Before they had time to question that, Skorzeny wished them luck and shook every man’s hand. Following behind him, his adjutant handed every commando a silver Zippo lighter. Bernie noticed it gave off a faint smell of bitter almonds. They were told each lighter contained a glass vial of hydrocyanic acid, and that the poison could be used offensively to subdue an opponent. The implication that they were expected to use it on themselves in the event of capture was inescapable.
Skorzeny called Captain Stielau and Lieutenant Von Leinsdorf into the cottage. He asked to hear a summary of Von Leinsdorf’s plan for executing the Second Objective, listened quietly, made suggestions but appeared satisfied with his overall strategy. He asked Von Leinsdorf to call in the squad leaders he had selected. Skorzeny chatted briefly with each man, addressing them only by their adopted American names.
Skorzeny’s adjutant presented each squad leader with a packet of specially forged documents, including U.S. Army ID cards, high-level American security passes, letters of transit, and detailed maps of various cities in France. They were also given a cache of customized weapons, explosives, and ammunition prepared at Skorzeny’s request by the Technical Criminal Institute of Berlin. These included piano wire garrotes, concealed knives, and a new technology: a metallic silencer that attached to the end of their American officer’s handgun. He then drew their attention to a map of the Belgian border his adjutant laid out on the table.
“Your squads will be the first to cross, through these gaps in their line,” said Skorzeny, showing points of infiltration. “Begin your reconnaissance assignments. Your reports will be vital to us during the early hours. Avoid capture at any cost.”
Then Skorzeny for the first time detailed their second objective. When he finished, no one broke the silence. From their shocked reaction Skorzeny knew that Von Leinsdorf had followed orders and refused to discuss the mission with them.
“Sir, at what point are we expected to attempt this?” asked Karl Schmidt.
“I will explain when the colonel leaves,” said Von Leinsdorf to silence him.
“I would prefer to hear the colonel’s views firsthand,” said a defiant Schmidt.
“Your orders are perfectly clear,” said Skorzeny. “For the next two days, reconnaissance and support for the invasion. At midnight on the seventeenth, regardless of whether or not our brigade has reached its first objective, proceed with the second.”
“What should we tell the men in our squads?” asked Schmidt.
“Tell them nothing,” said Skorzeny. “Until you have to.”
“That was my advice as well,” said Von Leinsdorf, making clear his irritation.
“What kind of support will we have from the rest of our brigade?” asked Schmidt.
“That depends on the progress of the entire offensive,” said Skorzeny. He gestured to his adjutant to pack up, eager to leave.
“No more questions,” said Von Leinsdorf.
“But should we expect them, sir?” asked Schmidt, ignoring Von Leinsdorf. “Is anyone else involved or are we acting alone?”
“If all goes according to plan,” said Skorzeny, “help will be waiting when you near your target.”
“How much help?” asked Schmidt.
“A fifth squad,” said Von Leinsdorf.
“There, you see?” said Skorzeny with a smile. “Support will be there when you need it the most. On the other hand, as I always tell my men, expect nothing and you won’t be disappointed.”
Skorzeny wished them luck and walked out toward his waiting transport, followed by his adjutant. Their vehicle was parked on the edge of a clearing, near where the commandos’ twenty American jeeps were being serviced and fueled. The paint on the jeeps’unit insignia was still drying.
“Keep no records of that meeting,” said Skorzeny firmly to his adjutant. “As far as Autumn Mist is concerned, it never occurred.”
Skorzeny climbed into the transport where his bodyguards waited and drove off to the north.
In the cottage, standing over the various maps of Belgium and France on the table, Von Leinsdorf walked them one last time through their first two days. “On the seventeenth I’ll contact each of you by radio. If you don’t hear from me, assume we are going ahead and work your way south. We’ll stage the operation from here, on the evening of the nineteenth.”
He pointed to a prominent old cathedral city, an hour and a half northeast of Paris.
“We need a place to meet,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Any suggestions?”
“I was stationed there for a couple weeks,” said William Sharper, the American.
“In which army?” asked Schmidt.
“Fuck you, Schmidt. There’s an old movie house here, on an old square on the east bank of the canal,” said Sharper, pointing to the area. “The Wehrmacht showed films during the Occupation. GIs are using it now.”
“Mark it on your maps. Meet at this cinema between nine P.M. and midnight on the nineteenth,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Wait no longer than that. Even if you’re the only squad, move forward on your own initiative.”
Von Leinsdorf shook each man’s hand before they all exited the cottage and went their separate ways. He placed a hand on Schmidt’s shoulder, holding him back.
“I realize that in our former positions we hold equal rank,” said Von Leinsdorf, once they were alone. “And that you’ve held yours slightly longer than I have mine.”
“That’s correct.”
“Be that as it may, Colonel Skorzeny has put me in charge of this mission. I take that responsibility seriously. If you ever question my authority again, I’ll kill you.”
Von Leinsdorf stared at Schmidt until he recognized the terror he had over the years grown so accustomed to seeing in weaker men’s eyes, then walked outside.
The men of his squad, Bernie Oster, Marius Schieff, and Gunther Preuss, were waiting for him near their own jeep, loading in supplies.
“Good news, gentlemen,” said Von Leinsdorf. “We’re going across to night.”
5
Northeast Belgium
DECEMBER 14, 1944, 8:40 P.M.
Shivering under a sky thick with stars, three GIs manning the Frontier Control Station lit a fire in a discarded oil drum, in violation of blackout orders. Their tin-roofed hut offered no relief from the arctic air riding in behind a storm front. Winter hadn’t officially arrived, but the season’s first storm had dropped six inches of snow the night before. Although they were less than four miles from the German border, and occasionally heard engines gunning in that direction, only sporadic skirmishing had broken the calm during the weeks they’d been stationed there. So each night after dark they lit a fire behind their hut and took turns warming their hands, while the others sat inside, playing cards by the light of a Coleman lantern.
They were green recruits-a sergeant and two privates-drafted in the last six months and hastily trained. Their 99th Infantry Division had deployed in the Ardennes only a month before, thrown in beside new units too raw for combat and veterans too beaten down for more. The men’s regiment, the 394th, had dug in along a twenty-mile perimeter that paralleled the Belgian-German border, a craggy, forested gap between two mountainous ridges. Stationed at thousand-yard intervals, the soldiers of the 394th spent their days and nights in bone-chilling foxholes, staring at a silent forest, protected from the elements only by rough ceilings of pine branches.
By comparison these three men of Rifle Company F, Squad “D,” had drawn a plush assignment, guarding this checkpoint on an old logging road a mile north of the village of Elsenborn. Ten miles to the rear their base camp offered hot meals and showers, Hollywood movies, and touring swing bands that played weekly USO dances swarming with grateful Belgian girls. A conviction had spread through their barracks that the war was all but over. A month of frigid nights hunkered down in the Losheim Gap seemed an easy way to work off your part in the war effort. They might even sail home without firing a shot in anger.