The Second Objective Read online

  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.

  Grannit pulled out a heavy coupling jack wedged into the freight car’s slats. As he inserted the jack into the joint to uncouple the cars, the train’s steam whistle blew: three short bursts, then three long, three short.

  Ole sending an SOS. If they were paying attention, their backup at the station would double-time it down the tracks.

  Grannit looked over at Jonesy. He had turned around, staring back at the engine, trying to decide what that whistle signified, whether he should worry or not.

  Grannit covered the five steps between them and tomahawked Jonesy in the back of his knee with the coupling jack. He buckled and dropped to one knee. Grannit caught him with a second shot on the crown of the right shoulder, paralyzing his gun arm before he could reach his holster. Grannit shoved him and Jonesy hit the ground, whimpering in pain, trying to roll off the damaged shoulder. Grannit pulled Jonesy’s Colt and knelt down on top of him, grabbing his neck, driving a knee into the big man’s kidney.

  “Stay down, Jonesy,” he said.

  “Fuck, what’d you hit me for?”

  “You’re under arrest, you dumb shit. Put your hands in front of you and your face in the dirt or I’ll blow your head off.”

  Jonesy complied. Grannit slipped a homemade sap out of his pocket—a black dress sock filled with twelve-gauge shot—and cracked him behind the ear. Jonesy went limp. Grannit stood up and turned toward the PX cars. The train whistle hadn’t appeared to alarm the scavengers, and none of them had seen him take Jonesy down in the dark, but more than a few glanced his way. He spotted the two officers he’d seen earlier with Eddie Bennings beside the cargo trucks, lookin
g a lot more concerned.

  Grannit walked straight at them, holding the gun at his side. As he got close, the two officers and Bennings headed for their car, parked nearby. When the engine started, Grannit raised the .45 and shot out the left front tire. The concussion cut through the night. He reached the driver’s side, smashed the window with the barrel of the Colt, reached in, and yanked the keys out of the ignition. The man behind the wheel, a captain, looked at him, red-faced and indignant, and made a feeble swipe at Grannit’s hand.

  “What the hell you think you’re doing, soldier?”

  Grannit grabbed the captain by the collar, pulled his head out the window, and shoved his neck against the edge of the roof, knocking off his hat. By now he had the whole unit’s attention, soldiers coming toward him with weapons drawn, others scattering. Eddie Bennings scrambled out of the backseat, staring at Grannit like he’d seen a ghost.

  “Easy, Earl, buddy—” said Eddie.

  Grannit jammed the Colt in the captain’s cheek and spoke right into his ear. “Name and rank.”

  “Captain John Stringer.”

  “Captain, tell your boys to drop everything and lie down where they’re standing, right now.”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Military Police, CID.” Stringer didn’t respond, eyes wide. Grannit leaned in closer. “Criminal Investigation Division.”

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “Bad news for Company C.” Grannit spotted Bennings in the corner of his eye, edging away. “Get on the ground, Eddie—all you ‘million dollar’ sons of bitches!”

  Grannit fired a shot in the air and two more at the nearest cargo truck, shredding a tire and blowing off the driver’s side mirror. Eddie hit the ground, and most of the others around him followed suit. A few sprinted for the woods.

  He heard MP whistles trill in the distance, and heavy footsteps, twenty men running toward them on cinders. Ole and their backup.

  “Can’t we work something out here?” asked Stringer.

  “Sure,” said Grannit. “How about twenty years?”

  7

  Elsenborn, Belgium

  DECEMBER 14, 9:30 P.M.

  Betty Grable,” said Erich Von Leinsdorf.

  The young MP manning the heavily fortified checkpoint just outside the village gave a cursory glance at the three men in the jeep.

  “Can I see your trip ticket, sir?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  Von Leinsdorf tapped Bernie Oster on the shoulder. He handed over a flawless forgery of an American military road pass, detailing their itinerary from Luxembourg City to Vielsalm. A smudged thumbprint obscured the ink around the day, date, and authorizing stamp.

  The MP held it under his flashlight, trying to make it out. “You’re from Twelfth Army HQ?”

  “That’s right,” said Bernie.

  “I don’t mean to be an asshole, but we’re running an errand for old man Bradley,” said Von Leinsdorf. “It’s time sensitive.”

  “Go on through,” said the MP, handing back the pass.

  “Have a good night,” said Von Leinsdorf.

  Bernie dropped the jeep into gear and drove past a sandbag installation protecting an unmanned .50-caliber machine gun and an M-10 tank destroyer. The one-lane village crawled with rowdy GIs, more than a few of them drunk. The snow had turned to slush, and Bernie slowed behind two men weaving down the middle of the road, dragging a freshly cut fir behind them toward a brightly lit tavern in the center of the town, soldiers crowding the door.

  “Can we stop to eat?” asked Preuss.

  “You can’t honestly be that stupid, can you?” said Von Leinsdorf. “Put some distance between us and that checkpoint.”

  Bernie slammed on the brakes as another GI wandered right in front of the jeep. He carried an open wine bottle and banged on the hood as they jerked to a halt a few feet away.

  “Hey, watch it!” the man said.

  Bernie waved apologetically. The soldier staggered around the jeep and hung on the passenger side, leaning in to talk to Preuss.

  “You hear the latest fuckin’ morale booster?” the American asked, “Frankie Frisch, Mel Ott, buncha hotshot ballplayers and some tootsie from the movies, what’s her name, that Kraut broad—”

  “Marlene Dietrich,” said Von Leinsdorf.

  “That’s the one. Driving all around, visiting wounded and shit—”

  Bernie leaned across the front seat, trying to get the drunk to focus on him instead of Preuss. “Mel Ott, how about that? We gotta get a move on now, buddy—”

  The drunk leaned in closer toward Preuss, who had a witless smile frozen on his face. Bernie caught a glimpse of Von Leinsdorf drawing his pistol and holding it against the back of Preuss’s seat. Ready to shoot if he gave them away.

  “But y’know what that means, don’t you?” said the drunk. “Letting big shots so close to the line? Means the fuckin’ Krauts are done. Kaput.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” said Bernie.

  “Any luck the turkey shoot’s over by Christmas and we’re on a gut bucket home. Cheers, buddy.”

  The drunk offered his bottle to Preuss. Preuss stared at him blankly. Von Leinsdorf leaned forward and grabbed the bottle.

  “To Christmas in Connecticut,” he said, and took a hearty swig.

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant,” said the drunk, trying to straighten as he realized he was talking to an officer. “Didn’t see you there.”

  Von Leinsdorf handed back the bottle. The drunk saluted him, and nearly fell on his ass. Von Leinsdorf watched the drunk stagger away, then looked at the boisterous soldiers stacked outside the noisy tavern, most with open bottles in hand.

  “There’s your civilian American Army, Brooklyn,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Stinking drunk, in uniform, within sight of the front. Bloody amateurs.”

  The two soldiers finally dragged the fir tree off the road, pausing to toast the three men in the jeep with their bottle.

  “Merry Christmas, assholes!” they said.

  “Bottoms up, fuckers,” said Von Leinsdorf quietly.

  “Up your bottoms!” Preuss said to them, half-standing in his seat.

  Von Leinsdorf shoved Preuss back in his seat. “I ought to just shoot you right now.”

  Bernie looked over at Gunther Preuss, his face like putty, panting for breath, mopping the sweat off his forehead in twenty-degree weather. Von Leinsdorf gave Bernie an exasperated glance and Bernie knew they were thinking the same thing: This shithead’s going to get us killed.

  “Hey, you picked him,” said Bernie.

  “In camp, the model soldier. In the field: a nitwit.” Von Leinsdorf cuffed the back of Preuss’s head and slid down into his seat. “Get us the hell out of here.”

  Five miles down the road they crossed the Warche River and entered Butgenbach. For the first time since they’d crossed the Allied lines, their wheels hit two-lane pavement. This town, much larger than Elsenborn, was all buttoned up, not a soul on the streets. A heavy fog crept in, enshrouding the empty streets. A few dim lights glowed through it from the row of tidy businesses they passed.

  “These signs are in German,” said Bernie.

  “This is Germany,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Over eight hundred square miles. Don’t you know your history?”

  “It’s not my neighborhood,” said Bernie.

  “This was never part of Belgium; they just gave it to them. Versailles, 1920. Reparations, that was the polite word. A proud moment for the West, putting the Hun in his place. They carved up the German empire like birthday cake. Here. The Saar to France, the Polish corridor, the Southern Tyrol. Crippled our economy and punished a race of innocent people for the crimes of a corrupt monarchy. The Allies’ idea of fair play.” He gauged Bernie’s reaction. “Wasn’t this in your American schoolbooks, Brooklyn?”

  Bernie let that go. “They still speak German?”

  “That’s right. When we took it back in 1940, they lined the streets and cheered that they were part o
f the fatherland again.”

  “Yeah? What’d they say when the Americans took it back? Heil Roosevelt?”

  Bernie glanced back in the mirror at Von Leinsdorf, who couldn’t keep the superior smirk off his face.

  “Irony. You’re aware that’s a well-known Jewish trait, Brooklyn.”

  Bernie didn’t answer. Halfway through the town, they dead-ended into the International Highway that ran due west from the German border. Von Leinsdorf signaled Bernie to pull over, then stood in the backseat, surveying both ways down the empty road.

  “The panzers will drive straight through here,” he said. “Fifty miles from the border to the river and nothing in our way but a rabble of drunken fraternity boys. By God, the plan will work.”

  Not if I have anything to say about it, thought Bernie.

  “So we keep going?” he asked.

  “The next village,” said Von Leinsdorf.

  Three miles west they entered the town of Waimes. Von Leinsdorf signaled Bernie to slow down. He took out his officer’s notebook and paged through it.

  “What are we looking for?” asked Bernie.

  “There’s a curfew,” said Von Leinsdorf. “We can’t stay on this road too late.”

  “Ich bin hungrig,” said Preuss, the first words he’d uttered since Elsenborn.

  “I didn’t hear that,” snapped Von Leinsdorf.

  “I have hungry,” said Preuss.

  “I am hungry,” said Bernie, correcting him.

  “Yes. Me also,” said Preuss.

  “Speak German again,” said Von Leinsdorf, “and I’ll feed you your own leg.”

  Von Leinsdorf scanned the buildings as they continued through the encroaching fog. A lettered sign in the shape of an oversized pink pig loomed out of the mist on the right. Von Leinsdorf told Bernie to pull over beside the butcher’s shop beneath it. Preuss looked up at the sign and his mood brightened.