Brotherhood Of War: The Lieutenants Part 7

"It is my privilege, Herr Oberst Graf," von und eu Badner said.

"Very well," Colonel Graf Von Greiffenberg said, pointing with a long, well-manicured finger to a point on the map. "We are here, Colonel Bellmon. Specifically, five kilometers from the center of Stettin."

Colonel Bellmon nodded, but said nothing.

"The temporary situation which requires adjustment in our lines," the count went on, in a dry, faintly mocking voice, as if he were once again addressing a cla.s.s at the Kriegsschule, "involves certain pressures from this area." His thin finger pointed toward the direction of Warsaw. "Consequently, I have been ordered to effect a movement, which I am a.s.sured will be temporary, to the west, in this direction." His finger moved west and came to rest on the map near Berlin.

Bellmon leaned over the map; found the scale, and measured the distance with his fingers.

"At the moment Colonel Bellmon, no transport is available for your officers," von Greiffenberg went on. "It will therefore be necessary for your officers to proceed by foot."

"I trust, Colonel, that arrangements have been made to feed my officers," Bellmon said.

"I am a.s.sured, Colonel," the count said, "that supplies and vehicles will be provided at approximately this point in our route," the count said, pointing with his finger.

"Peter," Colonel Bellmon said, suddenly deciding to take the risk, "we're not going to make the rendezvous point with the trucks, much less the Berlin area. Why don't we just stand pat and let the Russians roll over us?"

Von Greiffenberg involuntarily looked at Oberleutnant von und zu Badner to see his reaction to Bellmon's addressing him by his first name. He knew that the, young officer was very much aware that he and Bellmon were more than prisoner and captor. But their public relationship had been correct. He didn't know how Badner would react when the prisoner suggested treason as the only logical thing to do, and he did nothing about it.

Karl-Heinz von und zu Badner said nothing, and it was impossible to tell from his face what he was thinking.

"My duty, as I see it, Robert," the colonel said, "is quite clear. In addition to seeing that you remain in custody, it is to protect you."

"Should our positions be reversed, Peter," Bellmon said, "should the fortunes of war see you in my custody, I would feel precisely the same way."

"Yes, I know you would," the count said. "But I have Katyn Forest in my mind."

"The Russians would get to you over my dead body," Bellmon said.

"Yes, they would," the count said. "I have reminded you of that very real possibility before." Now Badner looked confused. "Colonel Bellmon is rendering the German officer corps a very real service, Badner. I will explain that to you later."

"That is quite unnecessary, Herr Oberst Graf," the young officer said. "You're in command, Colonel," Bellmon said.

"Yes," the count said. "For the moment. Perhaps you noticed, Colonel, that the message made no reference to your enlisted men."

"Yes, I did."

"Perhaps the thinking is that it is better to let the Russians have the enlisted men if that is the price for keeping the officers," the count said. "But in any event, I'm afraid your men are going to have to fend for themselves. Without instructions, I cannot move your enlisted men."

Bellmon looked at him for a long moment, trying to read his meaning.

"It has come to my attention, Colonel, that there is a good bit of neutral power shipping at Odessa," the count said. Bellmon immediately looked at the map. Odessa was on the Black Sea. He folded his three center fingers, put his thumb on Poznan, and stretched his little finger toward Odessa. The span was too great. He rolled his hand over, so that the palm was up, and laid his fingers flat on the map. Then, against the scale, he repeated the movement.

"That's more than 1,700 kilometers," he said.

"I understand," the count went on, "that an effort is being made to protect certain artworks and other treasures from the ravages of war by shipping them from the country in neutral ships."

"Oh?" Bellmon asked. He was obviously confused.

"Colonel, what the colonel means," Oberleutnant Von und zu Badner said, "is that the SS, the regular SS, not the Waffen 55, is shipping their loot out of the country on neutral ships."

"Oh," Bellmon said again. He still didn't quite understand, but he didn't want to wait for an explanation.

"I understand, further, that the personnel situation is such that many such shipments are being shipped by truck without military escort," the count went on. "And 1 also understand that escaped prisoners of war are being summarily shot by the SS and some units of the Feldgendarmerie."

"I understand," Colonel Bellmon said.

"I further have reliably been given to understand that the Russians are often unable to make the distinction between Germans and escaped prisoners of war, and that when there is some question, they are p.r.o.ne to err on the side, of their security."

"As they resolved the Katyn question," Bellmon said.

"So I have been led to believe," the count said. "And now, Colonel, if you will excuse us; Oberleytmmt Von ynd zu Badner and I have to see what we can do about rations for tomorrow."

Colonel Count von Greiffenberg made one of his graceful gestures, ordering the young officer to precede him out of the room. At the door, before he closed it, he said, "The Oberfeldwebel will see you back to your quarters, Robert. Please inform your officers we will march at first light."

Colonel Bellmon immediately picked up the map and started to fold it. Beneath the map was a Colt .32 caliber automatic pistol and a spare clip. The pistol was finely engraved. It was obviously Greiffenberg's personal weapon. He thought a moment, then jammed the pistol in his waistband. He put the spare clip in his sock.

Then he saw that the lower right drawer of Greiffenberg's desk was open, and he saw the dull gleaming metal. He pulled the drawer open. There was a Schmeisser 9 mm machine pistol in there, disa.s.sembled. He looked at it a long moment before reaching for it. He unfastened his belt and trousers. He slipped the machine pistol in one pants leg, and the three magazines in the other. He closed his fly, fastened his belt, flexed his knees. His trousers were tucked into the tops of his tanker boots, held in place by extra-long bootlaces.

It, wasn't the most secure arrangement in the world, but it would have to do.

He took hiS overseas cap from beneath the epaulet of his Ike jacket and put it on his head. Then he opened the door to the outer office. The Oberfeldwebel came to attention.

"The Herr Oberstleutnant is finished?" the Oberfeldwebe1 asked, politely. "In which case, I will escort the Herr Oberstleutnant to his quarters."

"I think that I would like to see Wachtmeister MacMillan before I turn in," Bellmon said.

"Whatever the Herr Oberstleutnant wishes," the ObeIfeld webel said.

When they reached the enlisted men's quarters, the German noncom saluted crisply and left him. Bellmon then rapped once on MacMillan's door and walked in without waiting for a reply.

MacMillan jumped to his feet.

"Rest, Mac," Bellmon said. MacMillan, he saw, was freshly shaven and neatly cropped. His boots were even shined.

"How goes it.?" Colonel Bellmon asked.

"What did old Von want?" MacMillan asked.

"We're being moved, on foot at first light," Bellmon said.

"s.h.i.t! I was practicing to kiss my first Russian," MacMillan said.

"The enlisted men aren't going," Bellmon said.

"We're not?"

"You can take your chances, Mac," Bellmon said. "You can sit here and wait to get rolled over by the Red Army."

"Or?"

"I'll tell it the way I got it from von Greiffenberg," Bellmon said. When he had finished, MacMillan looked very carefully at him.

"You trust him, Colonel, don't you?"

"He's a regular, Mac, like we are," Colonel Bellmon said.

"What do you think we should do?"

"If you are caught by the SS or the Feldgendarmerie, you're liable to be shot. Under those circ.u.mstances, Sergeant, you have no obligation to attempt to escape."

"Just my f.u.c.king luck. Five combat jumps, I'm going to get shot two weeks before the war is over."

"If you like, I'll insist that you be taken with us."

"Into Germany? No, thank you."

"I've got a map for you," Bellmon said. "If you want it."

"Von?" MacMillan said, taking and unfolding it. "That the route these loot trucks are taking?"

"Yeah. I'm not sure how current it is. As current, and as accurate, I'm sure, as von Greiffenberg can make it."

Enough of this POW s.h.i.t. I don't want to get stood up against a wall without a fight."

"Thank you, Mac," BeUmon said, emotionally.

"f.u.c.k it, Colonel," MacMillan replied, his own voice breaking. "Have the bugler sound the charge."

Bellmon took the Colt pistol and laid it on MacMillan's bed.

"Not, as I understand it, that anyone is paying a whole lot of attention to it, but possession of a firearm by an escaped POW is sufficient grounds under the Geneva Convention to use weaponry in his apprehension."

MacMillan looked at the pisto1.

"Maybe you better keep that, Colonel," he said. He hoisted the front of his Ike jacket. Bellmon saw the angled b.u.t.t of a Luger.

"How long have you had that?"

"Fritz gave me two of them," he said. "Two of them and two Schmeissers. A dozen clips. About thirty minutes ago. When he told me that Yon had your marching orders, and they didn't include us."

"So what are you going to do, Mac?" Bellmon asked.

"I've got one guy who speaks German, and others who speak German and Polish," MacMillan said. "I've got two German uniforms, one of them a captain's."

"That'll get you shot as a spy," Bellmon said.

"If we can grab one of those trucks and put some distance between here and us, we might be able to make it."

"Who are you taking with you? How many?"

"There will be twenty-two of us. The rest want to wait for the Russians."

"Do they know what they're getting into?"

"I think so," MacMillan said. "If they don't, they'll d.a.m.ned sure find out soon enough after we're on our way."

They looked at each other. Bellmon sensed that this was the time he should have something to say to MacMillan. He could think of only one thing.

"Good luck, Mac," Colonel BeHmon said.

"Same to you, Colonel," MacMillan said. He grabbed Bellmon's hand and shook it.

"This is the second time since I've been a soldier I don't really know what to do," the colonel said.

It was a confession of inadequacy and MacMillan saw this. He was embarra.s.sed for Lt. Co!. Robert F. Bellmon.

"Yeah, you do," he said. "You gotta take care of those reservists. If you're worried about me, don't be.

(Five) At 0500 hours the next morning, the 240. officer prisoners of Stalag XVII-B formed ranks in the courtyard of what, long before, had been a Polish cavalry barracks. It was cold and damp, and many of them coughed rackingly and spit up phlegm. They were sullen, resentful, and disheartened.

Colonel Graf Peter-Paul Von Greiffenberg appeared. Oberleutnant Karl-Heinz von und zu Badner called "Attention."

Colonel von Greiffenberg stepped in front of the formation, and formally announced that a readjustment of German lines made necessary the removal of StaIag XVII-B to the west. He expressed regret that motor transport was not presently; available. "Colonel Bellmon," he concluded, "will you have your officers follow me, please?"

Bellmon saluted.

Von Greiffenberg walked to one end of the formation.

"Company!" BeUmon barked. "Ten-hut! right-face! Forward march! Route step, harch!"

The prisoner complement, under armed guard, shuffled, rather than marched after the prison commandant. They went out the gate, and then turned toward Stettin.

Technical Sergeant Rudy MacMillan watched them move out. He waited until the last guard had had time to come forward. He waited ten minutes more to be sure. Then he formed his ranks where the officers had stood. A coal miner from Pennsylvania, dressed in the uniform of a Wehrmacht captain, and a steelworker from Gary, Indiana, in the uniform of a corporal, both carrying Schmeisser machine pistols slung from their shoulders, marched the twenty men in American uniforms, MacMillan second back in the left rank, onto the highway, and off in the other direction.

They marched for about forty-five minutes before the right circ.u.mstances presented themselves.. A Hanomag truck, its body enclosed in canvas tarpaulin, its front fender bearing the double lightning bolt runes of the SS, came down the cobblestone road.

"Take a left, Vrizinsky" MacMillap called out. The double column of men drifted across the road. The Hanomag truck squealed to a halt. The driver opened the door and shouted an obscenity. The 55 Hauptsturmfiihrer on the pa.s.senger side stood on the running board.

MacMillan, holding the Luger in both hands, and squatting halfway to give himself stability, shot him in the forehead. PFC Vrizinsky couldn't get his Schmeisser to fire. Private Loczowcza dropped his Schmeisser in his excitement. MacMillan jumped onto the running board and shot the driver twice in the back with his Luger.

The bodies were dragged off the road and stripped, while Private Loczowcza opened the Hanomag hood and pretended to work on it. The truck was full of wooden crates. As soon as MacMillan could change into the S5 captain's uniform, which required that he search for and find a stream to wash the blood and brain matter out of the uniform cap, he supervised the off-loading of enough crates so there would be room for the men lying two deep on their sides, inside the truck, within a cavern of crates.

Outside of Wroclaw, four hours later, they came across a similar truck. Its crew was changing a flat tire by the side of the road. MacMillan had hoped to wait until the tire was changed before taking any action, but the SS sturmscharfiihrer in charge persisted in trying to engage the Captain in conversation, and it became necessary to shoot him and the driver and to finish changing the tire themselves. In twenty-four hours they were in L'vov, in the Ukraine.

They picked up fuel and a few rations there and kept driving. The papers of the trucks were in order, and they pa.s.sed through all but one Feldgendarmerie roadblock without incident. Near Podolskiy, Moldavia, an overzealous Unterfeldwebel of the Feldgendarmerie paid for his professional intuition that there was something wrong with this two-truck SS convoy with two 9 mm slugs in the back of his head.

Eight hours after that, they rolled into Odessa. There were seven ships tied to a pier. It was necessary for MacMillan to walk down the pier to look at the port of call painted on the stem of the MV Jose Harrez. He did not recognize the flag of Argentina. When it said Buenos Aires on the stern, he decided that he had drawn and filled an inside straight. The MV Jose Harrez was loading cargo, and her booms would handle the trucks.