The Second Objective (41 page)

“I think he is, I think they got him back inside. Who the fuck is this guy? One of those Germans?”

“That’s right,” said Grannit, staggering as he leaned toward one of the columns.

“Jesus, you’re hit, too. Cover him, I’ll get help. Where the hell is everybody?”

Grannit rubbed his eyes again. He thought he saw a bloodstain on the back of the MP’s left leg as he took a step toward the door in the darkness.

“Hold up,” said Grannit.

“Come on, man, you’re hurt—”

“Who plays center field for the Dodgers?” asked Grannit.

“What, are you fucking kidding me?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Joe DiMaggio.”

Grannit pulled the trigger. Von Leinsdorf spun around and dove to the ground, squeezing off three shots from his .45, deafening in the enclosed space. The first bullet caught Grannit just above the hip and drove him to the ground. His good arm braced to break the fall, his elbow cracked as it hit the concrete, and his gun and flashlight skittered a few feet away from his hand.

Von Leinsdorf stepped forward into the light, holding the Colt in both hands. Grannit’s shot had grazed his ribs. He touched the blood, assessing his injury as he advanced slowly toward Grannit, staring at him with a mix of rage and curiosity. Grannit tried to inch his left hand toward his gun, but his legs wouldn’t work properly and the area under his hip grew slick with blood, preventing any traction. Von Leinsdorf stopped three feet away.

“What do you want?” he asked. “What do you want?”

Grannit didn’t answer, but didn’t look away.

Von Leinsdorf raised the gun to fire point-blank at him when the reservoir exploded with a series of deafening shots that merged into one long, continuous blast.

Bernie advanced steadily toward Von Leinsdorf as he emptied the clip, and every shot caught him square in the back. The German jerked forward, spun to his left as he dropped the gun, tried to grab a pillar to hold himself up, then slid to the ground and onto his side. He looked up at Bernie in disbelief. Bernie stood over him, held his look without flinching, pointed the gun at his forehead, and the trigger clicked again, the clip empty. And in that instant the dark light in Von Leinsdorf’s eyes finally went out.

Bernie tossed the gun away and knelt down beside Grannit. He didn’t like what he saw.

“They’re coming,” he said. “You’re going to be all right. They’ll be here soon.”

“How’s the other guy?”

Grannit nodded toward the man in the overcoat. Bernie went to check on him, a young military policeman.

“He’s gone,” said Bernie.

“Get out of here now,” said Grannit. “Before they find you.”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“Go on—”

“Forget that. Forget it. I’m not leaving you alone.”

Grannit closed his eyes and struggled to breathe. They could hear shouts and footsteps entering a far end of the reservoir, voices echoing over the stone. Grannit pointed toward the left pocket of his coat.

“Here. In here.”

Bernie helped him reach in, and they pulled out Ole Carlson’s dog tags. Grannit pressed them into Bernie’s hands, held his hand over them, and squeezed hard.

“You’re with me, Bernie,” said Grannit, fading away. “Tell ’em you’re my partner. We came here together. We finished the job. You tell ’em that.”

“All right.”

“He dropped a case near the water. Make sure you get it first. There’s papers in there you can use.”

“Okay, Earl.”

“Promise me you’ll do that.”

“I promise.”

Grannit closed his eyes, but didn’t loose his grip on Bernie’s hand until the first soldiers arrived.

37

L
ate on the morning of December 22, General Eisenhower issued his Order of the Day to all the Allied troops in Europe, his first public acknowledgment of the seriousness and scale of the Battle of the Bulge.

The enemy is making his supreme effort to break out of the desperate plight into which you forced him by your brilliant victories of the summer and fall. He is fighting savagely to take back all that you have won and is using every treacherous trick to deceive and kill you. He is gambling everything, but already, in this battle, your unparalleled gallantry has done much to foil his plans. In the face of your proven bravery and fortitude, he will completely fail.

But we cannot be content with mere repulse.

By rushing out from his fixed defenses the enemy has given us the chance to turn his great gamble into his worst defeat. So I call upon every man, of all the Allies, to rise now to new heights of courage, of resolution, and of effort. Let everyone hold before him a single thought—to destroy the enemy on the ground, in the air, everywhere—destroy him. United in this determination and with unshakable faith in the cause for which we fight, we will, with God’s help, go forward to our greatest victory.

Later that same day, for reasons that have never been adequately explained, the extraordinary security detail surrounding General Eisenhower at the Grand Trianon in Versailles was ordered to stand down. He soon returned to his former patterns of free movement behind the lines and among his forward troops.

On the morning of December 23, the weather over Belgium and the Ardennes Forest cleared. For the first time in the week since the battle had begun, combined Allied air forces took to the sky and entered the fight against the invading German armies with devastating effect. Within three days, elements of Patton’s Thi
rd Amy reached the exhausted American defenders who had resisted the ferocious siege of Bastogne. Hitler’s last gamble had reached its high-water mark. Within days, his bold offensive would devolve into a desperate retreat toward the German border to save what remained of his battered divisions from utter destruction. Although intense fighting would continue for weeks into the New Year, generating for both sides the highest casualty rate of the entire war, initiative and momentum had shifted back toward the Allies for the final time. Less than five months later, at SHAEF’s field headquarters outside Reims, German field commanders signed the official articles of surrender.

After watching his staff struggle and fail to produce a satisfactory statement to commemorate the moment, with characteristic modesty General Eisenhower summed up the entire war effort in a single sentence:

“The mission of this Allied force was fulfilled at 0241 local time, May 7, 1945.”

38

Brooklyn, New York

OCTOBER 4, 1955, 2:00
P.M.

E
ach afternoon, outside the urgent-care wing of the Veterans Administration Hospital on Seventh Avenue, nurses wheeled their patients out onto a western-facing plaza overlooking a public golf course, to soak up the last heat of Indian summer. The play-by-play broadcast of the World Series could be heard from a dozen different radios, the voices of Red Barber and young Vin Scully setting the scene. After losing two of the last three championships to the despised Yankees, the Brooklyn Dodgers had once again carried the Series into a seventh and deciding game.

When Bernie arrived for his visit, he expected to find Earl on the plaza, but didn’t see him there and went back to look for him in his room. A young, friendly nurse whom he didn’t recognize was working the floor. They met just outside of the room, as Bernie glanced in at Earl.

“How’s he doing today?”

“Feeling a little poorly this morning,” she said.

“You’re new, aren’t you? What’s your name?”

“Charlene. I’ve been here a few weeks.”

“Charlene, I’m Bernie.”

Bernie held out the small bouquet he always brought to brighten up the room and asked if she could help him find a vase. He walked with her to the nurses’
station.

“Where you from, Bernie?”

“Here. Brooklyn.”

“Yeah? Me, too,” she said. “Mr. Grannit doesn’t get many visitors.”

“I come by every Sunday.”

“See, that’s why, I don’t usually work weekends.”

“Anyway, kind of a local holiday today, isn’t it? For a Tuesday.”

“For any day, you kidding? I’m living and dying with every pitch.”

“You want to listen to the game with us? We’ll put it on in his room.”

“Thanks, I’ll be in and out. Just about everybody in here’s got it on the radio.”

“They say you could walk from one end of Brooklyn to the other today and never miss a pitch,” said Bernie.

“I believe that.”

She held out the small vase she’d filled with water, and he nestled the flowers inside. She noticed the worked-in dirt and grime on his hands and under the nails. They walked back to the room.

“You a relative, Bernie?”

“No, just a friend.”

“I don’t believe Mr. Grannit has any immediate family, does he?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

They entered the room. Earl sat propped up in the bed, his face turned to the single window. He showed no sign that he’d noticed their arrival. Charlene set the flowers on the bedside counter. Bernie switched on the radio, and the sounds of the warm-up show came across, Red and Vinny running down the lineups as the crowd settled into Yankee Stadium. Bernie pulled up a chair beside the bed.

“What do you think?” asked Bernie. “You think today’s the day, Earl? I really think we’re going to do it. With Podres going for us, he had their number last game. I don’t think they can touch him.”

Earl’s right arm sat folded up beside him, atrophied and useless. He had some movement in the left hand, to signal for things he wanted or needed. Bernie and the staff had learned how to read most of those requests. This time, as the game started, he gestured in a way Bernie couldn’t decipher. Finally, he realized Earl wanted to hold his hand for a while as they listened. Earl looked directly at him, which he didn’t usually do. His features had been twisted by the series of strokes he’d suffered, and some days his eyes stayed dull, but today Bernie could see a spark. When Gil Hodges singled in the game’s first run in the top of the fourth and Brooklyn took the lead, Earl slapped his hand on the bed a few times and nodded his head.

It looked like a sure thing. Podres was too strong. This time they were going to do it. After fifty-five years Brooklyn was finally going to win the Series.

Three weeks later, two days after Earl died, Bernie received a call at the station from an attorney named Jack Meyer, who worked out of a small storefront near Grand Army Plaza in downtown Brooklyn. He mentioned that he was handling the details of Earl’s estate and had a couple of questions for him. Bernie arranged a time to see him during his lunch hour and took the trolley to his office.

Meyer worked alone in a cramped single room, piled halfway up the walls with accordion files and loose paperwork. A round, balding man in his mid-sixties with a welcoming smile, he welcomed Bernie in and gestured toward the chair in front of his desk, the only other place to sit.

“Apologies in advance for my filing system,” said Meyer. “I’m a few weeks behind on my paperwork.”

Bernie said he didn’t mind, uncomfortable as always in an encounter with any form of authority.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how did you know Earl Grannit?” asked Meyer.

“We met during the war.”

“Did you serve together?”

“Not in the same unit. But that’s where we met.”

“Where are you from originally?”

“Brooklyn. That’s what we realized. That we were from the same neighborhood.”

Something of Bernie’s reticence came across. “I don’t mean to pry,” said Meyer. “I’m just trying to understand the relationship. I knew Earl’s father; I represented the family for many years. I never heard Earl mention you.”

“He was never much of a talker,” said Bernie.

“No,” said Meyer, with a warm smile. “But he made the most of the words he let go of.”

“Yes, sir. After the war, we stayed in touch. When he had the stroke, I started helping out at the gas station. I’m a mechanic.”

“I see.”

“Earl had a rough time of it.”

“I know he was badly wounded over there. Took him years to recover.”

“See, I don’t think he ever really did.”

“It’s a blessing his suffering is over,” said Meyer. “So our business here today is short and simple. If you knew him as well as you say, you won’t be surprised to hear that Earl took very precise care of his affairs.”

Bernie smiled slightly.

“I have his will here. He’s left everything to you.”

Bernie couldn’t speak for a moment. “Excuse me?”

“You’re his sole heir. Don’t run right out and move to West chester; there’s not a lot, aside from the gas station and a few savings bonds.”

“I thought...He had no other family at all?”

“He had a sister growing up.”

“Where is she?”

“She was killed. There was a robbery at the station. Some punk emptied the till, she walked in on him. A long time ago now, over twenty-five years. She couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen.”