Volk (37 page)

Months passed. Ernst was assigned to routine deskwork; it seemed that Kaltenbrunner had forgotten him. On June 6 the Allies invaded Normandy, and spread east toward Germany. Six weeks later Hitler was almost killed by a planted bomb. A month after that Paris surrendered to the Allies. The Russian advance continued. The days of the Third Reich were dwindling. Admiral Canaris, under suspicion, was investigated in connection with the bomb plot; Ernst was deeply sorry to learn of that. But the marriage permission did not emerge from the bureaucracy.

“I must do something!” Ernst said. “But if I steal you and the child from the home, we will all be illegitimate, and forcibly separated. It is time for a desperate measure.”

“I am satisfied to remain here,” Quality said. “The children need me.”

“I do not want you here when the city comes under siege by the Allies,” he said. “The bombings are bad enough; then it will be dangerous.”

“It will be bad elsewhere too,” she pointed out.

“Not so much in the country, away from the main bastions. If I can get you to Wiesbaden, with my family, you and the boy will be comparatively safe.”

She caught the omission immediately. “And not thee, Ernst?”

“I remain in the SS. There will be no safe place for me, when the Allies come.”

“But—”

“You know I will return to my family when I can. That is where you must be. I am going to try to arrange it.”

She understood the rigors of the situation. “I will do what thee wishes, Ernst.”

Ernst made his desperation ploy. He requested a conference with Dr. Ernst Kaltenbrunner, the head of RHSA.

It was granted. “I had thought you would prefer to remain beneath my notice,” Kaltenbrunner said.

“I would have, sir. But I have a problem that perhaps you can help me with.”

“The problem of too soft a life?”

“I love an American woman I rescued from a camp in Vichy France. She bore my child. I must get her away from Berlin now. I will volunteer for whatever you wish, if you will enable me to take her and my son to my family in Wiesbaden.”

“I hardly need to bargain with a man I already command. Why do you think I would do you any favor?”

“Because I can be trusted to keep any bargain I make, even when there is no gun at my head.”

Kaltenbrunner considered. “Very well. I will make that bargain. Give my secretary the necessary information, do your deed when you receive clearance, and return here to wait for special assignment. When I indicate it, you will volunteer.”

“I will volunteer, sir,” Ernst agreed. He knew he was making a pact with the devil, because only the most dangerous assignments were volunteer.

“Dismissed.”

•  •  •

Late in September Ernst was granted leave to visit his family. He went to the maternity home—and Quality and Junior were waiting for him. She had been granted permission to take her son to his father's family. There was no explanation for this odd, sudden release, but she knew it was because of something Ernst had done. He in turn knew that Kaltenbrunner was keeping his part of the bargain. But it was sure to be a hard bargain.

He drove her there. There was an air raid on the way, and they pulled onto a deserted road and parked under the foliage of a tree, hiding. Junior, now one year old, was sleeping. Quietly, efficiently, despite the cramped quarters, they made love. It was intensely sweet, after more than a year. Then they resumed the drive.

Herr Best was amazed to see them. “We feared you would never get out of Berlin!” he said.

“This is Quality Smith, whom I will marry. This is our son. I must leave them with you, until I am free of my commitments.”

“Of course,” his mother said. “Krista told us.”

“Krista is here?” Quality asked. “I would very much like to see her again.”

“She is away today, but will return tomorrow,” Herr Best said. His glance at Ernst suggested that there was a good deal more he would like to say, but not in this circumstance. His family had of course thought Ernst would marry Krista, and the change to an anonymous American woman could hardly please them. But Krista had prepared them, and Quality would explain the rest, and they would be reconciled. Indeed, as they came to know Quality, they would be more than reconciled.

He kissed Quality, and then his son. “I will visit when I can,” he promised.

“I know thee will,” Quality murmured, managing to keep the tears from her eyes. He knew that she feared she would never see him again.

Then he was driving back, to face what Kaltenbrunner had in mind for him. The man had honored his part of the deal, and Ernst would honor his. But it did seem likely that his life would be in peril.

•  •  •

On October 22 Kaltenbrunner summoned Ernst. “My classmate and friend Otto Skorzeny is organizing a special mission. He needs loyal soldiers conversant in American language and custom. The mission is challenging and dangerous.”

“I volunteer for that mission, sir,” Ernst said.

“I commend you on your courage and patriotism.” Those were the most complimentary words Ernst was ever to hear from Kaltenbrunner, though they were protocol for the situation. “You will be transferred immediately to Otto's unit.” He actually shook Ernst's hand before returning the closing salute. Apparently he was pleased to be able to forward a genuinely competent man to his friend. Possibly his attitude toward Ernst had mellowed, since Ernst had performed well in his assignments and engaged in no subversive activity.

Colonel Skorzeny turned out to be a giant of a man, four inches over six feet tall. He was a self-assured Austrian whose face was badly scarred below the left cheek and across the mouth, but who nevertheless remained handsome. He was a legitimate hero, because he had made a spectacular rescue of the deposed Italian leader Mussolini. He had also succeeded in abducting Admiral Hrothy, the Hungarian leader who was attempting to make a treacherous separate peace with the Allies. He was forming Operation Grief, literally “Grab,” for sabotage. He was assembling a handpicked group of about two thousand American-English speaking commandos to train for missions behind the Allied lines. This was to complement the German offensive in the Ardennes. It certainly seemed to be important, for Germany's situation was now desperate. The Allies were massing in Belgium and Luxembourg for an invasion of Germany itself, and if they were not stopped, the war would soon be over. The only way to stop them was to go on the offensive, but German strength was insufficient. It seemed that everyone knew this, except the
Führer
, who refused to receive any news of weakness or retreat.

Skorzeny formed the 150th Panzer Brigade and began training at Friedenthal, near Berlin. The men were equipped with American uniforms, Jeeps, and a few Sherman tanks which had been rescued from various battlefields. They were trained in the use of American military equipment, American slang, American military rank and custom, and even the American way to open a pack of cigarettes.

Ernst had no trouble with the language and slang; in fact he helped others to get it right. But he knew nothing of American tanks, and he did not smoke. Nevertheless, he learned to open a pack of cigarettes, and to take a puff without coughing. How anybody could
enjoy
such a procedure was hard to understand. It was really easier to learn to drive a Jeep, which was an efficient vehicle for the forest terrain where they would see action, the Ardennes.

The brigade had two main objectives. On the day of the offensive, small units would penetrate the lines under the pretense of retreating from the Germans, and commence sabotage activities. They would pose as military police and misdirect Allied units. They would remove Allied warning signs from minefields, so that the enemy would march into its own trap. They would mark and report targets for German artillery fire. They would blow up ammunition depots, cut communications lines, spread false reports, block roads, and act as scouts for advancing troops.

Meanwhile Skorzeny himself would take fifty American tanks and advance to the bridgeheads across the Meuse River. He would hold these crossings without challenge from the Americans—until the bulk of the German advance reached the river. Then the commandos would identify themselves to the German troops by using pre-arranged signals with colored flashlights or similar devices. In this manner the troops would cross the river without challenge, achieving a significant advantage.

Would it work? Ernst was doubtful. The plain fact was that the Russian front had sapped Germany's power, while the Allies were growing constantly stronger. It hardly mattered whether the river was readily crossed, or depots blown up; the enemy was simply too strong for such tricks to make a sufficient difference. Also, he doubted that many of the Operation Grab personnel would be able to carry it off; the intricacies of the American ways were too devious. So this was probably a death trap—as perhaps Kaltenbrunner had known.

Ernst kept his doubts to himself. He would do his best, though this type of thing disgusted him. He was becoming in effect a partisan, doing treacherous damage behind the enemy lines, and the Americans would hold him in the same contempt that he held for the Russian partisans. It was a truly terrible mission, and one which might have no escape. Obviously any of them who were caught would be executed immediately, in the field; that was what was done with partisans. So the best hope lay in doing what the partisans did: once the mission was lost, merging with the population and pretending innocence. What an irony! He had learned how to be a partisan from fighting the partisans.

They trained through November and early December. There were no breaks, and not entirely because of the urgency of their deadline for readiness; it was because of the necessary secrecy. There had to be no hint of what was planned. Ernst understood the necessity, but wished he could have visited Quality and his son. At least then there could have been one more contact, before…

Of course they were not supposed to think of failure or death. But he knew he was not the only one. This mission was dangerous in the performance and in the aftermath. Only if it should be successful would they be heroes. Ernst simply did not believe that success was destined.

The German assault began at 5:30 in the morning on December 16, 1944 with heavy artillery shelling. German troops followed immediately behind, and a thousand paratroopers were to land behind the enemy lines. Meanwhile, the commandos would infiltrate undetected. Ernst was part of a three man group that made it through in a Jeep; in fact they didn't even see any enemy soldiers.

Once they were beyond the line, they parked the vehicle in the forest, scuffled the ground to hide its tracks, and split up, so as to achieve maximum effect. Ernst was in the uniform of an MP, the Military Police. He looked for a supply depot to destroy, but was in the wrong area; all he saw were empty trucks rushing along the road in both directions. He didn't even need to interfere with that; the Allies were already confused enough.

By day's end he had accomplished nothing. He returned to the Jeep and found his companions already there. One had managed to misdirect a truckload of troops, but he knew that they would soon enough correct their error, so it would count for little. The other had managed to drag fallen branches across a road so as to block it, but before he could complete the job an allied tank had arrived and bulldozed it clear.

In the morning they drove further on, hoping for better luck. This wonderful scheme seemed rather futile in practice, because they were almost as confused as the Allies. They heard the roar of the main German advance, and knew it would soon overtake them if they didn't get clear. That was of course pointless; they had to remain behind the enemy lines.

They came to a stalled American truck. The driver flagged them down. “Hey buddy—gimme a lift!” he called. “I'm outa gas, and I'm freezing my nuts off out here!”

“Sure,” Ernst said. He had warned the others about such oddities: the Americans called petrol “gas.” “Hey, corporal—get down and guard the truck for him, until he gets back.”

Their third man nodded, and jumped down, making space on the cramped vehicle for the truck driver. Ernst knew he would take advantage of the time alone to clip wires so that the truck would be unable to run even when refilled.

They talked with the American, and were reassured: he had no inkling of their nature. He guided them to his depot, where they picked up two big cans of gasoline and headed back. “Damn stupidest thing,” the man muttered. “I know exactly how far my tank goes, but I got distracted by this damned Heine attack and forgot. Lucky thing the Krauts didn't get me!”

“Lucky thing,” Ernst agreed.

They delivered the driver to his truck. He poured in the gasoline, then started it up. The engine roared into life. “Thanks, pal!” the driver called as he pulled back onto the road. “You saved my hide!”

Ernst turned to their third man. “I thought you were going to fix the motor.” He spoke in English, maintaining the pretense even when they were alone.

“Too obvious. He'd know right away that I'd done it, and then we'd have to kill him, and our presence would be known. But wait until he tries the brakes!”

“Did you fix the hand brakes too?” Ernst asked.

“Of course.”

“But if he puts in it gear and turns off the motor, he can stop even on a hill,” Ernst pointed out.

“Oops, I didn't think of that.”

So they had probably done about as much good as harm, unless the driver panicked and went out of control. They were not turning out to be much good as saboteurs.

They drove on. “But now we know where their depot is,” the second man said. “I can blow that tonight.”

“Good idea,” Ernst agreed. They were learning on the job.

They parked the Jeep again and split up. Ernst found a temporary military base, but there were too many soldiers, and they were too alert; he could not get close enough to sabotage anything. The point was to take advantage of the enemy's innocence and neglect. He managed to pour handfuls of dirt into the gasoline tanks of several officer's cars, so that they would in due course stall out with clogged carburetors, but he knew that was a mere nuisance, not a significant act of destruction. Finally he gave it up and returned to the Jeep for the night. He was after all a desk man; he just wasn't good in the field.