in captivity. Mack stared at him, hating that he had talked him out of it. They headed back to the squad, and Mack felt the cold deep in his bones. It was dawn by the time they came back through the American lines. The squad climbed into waiting trucks for the long ride back to headquarters. The men were tired, damp and cold. Mack pulled himself up into the back of the truck and wearily sat down.
 

Uniforms, weapons, dogtags. Another Bulge? More German commandos behind our lines?
 

It didn’t add up. Mack had run into a group of those English-speaking Germans during the Bulge. One or two spoke American-style English, but most spoke formal British-style English or used British idioms.
 

They must’ve used up their best men in that operation, so how could they mount another?

Mack felt a gentle kick against the toe of his boot.
 

“Why so glum, chum?” asked Rose.
 

“It doesn’t make any sense. They don’t have the strength to pull off another Bulge, and we probably wouldn’t fall for that trick again anyway. Why go through all that effort? And what were those paratroops all about?”

“I don’t know, buddy. Not our problem right now. Those paras looked like they were getting out of Dodge pronto. They’re tough motherfuckers, not like those Volkstrum old men and boys along most of the line.”

The trucks finally pulled into the HQ bivouac area and braked to a skidding halt in front of the mess tent.

“Come on Cap’n, let’s get some chow. Some Joe will help.”

“I don’t think all the coffee in the First Army will help me figure out this one,” Mack said.

But the powdered eggs and hot coffee did help him feel halfway human again. He walked over to the chateau that was currently serving as First Army headquarters, having housed a German corps headquarters in previous weeks. In sharp contrast to the clerks and officers filing into HQ in their clean and pressed uniforms, ready for a full day at the office, Mack’s boots were dirty and wet, his field jacket caked with dried mud. Officers carrying briefcases trotted up the main stairs as Mack lugged his fieldpack, weighed down with grenades, at his side.

In his small office, Mack leafed through intelligence estimates from First Army units and information from London. Nothing. He wrote a memorandum requesting that Army or Corps intelligence officers inform him of any enemy actions in which prisoners or bodies were stripped of uniforms, weapons or dogtags. Half asleep, he gave the memo to a clerk and told him to distribute it. Dog-tired, he dragged himself to his quarters, reminding himself to code the memo and transmit it to Colonel Prescott at SHAEF in the morning.
Gotta remember
, he told himself as he flopped down on his cot and unlaced his boots. His feet were barely out of them when all thoughts of memos and codes left him and he fell into a deep sleep.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

10 March 1945

OKH Headquarters

Zossen, Germany

 
Sturmbannführer
Otto Hettstedt drove down the gravel driveway, past the OKH headquarters building, to the reserve barracks where the afternoon meeting was to be held. It bothered him that he did not warrant a driver from the SS motor pool. As Himmler’s personal representative, he should be stepping out of full-length staff car, an aide holding the door open and one arm out in salute. Instead, he steered the small sedan towards the barracks and pulled alongside the other vehicles. Looking at his watch, he saw he was early, having left sooner than needed out of nervousness. With a grunt, he pulled himself out of the car, dragging his heavy briefcase behind him.