The Second Objective (6 page)

“Das Gewehr!”
he said.
“Erhalten das Gewehr!”

Bernie didn’t move. Von Leinsdorf marched over, pointed the pistol, with a long steel cylinder attached to the muzzle, at Ellis’s head, and fired twice. Once the American went slack, Preuss slapped the rifle away and rolled off the body, breathing heavily.

Bernie felt shock stun his system. He’d never seen anyone die before. He couldn’t think; he couldn’t move.

“What the fuck?” whispered Bernie. “What the fuck?”

“Get hold of yourself,” said Von Leinsdorf; then he turned to Preuss and pointed. “Drag the bodies into those woods.”

Von Leinsdorf jogged back toward the gate. Private Anderson lay dead, sprawled facedown in the dirt, bleeding from half a dozen wounds. The driver—merchant seaman Marius Schieff, from Rostock—had propped himself up against the base of the gate, pistol still in hand, looking down at a dark stain spreading across his field jacket.

Von Leinsdorf knelt down beside him and spoke to him gently. “Marius? How bad is it? Can you walk back to the line?”

Schieff smiled grimly. “Walk five miles?”

“We can’t turn back, my friend,” said Von Leinsdorf.

“Ich weisse,”
said Schieff. “Go on, leave me here, maybe someone finds me—”

Von Leinsdorf stood up and without hesitating fired twice into Schieff’s head at close range. He unscrewed the silencer as he glanced into the guard house, then holstered the weapon and walked back to the jeep. Gunther Preuss was already on his feet, grunting with effort as he dragged Ellis’s body toward the nearby woods. Bernie hurried toward Von Leinsdorf.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck did you do?”

“I told you to be quiet. Collect their tags, get the bodies off the road—”

“You know the orders, god damn it, we’re not supposed to engage, somebody must’ve heard those shots—”

Von Leinsdorf walked past him to Mallory’s body, flicked open his lighter, and fired up a Lucky Strike as he looked at the dead American. “Who’s married to Betty Grable?”

“Betty Grable, the movie star? Fuck if I know—”

“Mickey Rooney?”

“No, it’s not him—wait a minute, let me think a second—it’s that bandleader, Harry James—what difference does it make?”

“I gave him the wrong answer. He was about to do something heroic.” Von Leinsdorf picked up Mallory’s legs and glared at Bernie. “Are you just going to stand there, Brooklyn?”

Bernie grabbed Mallory’s arms, and they carried him toward the woods. “But how did you know that? How could you possibly know that?”

“There’s no radio in the shed,” said Von Leinsdorf.

Gunther Preuss, the overweight former bank clerk from Vienna, stomped past them on his way from the woods back toward the guard gate.

“Was sollten wir mit Schieff tun?”
asked Preuss.

“Take his papers, empty his pockets, put him with the others,” said Von Leinsdorf.

“Kann ich seine Aufladungen nehmen?”

“For Christ’s sake, Preuss, the body’s not even cold—”

“Mine...they fit no good,” said Preuss elaborately.

“That the best you can do?” asked Bernie. “You sound like fucking Frankenstein.”

“Then take one of the American’s boots,” said Von Leinsdorf.

“Danke, Unterstürmführer
—
”

“And speak English or keep your mouth shut, you fat, fucking, useless piece of shit.”

Preuss dropped his shoulders and broke into a harried trot. Von Leinsdorf looked over at Bernie, with a sly smile. “What do you think? My slang is improving, yes?”

Bernie glared at him. “You said ‘kit.’”

“What about it?”

“It’s not a ‘kit,’ it’s a toolbox.”

“You’re right,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Kit’s British. Fuck all.”

“And you’re on Preuss’s case? You’re fuckin’ nuts, you know that?”

Von Leinsdorf laughed, blew smoke, enjoying himself. Twenty yards into the woods, they dropped Mallory’s body beside Ellis under a thick stand of evergreens. A gust of wind stirred the branches overhead, dropping clots of wet snow on them.

“Why’d you have to kill Schieff?” asked Bernie.

“He was gut shot, he wouldn’t have lasted an hour—”

“We could’ve treated him, taken him for help—”

“He knew the risks. Besides, you heard what our friendly sergeant said back there,” said Von Leinsdorf, tapping Mallory’s boot with his. “Americans ride three men to a jeep. You’d think our fearless leaders might have picked up that little detail, eh, Brooklyn?”

Von Leinsdorf leaned down, opened their shirts, and slipped the dog tags off Mallory and Ellis.

“Cover the bodies,” he said, tossing the tags to Bernie. “Take their ID, jackets, weapons, anything else we can use. You’re driving.”

Bernie caught the tags and dropped them into his pocket. His nightmare had come to life; American blood on his hands. Four men dead in less than five minutes. And Von Leinsdorf seemed to like it. He was practically humming as he walked away. But how long now before they became the hunted?

He saw Mallory’s foot twitch once as he rifled through the man’s field jacket. He leaned down and realized Mallory was still breathing.

Once Von Leinsdorf was out of sight, Bernie took a sulfa packet, bandages, and an ampule of morphine from his pocket, and knelt down beside the gravely wounded sergeant.

6

Southwest of Liège, Belgium

DECEMBER 14, 9:00
P.M.

E
arl Grannit leaned out the window of the engine car and looked back along the length of the U.S. Army transport train, eleven freight cars trailing behind them as they rounded a broad turn. He gazed out at the smooth moonlight glancing off the Meuse River as it flashed through the trees, then at his watch under the bare bulb of the cab. He shoveled more coal into the firebox while he waited for his engineer to finish a call on the radio, talking to dispatch.

“How close are we?” asked Grannit, over the roar of the engine, when the call ended.

“Four miles,” said the engineer. “Next station’s Clermont.”

“What about our backup?”

“Says they’re all in place. Ready to go.”

“Famous last words,” said Grannit.

“Think they’re gonna make a move, Earl?”

“I’ll take a look.”

Grannit swung outside on the handrail, found his footing, and inched back along the ledge rimming the coal car. He stepped across to the first freight car, climbed the ladder to the roof, set himself, and looked ahead down the tracks. He could already make out the Clermont station lights piercing the night in the distance. Then he spotted a crossing in the foreground, where two cars were flashing their headlights toward the oncoming train. The engine had already started to slow; he heard the whining steel grind of the brakes.

At least half a mile short of the station.

“Shit. Shit, shit.”

By the time Grannit worked his way back to the engine car, the train had nearly come to a complete stop.

“That was the signal, wasn’t it?” asked the engineer, looking wide-eyed. “I was supposed to stop, right?”

“Yeah, Ole,” said Grannit. “You were supposed to stop.”

Four men were moving toward them alongside the tracks from the crossroads, flashlight beams zigzagging. Grannit grabbed a lantern and jumped down to meet them.

“Hey, how’s it going there?” said the man leading the way.

The others behind him hung back. Two wore trench coats with raised collars, peaked hats silhouetted black against the sky. Officers.

The advance man stepped into the light of Grannit’s lantern. He was short, energetic, pounding a wad of gum, the flat rasp of Jersey or Philly in his voice. Grannit eyed his insignia; corporal, battalion quartermaster’s staff.

“Eddie Bennings, Company C,” he said, offering a glad hand. “You new to the unit?”

“Just last week. Me and Ole,” said Grannit.

“Welcome to the 724. Let me tell you something, pal: You landed in clover. You been to our billet in Paris yet?” Grannit shook his head. “You’ll see. They don’t call us the ‘million-dollar outfit’ for nothing, know what I’m saying?”

“We heard some talk.”

“So they put you on the milk run up from Matelot, huh?” Bennings waved to the officers, letting them know he had the situation under control. They headed back to the cars.

“Who’s the brass?” asked Grannit.

“Interested parties. We look out for each other in the 724. What the Frogs call ‘es-pree de corpse.’ I’ll explain the drill—what’s your name?”

“Earl Grannit. Like I said, that’s Ole. Ole Carlson.”

“Okay, Earl, there’s a side rail coming up on your right about a hundred yards. We’ll switch you over. Take the whole rig onto that side rail. Uncouple the stock you’re carrying after car eight then head into the station.”

“Just leave ’em?”

“Right. We’ll take it from there.”

“What if the depot asks questions, the end of our run?”

“That ain’t gonna be a problem—”

“We come in three cars light they might—”

“I’m telling you, they won’t have a problem,” said Bennings. “You’re covered, okay? This ain’t our first clambake.”

Earl Grannit toed the dirt for a second, thinking it over. “So what’s our end, Eddie?”

“Listen to you, all business all of a sudden. This ain’t gonna take long. We’ll hook up on the platform after; you’ll make out. Piece a cake. Easy as Betty Crocker.”

“Everything after car eight.”

“You got it, pally,” said Bennings, patting him on the arm and shaking his hand again. He shoved a roll of twenties wrapped around a couple packs of Chesterfields into Grannit’s shirt pocket and handed him a box of cigars. “That’s just a taste. Wait’ll you see the setup in Paris. The 724 takes care of its own, my friend. Our guy Jonesy’ll ride in with you, make sure everything’s square.”

Bennings bounded away down the tracks after the officers. Grannit heard their cars starting up. The fourth man from the crossroad, Jonesy, a hulking, beady-eyed noncom, walked after Grannit toward the engine. Grannit swung back up into the cab ahead of him and stashed the contraband goods in the tender.

“You get all that?” asked Earl quietly.

“The PX cars,” said Ole Carlson.

“You signal the station?”

“They’re at least five minutes away.”

Jonesy climbed up into the cab behind them. Grannit turned to him.

“Ole,” said Grannit. “Jonesy.”

Carlson nodded, friendly, ready to shake hands. Jonesy stuck a toothpick in his mouth, and put a hand on his hip, showing the holstered, pearl-handled .45 on his belt. Making it clear he wasn’t there to chitchat.

“Let’s take her in,” said Grannit.

Ole Carlson engaged the throttle and eased the train forward at five miles an hour. They passed Corporal Bennings, standing by the switch at the crossroads. He gave a jaunty little wave as they rolled past him onto the side rail. Grannit leaned out of the cab and checked the stock behind them, signaling Carlson to brake again once the last car cleared the main track.

“You want to let the station know we’re delayed?” asked Grannit.

Carlson had picked up the transmitter, when two more GIs walked out of the shadows near the engine car, carrying Thompson machine guns. Jonesy grabbed the handset from Carlson and hung it back up.

“Let ’em worry,” said Jonesy. “Let’s get it done.”

Grannit jumped down and headed back along the train. Jonesy followed him a few paces back. A dozen other uniforms stepped out of the woods around them, converging on the end of the train. Two five-ton cargo trucks pulled up alongside the last few cars, men rolling up their canvas backing, ready to load in.

Like vultures,
thought Grannit.
Like they can smell it.

The first eight cars carried artillery ordnance. They’d been told exactly where the commissary cars started. By the time Grannit reached the coupling, the crew had already pried open the locks and thrown back the sidings. They swarmed inside, foraging through the boxes and crates, looking for cigarettes, liquor, chocolate, soap, coffee. Designated for front-line battalions, this cargo, Grannit knew, would disappear by daybreak into the burgeoning black markets of Paris and Brussels. In the last few months thousands of Allied soldiers had deserted to join this gold-rush racket, siphoning off army supply trains, selling to the French, Belgians, even stranded Krauts with cash. Once the American Army marched into Paris, the situation spiraled out of control. Fortunes were being made. The high-end players were said to be living in style on the Left Bank, like Al Capone and Dutch Schultz. By December over 40 percent of the luxury goods landing at Normandy, the staples of corps morale, never made it to the front-line soldier.

From what Grannit saw in front of him, an entire U.S. railway battalion had been infected, swarming over this train like locusts, their officers standing by to supervise. He’d witnessed enough human imperfection that few variations on the tune surprised him, but this put a fist in his stomach.