Order of Battle (8 page)

Stauffer turned to leave.

“Wait!”

He stopped. He looked expectantly at Keitel.

“Krueger is only a colonel, is he not?”

“Yes.”

“Promote him. Make him a general. Generalmajor. In the name of the Führer!”

He paused for a moment.

“One more thing. Reichsamtsleiter von Eckdorf. He is still in Berlin?”

“I believe so, Herr Feldmarschall.”

“He has family in the area around Schönsee. Farmers, if I remember correctly.” He sighed. “Send him to Thürenberg. Make the orders effective immediately. I want him to report directly to me. He will be responsible only to me—and to the Führer personally!”

“Yes, sir.”

Stauffer left. Keitel looked after him. He felt somehow delivered of a depressing burden. With the Führer’s plan carried out, and the Americans badly shaken; with Krueger and his backbone organization in position; with the
Alpenfestung
ready to become operational under Hitler’s personal leadership, the German phoenix might still rise from the ashes of temporary defeat. . . .

17 Apr 1945

Thürenberg

1322 hrs

Werewolves!
he thought disdainfully. For the fiftieth time he shifted his weight on the back seat of the gray 1939 sedan.

Reichsamtsleiter Manfred von Eckdorf was extremely uncomfortable. And extremely disgruntled. It was close to three hundred kilometers from Berlin to the Czechoslovakian village of Thürenberg and the old Germanic castle of the same name. Three hundred kilometers. Three hundred thousand meters—and a hole in the road every damned meter of the way!

Von Eckdorf was in a sour mood. He’d been on the road more than seven hours. They’d awakened him in the early morning hours and taken him to the Führer Bunker. Here an insufferable Wehrmacht colonel had handed him top priority orders sending him off to a Godforsaken place in Czechoslovakia with less than two hours’ warning.

The briefing by the colonel had been short and to the point, but von Eckdorf had a disquieting feeling of veiled mockery in the officer’s attitude. And the whole thing wasn’t at all what he’d expected. He’d come up to Berlin from Munich to report to the Führer on the financial state of Bavaria. In a gesture that was simply meant to show his loyalty, he’d offered his services to Adolf Hitler, in any capacity. But he certainly hadn’t counted on this! Riding herd on a flock of Werewolves!

The car hit another bump in the road and von Eckdorf was thrown forward. Angrily he caught himself.

Before his briefing earlier he had known only a little about the Werewolves. He’d always mistrusted the word. He was under the impression it was something thought up by that little “poison dwarf,” Goebbels. He had been genuinely surprised to learn that the Werewolves, complete with mission and name, had been created by the Reichsführer SS, Heinrich Himmler, himself, quite some time ago, and with Hitler’s full approval. Of course, the Führer had always had a penchant for that word, “wolf.” In the early days of the National Socialist movement he’d used “wolf” as a cover name. And it seemed that ever since he’d seized every opportunity to use this savage symbol. His headquarters at Rastenburg in East Prussia had been named
Wolfsschanze
—Wolf’s Lair. Somewhere else, he’d forgotten where, it had been
Wolfsschlucht
—Wolfs Throat; at Vinnitsa in the Ukraine,
Werwolf.
And now these Werewolves. They were supposed to be highly trained, specially equipped guerrilla fighters, operating under top secret orders. They were supposed to form the backbone of the resistance forces in the
Alpenfestung.

His briefing had really been quite inadequate, he thought resentfully. He knew little more now than he had before. He was supposed to inspect the organization headquarters, under the command of some newly promoted Generalmajor Krueger, and make sure the Werewolves were ready to start operations as soon as possible. As a high-ranking civilian party member he was supposed to observe the subsequent Werewolf activities and report on them. The Werewolves had some vital, top secret mission to carry out within the next few days. Then they would take up their position in the
Alpenfestung,
and von Eckdorf’s responsibilities would end.

It was all ridiculously mysterious. But von Eckdorf was an economics expert. Everything with which he concerned himself had ultimately to add up. Everything had to be mathematically precise and correct.

This would be no different.

The driver turned off the road. In the hills ahead loomed the old Thürenberg Castle.

Spring had already begun to splash the mountain slopes with fresh pale greens. The groves of darker-colored evergreens contrasted sedately with the light exuberance of new growth. Built long ago with massive blocks of weathered stone native to the mountains themselves, the unpretentious castle, rising with solid grace from the rock, seemed to be part of the countryside. It was a scene of peace and beauty.

The approach to the castle led under a heavy stone archway between two square guard towers. In the portal a barricade had been placed across the road.

The car was flagged to a halt. Two armed Waffen SS soldiers examined von Eckdorf’s orders under the watchful observation of other armed guards at the barricade. The boom was raised and the car was waved on.

The courtyard of Burg Thürenberg was surprisingly large and entirely surrounded by the castle buildings and a high stone wall. Opposite the portal a broad, imposing flight of stairs led to the main entrance to the castle itself. The place had a decidedly medieval atmosphere—much in keeping with the werewolf tradition, von Eckdorf thought wryly. The car slowly made its way across the courtyard toward the massive stairs. Von Eckdorf leaned forward and in astonishment looked out the window. He had expected nothing like the spectacle before him.

The sprawling, cobblestoned courtyard was the scene of brisk, organized confusion. A large number of horse-drawn wagons and carts of all descriptions were pulled up in several rows. Von Eckdorf made a quick calculation. At least sixty. A small fleet of motor vehicles, both military and civilian, were parked along one wall, including an old truck converted into a wood burner. Two men— one a civilian clad in short Bavarian lederhosen and wearing a gray wool jacket embroidered with a green oak leaf design, the other a Waffen SS Rottenführer—were loading wood logs into the truck’s storage bin.

Nearby four men were struggling a heavy mortar onto a cart. A wagon next to it was being loaded with cooking pans, with pots, kettles, boxes of utensils. Several Wehrmacht soldiers were stowing machine guns on a truck; others were piling up ammunition boxes. Throughout the courtyard, around the wagons, carts and motor vehicles, men were swarming, fully half of them in their teens. Stacks of supplies and equipment of all kinds were scattered among the rolling stock. Crated small arms, mortars, MGs; ration boxes and barrels of provisions; cans of gasoline; hampers filled with clothing; furniture and crated office equipment. One wagon was already piled high with batteries; another held tools, rolls of wire, cut lumber.

The men beside a truck set off from the rest showed extra care in loading a stack of crates. Each one bore a warning in large red letters,
HIGH EXPLOSIVES.

Von Eckdorf took it all in. In his amazement his mind turned for comfort to a cliche. Like ants, he thought. Like scurrying ants in a suddenly exposed anthill. Only they weren’t like ants at all. There was no uniformity. There were Wehrmacht soldiers, Waffen SS, Hitler Jugend, civilians, indiscriminately mixed together, even men wearing only parts of uniforms.

A disgraceful conglomeration, von Eckdorf thought. His orderly mind was offended at the complete lack of military conformity and the obviously haphazard discipline.

The sedan came to a halt before the stairs. Waffen SS Lieutenant Willi Richter hurried down the steps and opened the car door for Reichsamtsleiter Manfred von Eckdorf.

The Nazi party official was a smallish, wiry man of about fifty-five. He wore conservative civilian clothes. Smartly Willi raised his right arm.

“Heil Hitler!”

Von Eckdorf returned the young officer’s salute. His face had a pinched, arrogant look.

“Welcome to Thürenberg, Herr Reichsamtsleiter,” Willi said.

Von Eckdorf didn’t answer. He turned and with deliberate displeasure surveyed the kaleidoscope of activity in the courtyard before him.

“Colonel Krueger is expecting you, sir.”

Abruptly von Eckdorf started up the steps, immediately followed by Willi. At the big solid double doors they had to stand aside for two men carrying a Wehrmacht field communications console. With a last petulantly disapproving look down into the bustling courtyard, von Eckdorf entered Burg Thürenberg.

The massive, ornately carved desk was fully eight feet long. It obviously belonged in the big room with the inlaid wood panels, beamed ceiling and lead-paned windows set in the four-foot-thick stone walls. Not so the purely functional steel filing cabinets which lined one wall—most of them with their drawers protruding, slack-jawed and empty. Several men were busily emptying the rest, selecting and transferring papers and documents to various boxes; others closed and sealed the boxes and carried them away.

At the big desk, sorting through stacks of papers, stood an officer in the uniform of a Wehrmacht colonel. It was Colonel Karl Krueger. He looked up as Willi and von Eckdorf entered.

“Reichsamtsleiter von Eckdorf, Herr Oberst,” Willi announced formally.

Von Eckdorf gave the Nazi salute:

“Heil Hitler!”

Krueger walked around the desk to his visitor. He was a slender man, graying already at the age of fifty-one. He carried himself erect, but without the Prussian ramrod stiffness. His long face, dominated by penetrating, intelligent eyes under bushy eyebrows, was etched with deep nose lines and with determined furrows at the corners of a thin-lipped mouth. There was no warmth in his expression as he regarded von Eckdorf, rather a deliberate politeness prompted by necessity.

“Heil Hitler!” he said without demonstrative enthusiasm. “Or, as we shall soon be saying,
Grüss Gott!”

Von Eckdorf inspected the officer. His petulant mouth set in distaste. No wonder, he thought primly. No wonder there’s no order around here. An
officer,
greeting you with a Bavarian peasant greeting!

“Generalfeldmarschall Keitel sends you his regards,” he said. His voice was unpleasantly high-pitched.

Krueger nodded. “Thank you. You must excuse the appearance of our quarters. We aren’t prepared to receive guests.”

Von Eckdorf drew himself up. “I’m not a
guest,
Colonel Krueger,” he said testily. “I am an emissary from Feldmarschall Keitel. I have brought you your orders. The Feldmarschall is most eager that you start operations as soon as possible.” The little man bristled with indignation.

Touchy little twerp, Krueger thought.

“Of course,” he said.

Von Eckdorf glanced pointedly at the men working at the files.

“I am a little—taken aback”—he tasted the words delicately—“at the state of affairs around here, Colonel. I should have thought you’d have been ready—actually moved before now.”

Krueger shot him a quick glance. So that’s the game we’re going to play, he thought. The big shot, come to throw his weight around. Not in my command!

“It would have been inadvisable, Herr Reichsamtsleiter,” he said. He did not elaborate. Let the little bastard ask, he thought.

Von Eckdorf fixed him with an imperiously inquiring look.

“Well?” he asked irritably.

“Our prepared position would not have been ready for us,” he said simply. “I’m sure you are aware of that.”

Willi was watching the two men. He was fascinated. He recognized the juggling for superiority that was going on. A superiority claimed by von Eckdorf by virtue of having it bestowed upon him, but in reality belonging to Colonel Krueger simply because he already had it.

Von Eckdorf’s face looked pinched. His voice was becoming even sharper.

“You have been informed, I believe, that I am to act as the Führer’s personal representative?”

“I have.”

“Good. I shall be staying in a village quite close to your headquarters area.”

“I see.”

“I shall, of course, expect to be fully informed of all your activities, once you go operational.”

“Of course.”

“And when will that be, Colonel?” Von Eckdorf’s voice carried more than a hint of sarcasm. He felt on top of the situation again. “Things still seem to be—well, in quite a state of disarray.”

Krueger regarded the little man. That’s all I need, he thought with annoyance. To be saddled with an insufferable, self-important little prig like that! He gave him a look of studied astonishment

“On the exact date planned, of course, Herr von Eckdorf,” he said deliberately. “I presume you know it?”

Von Eckdorf colored. He hadn’t asked to be sent here. But he certainly wasn’t going to put up with any impertinence!

He was about to give a sharp retort, when Krueger turned from him and motioned to an orderly, who had just entered the room. The man hurried over.

He was about thirty-five, with a ruddy complexion and large, guileless, water-blue eyes. He carried an armful of clothing—a pair of gray forester’s knee britches, heavy woolen socks, a coarse green shirt and a gray Bavarian jacket with carved bone buttons. Krueger inspected the clothing idly as he continued to talk to von Eckdorf. There was an undisguised suggestion of dismissal in his voice.

“The first units leave tonight. The rest, including myself and my staff, tomorrow.”

Von Eckdorf searched frantically for something significant to say. He felt his importance, his authority slipping away from him.

“We shall be in position the day after, Herr Reichsamtsleiter—as planned,” Kreuger finished.

“Good,” von Eckdorf said curtly. “I should like, however, to inspect the state of your readiness myself.” It was the best he could do.

Krueger looked at him with a small, slightly mocking smile.

“Of course,” he said with condescending amiability. “Untersturmführer Richter is at your disposal.”

He took the Bavarian jacket from the arms of the orderly.

“You will excuse me.” It was a statement, not a request. “I’m about to change into my new—uniform.”

He turned to the orderly.

“
Schon gut,
Plewig.” he said. “Let’s get on with it.”

Von Eckdorf glared at him. Then he turned on his heel and stalked off, followed by Willi. Suddenly he stopped. He removed an envelope from his inside coat pocket. He turned back to Krueger and handed it to him.

“Yes. One more thing,” he said coldly. “The Führer sends you his congratulations, Generalmajor Krueger!”

Without waiting for comment, he turned and walked from the room.

Krueger looked after the little man. He was faintly amused. Small man in a big job, he thought. Inevitable result—officiousness! He looked at the envelope in his hand. It bore the official Nazi emblem embossed on it—the proud eagle holding a swastika in a wreath of oak leaves. He threw the envelope on the big desk without opening it. He sighed. Thoughtfully he fingered the coarse, heavy fabric of the gray Bavarian peasant jacket. . . .