The last enemy, p.9
The Last Enemy, page 9
After tossing and turning for hours, he gave up on getting any rest, and before dawn he went over to where the injured German lay. Omar Gordon had stayed with him and seemed to have assumed responsibility for his welfare. He was surprised. The black South African had a long list of people he loathed, most of them white, and if they happened to be German as well, they were legitimate targets. But not this German.
“How is he?”
He shrugged. “He’ll live.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’ve seen worse back in South Africa. A guy I knew worked for a safari company as a guide. He was leading a bunch of rich Germans who planned to kill everything they found. Small stuff, big stuff, you name it. They almost bagged a rhino, but the beast spotted them and charged. They were lucky to get away with their lives. But not so lucky when they went after a lion. They panicked, firing shots every which way, not looking at what they were firing at. This guy took two bullets in the chest. He was lucky they missed his heart. One bullet nicked a lung, and there was blood everywhere. He pulled through, and I think this guy will be okay. It’s worse than it looks.”
“I hear you. Call me if he regains consciousness.”
The rain stopped, and he crawled out from beneath the truck. The ground was soft and muddy, and pools of water lay where they’d collected in the deep gouges dug by the tracks of the armor. Taken by surprise, he slipped and fell flat on his face. He picked himself up and tried to wipe off the worst of the mud from his clothes, but when Kelly joined him, his face creased in a smile.
“Is that some new camouflage you’ve invented?”
“Shut up. Where’s Lawson?”
“He took off ten minutes ago to go to Shriver at the head of the column. Said he had questions to ask him. Between you and me, Lt, he’s real worried about this change of plan. He believes the Russkies are up to something.”
“They’re always up to something, but we don’t know what. Why would they be inside a few hundred square miles of mountainous, godforsaken German territory?”
“That’s what he plans to find out.”
A half-hour later, his clothes were starting to dry out when a jeep hurtled toward him from the front of the column. It skidded to a halt with a squeal of brakes in a deep puddle less than three feet away, showering him with more muddy water. He spun to confront the driver. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you stupid bastard?”
The driver stared at him hard. “Murphy.” The same supercilious look, the same haughty tone, and the same spotless uniform. Debrett.
He felt angry, so to hell with the smart salute. “What is it? I’m soaked.”
The lips twitched. “So I see. Not a problem, you won’t be going anywhere, so you’ll have time to get dried out. You have new orders. You’re to remain at the rear of the column to guard the supplies.”
“You’re kidding me! What about the reconnaissance?”
“Forget it. Division has assigned a platoon from 3rd Battalion, a regular infantry unit, to take on that task. They’re under the command of First Lieutenant Shriver. A man he can rely on to obey orders.” He couldn’t stop smiling, “He’ll likely make Captain when this is over.”
“Shriver! Is he…”
He smirked. “His nephew, so you’re not needed. You will remain with the supply trucks pending further orders. That’s all.”
Before he could protest, Debrett roared away. Leaving him standing in the road, as wet and muddy as before, and ready to shoot the miserable bastard. He gave them the new order, and some men protested. They were bored, cold, and wet. Now a shit assignment. A jeep drove along the column, distributing more hot stew. There was no coffee. They said they hadn’t been able to heat enough water. Kelly opined they’d probably used it to provide a hot shower for the General. He didn’t argue.
The rain didn’t ease, and they didn’t dry out. He paced around, trying to control his sense of burning injustice. He hadn’t encountered First Lieutenant Shriver, and he may’ve been a first-rate officer, although the word ‘nepotism’ crossed his mind. There was obeying orders, and there was fighting a war. They didn’t always go together. He’d done his utmost to fight the war, even though it’d meant disobeying orders on occasion. Disobeying orders that would’ve cost scores of lives, maybe hundreds. What was a man to do, let men die unnecessarily?
He was convinced there was something weird happening inside that wild, mountainous wilderness to the east. An area they’d been prohibited from entering by political maneuvering between Truman and Stalin. He didn’t know much about Harry Truman, apart from he’d been FDR’s Vice President. Like most Vice Presidents, he kept a low profile. Until now. This was his big step up to the top job, and Murphy had a deep suspicion he may’ve been outmaneuvered by Stalin. For whatever reason, the Soviet supremo was determined to keep American troops out of the Harz, and maybe there was a genuine explanation. Or maybe there wasn’t.
He couldn’t help feeling troubled. He found Lawson and talked it over with him, and he just didn’t know either. “Only one way to find out,” he murmured casually, “That’s to go in there and look, but it’s a vast area, all trees and mountains, riddled with underground caves. We could send an army in there and it would take them a year to search it thoroughly.” He gave a sympathetic smile, “I know how you feel, Lieutenant, and I share your concern, but what can we do? I did try.”
He didn’t need to answer. There was nothing they could do. Was there?
* * *
Murphy wasn’t the only man feeling worried. The other was a Soviet paratrooper, Captain Leonid Grechkov. They hadn’t been prepared for what they found, a vast wilderness where it could take a man a day just to travel a couple of miles. Pushing through thick undergrowth and endless trees, some so close together a man had to squeeze between the trunks to get past. Then there were the mountains, and the only way to get past them was to climb down, using ropes, and making a perilous ascent the other side. They were getting nowhere.
He called a halt, and beckoned his second-in-command, Sergeant Danilov, to join him. “This will take forever. I had no idea the terrain was so difficult. We need to work out the most likely route this German SS officer would take. North, south, east, or west.”
Danilov thought for a moment. “North toward Nordhausen is my guess, Captain. Isn’t that where the V2 weapons facility is located? It must be there. It looks obvious to me.”
Grechkov bit his lip. The Sergeant was right. It was obvious, and that worried him. This was a German scientist in possession of a secret that could change the course of the war, and according to Comrade Stalin, change the post-war scenario in Europe, if not the world. Surely, he’d realize he was a primary target for the Soviets and the Western Allies. “I think he’ll go south.”
The NCO raised his eyebrows. “South? That doesn’t make sense. If he is developing the weapon at Nordhausen, why would he head away from it?”
But Grechkov had cast his mind back to his conversation with the General Secretary when he talked of a mirror plant. He’d asked him where to look for such a facility. He’d replied, ‘In the most unlikely place, where you least expect it.’
“We’re going south.”
* * *
First Lieutenant Edgar Shriver was under no illusions about what was expected of him. His uncle commanded the 27th Infantry, and as a result his promotion to First Lieutenant had come earlier than expected. He led a platoon of twenty-eight men, and although he understood what was expected of him, the reality was somewhat different.
These were the kinds of men he had no experience with before he joined the Army, and although he tried to hide it, he was scared of them. Unlike the college kids he’d grown up around, these were tough, practical men. Truckers, bricklayers, construction workers, men who earned a hard living, and it showed. They were men who didn’t give a shit about Army regulations. All they wanted was to survive the war, and they were under no illusions that polishing boots or carrying out the dozens of trivial tasks required of them would make a spit of difference. When Lieutenant Shriver gave them an order, they were as likely to ignore it as to obey.
His Platoon Sergeant was no help. Mervyn Perry had been a short-order cook at a truck stop, serving greasy burgers to greasy truckers. Men with plenty of attitude, and he’d quickly learned to trade insults with the best of them and give as good as he got. A weaselly man with a pronounced squint in his left eye, he looked devious, and it wasn’t just the squint. He was devious, but he mostly used that character trait to go to any lengths to keep his squad alive. Especially himself. No matter what the orders.
He was following Lieutenant Shriver and halted when he held up a hand to stop. They’d been marching for more than three hours, tripping and stumbling over roots and tiny crevices in the rocks. Before they threw themselves down, Shriver grunted, “Sergeant, you can forget taking a break. The men are falling back. Tell them to pick up the pace. Otherwise, they’ll get left behind for the Krauts.”
“They won’t like it. Tell them yourself, Lieutenant.”
He bit back a sharp retort, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. He knew Perry disliked him, and if he pushed it, he’d likely badmouth him to the men which would make things even worse. He looked back at the straggling line of men, and it had to be done.
“Men, we need to pick up the pace.” They broke into a chorus of grumbles until he shouted, “We’ll stop when we find a defensible position. If we run into trouble while we’re out in the open, they’ll pick us off like ducks in a shooting gallery. You want to stay alive, keep up.”
It worked, and they walked faster. He didn’t have a man out on point, even though he’d suggested that Sergeant Perry assign a man to go ahead. There were no takers, so he did the job himself. At least he could keep his eyes skinned for trouble, instead of trusting one of these mutinous bastards who wouldn’t even bother to look around.
No matter how bad they are, no matter what happens, my job is to keep these men alive long enough to get back and to report what we’ve seen. Or preferably not seen. If we get back without running into trouble, I won’t complain.
The terrain became more difficult as he continued to lead them southeast, deeper into the Harz. Eventually, he called a halt. It wasn’t what he’d been looking for, and they were exposed on every side. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was lost, and his compass was going crazy, so there must’ve been huge deposits of iron ore deep beneath the ground. He needed to be out in the open so he could try to get his bearings.
“We’ll stop here and take five.”
He heard Perry say, “Thank Christ for that. I thought we were walking all the fucking way to Berlin.”
He pretended he hadn’t heard and called him over. “Sergeant, I’m not sure which direction we should take next. If the Germans are still here, we haven’t encountered a single one.”
“Suits me,” he grunted, “Why go looking for trouble?”
“This is just a recce patrol, and I’m trying to work out the route we should take next.”
“Sure, sure. Lieutenant, there’s a stream over there.” He pointed to a shallow gully about fifty yards away with water tumbling down from the hillside, “I need to refill my canteen, and that mountain stream looks just fine to me.”
Shriver followed his gaze, and it looked tempting. He was parched. They were all parched, and the idea of cool, fresh, water was appealing. “Okay, tell them to fall out and refill their canteens. I’ll stay here and keep watch, just in case.” He held up his canteen for Perry to take it, “I’d appreciate you filling mine as well.”
The Sergeant muttered, “Fill it yourself.” He ignored the canteen and walked away.
The men straggled over to the stream and lay down at the edge of the water, sucking up the clear, water bubbling down from the mountain and holding their canteens under the surface to fill them. Shriver watched them and smiled. They were like kids, laughing and joking with each other. Some men laid aside their rifles, took off their boots, and paddled their feet in the cool water. Yet despite the merry scene, a rare occurrence during a bloody war, he recalled where they were. Inside Nazi Germany, and he looked around anxiously. If an enemy came upon them now, they’d have no chance to defend themselves. He relaxed. They were okay. There was no sign of the enemy. Everything was quiet, just a gentle wind sighing down the mountains and through the branches. And hoots of laughter from the men.
He relaxed and lay on his back, enjoying the rest. He wished he could join them at the stream, but he was in charge, and somebody had to keep a close watch for trouble. Even though it didn’t seem possible that anything could disturb the bucolic tranquility of the place. During his youth, he and his buddies had been keen hikers. This was just the kind of place they would’ve enjoyed. Unspoiled, a chance to get away from civilization and enjoy the raw beauty of nature’s wilderness. They were alone, a chance for a moment away from the bustling, rowdy noise, and confusion of army life. And of war.
* * *
Danilov lay hidden in thick foliage thirty yards from the edge of the stream. He was puzzled at the sudden appearance of the Americans. He looked at his Captain and murmured, “What’re they doing here?”
Grechkov knew. “The same as us. Looking for Richter.”
He grunted. “What do we do about them?”
“You know the order. We can’t risk them finding him before we do, so we must kill them. Sergeant, take the officer sitting apart. Tell the rest of the men to wait until you start shooting, then hit them with automatic fire. Cut them to pieces, and make sure none escape.”
“Yes, Comrade Captain.”
The Sergeant unslung the Moisin Nagant and prepared to take the shot. He considered the short-range, and there was no requirement to use the scope. It wasn’t a difficult shot, and he settled the butt of the rifle into his shoulder, rested the barrel on a rock, and waited.
“Ready, Comrade.”
Grechkov gave a final glance at his men, and they were ready. Machine pistols cocked, and he knew every man would have selected full auto. This was a killing ground, a chance for some fun with no risk. He took a final look around. Nobody around, just those stupid soldiers. His Sergeant was looking at him, waiting for the order, yet something made him pause. A shrill shriek. Creepy. At first, he thought it was human, but it came again, and he recognized it as a weird effect of the fierce gust of wind blasting through crevices in the rocks. He shivered.
Something about this place is eerie, unsettling. A place of ghosts, a place of death. My death? No, that’s ridiculous.
He shook off the thought. He was a Soviet paratrooper, not some scared kid.
“Take the shot.”
A single shot cracked out, and the officer went down like he’d been hit by the Moscow to Vladivostok Express. He wouldn’t need a second shot. He’d seen the bloom of crimson appear in the center of his chest, and a split second later the other men opened up with concentrated fire. There never was any question of return fire. Half the soldiers went down in the first seconds, killed or wounded. Seven men ran, sprinting toward where their officer lay dead, and they picked them off before they reached him. Danilov got two more, firing and reloading the Moisin Nagant like an experienced sniper, which he was. The rest fell to concentrated fire from the MP-40s.
Grechkov walked over to check the body of the first man to die, the officer, while his men inspected the rest of the bodies, finishing off those who were wounded with single shots. He checked the pockets of the dead man for documents or anything of value but found nothing. He still couldn’t shake the strange feeling about the place. When the shooting stopped, everything was again quiet. And then the moaning, wailing noise came again. As if the spirits of all the men who’d died were looking down on him.
Sergeant Danilov approached. “Captain, there’s sure to be more Americans not too far away, and when those men are missed, they’ll come looking for them.” He nodded, “There’s a danger they could pick up our trail and follow us. We should do something to deter them. Make them think about taking a different route.”
“You mean a booby trap?”
“I was thinking of something else.”
He outlined what he had in mind and Grechkov nodded his agreement, although reluctantly. He was a soldier, not a butcher, but the mission came first. Especially a mission that came from Comrade Stalin himself.
Danilov drew out a razor-sharp bayonet and began his gruesome task.
* * *
He followed orders and hated every second. Posted men on sentry duty, patrolling the rear, keeping a sharp lookout for an enemy he knew was a long way away. A waste of time. He felt lousy about their current situation, but the good news was at least the rain had stopped. The other good news was Neuberg. He’d recovered consciousness and was talking. More than that, he claimed the pain had lessened, and PFC Gordon helped him get on his feet. It seemed like a miracle, but the bullets that struck him had missed his vital organs, and the blood that had spilled from the wound and made it look like a mortal wound was misleading. It was little more than a minor though painful injury.
During the morning, Clemence Delon arrived with Lawson’s jeep, and the Colonel climbed aboard to drive up to the head of the column and talk with General Shriver. Murphy had discussed his misgivings, and Lawson told him he’d attempt to persuade him to agree to send a patrol into the Harz. In the event of a refusal, he planned to contact Ike’s headquarters. Although he wasn’t optimistic. Shriver was in charge, and he was a stubborn man.
Murphy joined Gordon while he was giving Neuberg another shot of morphine. Which explained how come he wasn’t in such severe pain.
He got his attention. “You need to be careful with that stuff. If you give him too much, it could kill him.”
“I’ve used it before. Lieutenant, you ever seen a man trampled by an elephant?”
“I haven’t.”
“It hurts.”
“I guess it does.”
