“On the way to Sonthofen, why don’t you tell Sergeant Dunwiddie here how to make one?”
“Why don’t you tell Tedworth how to make one,” Dunwiddie challenged, “while Herr Schröder and I are bouncing down the bumpy roads in the dark?”
“Because as an officer I am dedicated to preserving the privileges of rank,” Cronley said piously.
Dunwiddie smiled and shook his head.
“Speaking of officers,” he said, “Mattingly called. I didn’t think you wanted him to know what you were really doing, Charles Lindbergh, so I told him you were off in a jeep somewhere, and I would have you call him when you got back. That was about an hour ago.”
“Okay. Thanks. I’ll call him. Have a nice ride.”
I’ll call him after I see the Russian NKGB agent.
He nodded and smiled at Schröder, then in a loud voice called out “Clear!” and started the engine. He taxied back down the runway to where a dozen soldiers were waiting to push the Storch off the runway and out of sight.
Cronley found Mannberg in the officers’ mess bar. He was reading Stars and Stripes, the U.S. Army newspaper, over a cup of coffee.
Cronley sat beside him and said, “When you’re through with the Stripes, I’d like to see the NKGB agent.”
“Of course,” Mannberg replied, and laid the newspaper down.
Cronley could see that Mannberg was unhappy.
“I don’t want to interfere in any way with your interrogation,” Cronley said. “I just want to see him.”
“May I ask why?”
“I think I should.”
“Of course,” Mannberg said, and stood.
As they walked out of the bar, Cronley saw the zipper jacket Lieutenant Colonel Wilson had given him. It was hanging from a peg by the door.
Schröder must’ve left it there — returning it to me — when he came back from Sonthofen. It still has the Liaison Pilot’s wings.
To which neither of us is entitled.
Cronley took the jacket and put it on as they walked to what had once been the monastery’s chapel.
At least it’ll cover my captain’s bars, and if I speak German, the NKGB guy will think I’m another German.
Why is that important?
Because, on the rank totem pole, a U.S. Army captain is far down from Gehlen and Mannberg.
Unless he already knows Kloster Grünau is being run by me. Which he probably does.
Which means — Tiny’s people grabbed him before I returned from the States with my brand-new captain’s bars — that if he does know who I am, he thinks I’m a second lieutenant, which is really at the bottom of that totem pole.
To hell with it. My gut feeling is to wear the jacket; go with that.
There were four of what Cronley thought of as “Tiny’s Troopers,” plus two of Gehlen’s men, just inside the foyer of the former chapel. They were seated around a card table playing poker. Packs of cigarettes and Hershey chocolate bars were used as chips.
It was less innocent than it seemed. Cigarettes and Hershey bars were the currency of the land when dealing with the Germans, and could be used to purchase what little the Germans had to sell, including very often the sexual favors of the women.
Everybody quickly rose to their feet when the senior non-com among them, a staff sergeant, barked, “Ten-hut!”
The sergeant — who was uncommonly small for a trooper, not much over five-feet-two, the Army minimum height — casually held an M-3.30 caliber carbine in his hand. The others were holding Thompson.45 caliber submachine guns.
“At ease,” Cronley said. “I’m here to investigate rumors that gambling is taking place on the premises.”
“Ah, Lieutenant, you know we wouldn’t do nothing like that,” the sergeant said.
One of the troopers hissed, “That’s Captain, asshole!”
“Excuse me, Captain,” the sergeant said. “Sorry, sir.”
“You have an honest face, Sergeant. So I will believe you when you say you wouldn’t even think of gambling,” Cronley said. “And as far as that Captain business is concerned, I’ve only been a captain for a couple days. If you had called me Captain, I probably would have looked around to see who you were talking to.”
The troopers smiled and chuckled.
“I came to have a look at our guest,” Cronley said. “How is he?”
“He’s all right. I’ve got another two guys down there who peek at him every five or ten minutes or so,” the sergeant said.
And then he came to attention.
“Permission to speak, sir?”
Another Regular Army old soldier.
Why am I not surprised? Tiny would be very careful who he put in charge.
“Granted.”
“Sir, my orders from First Sergeant Dunwiddie are to do what Konrad here says about keeping that guy in the hole.”
He nodded toward one of the Germans, a pink-skinned man in his thirties.
Cronley looked at Mannberg, who said, “Konrad Bischoff, Hauptmann Cronley, former major. Interrogation specialist.”
Bischoff bobbed his head to Cronley.
“And…?” Cronley said to the sergeant.
“And, Captain, ever since I put that guy in the hole, he’s been… doing his business… in a canvas bucket. It smells to high heaven in there. Konrad says, ‘That’s part of the process,’ and not to change it. I’m really starting to feel sorry for that Communist sonofabitch, sitting there in the dark and—”
Cronley held up his hand to stop him.
What do I do now?
Say, “Fuck the Russian” or “Tough shit”?
That’d be the same thing as admitting the Germans are running Kloster Grünau, running Operation Ost.
They’re not. Or at least they’re not supposed to be running it.
If I override the order, I’m not only going to confirm Mannberg’s opinion that I’m getting a little too big for my britches, challenging the superior knowledge and the decisions of his “interrogation specialist,” but piss him off. And if I piss him off, I piss off Gehlen.
Bottom line, I’m supposed to be running Kloster Grünau.
“Let’s go see what you’re talking about,” Cronley said. “You, me, Herr Mannberg, and Herr Bischoff. Tell me how that works, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir. What Konrad got us to do is rig up a floodlight — six jeep headlights mounted on a piece of plywood, hitched to a jeep battery. We turn the lights on, then open the door. The Russian, who’s been sitting there in the dark since his candle went out… you know about the candles, Captain? They last about two minutes—”
“I know about them,” Cronley interrupted.
“Yes, sir. Well, the Russian, who’s been there in the dark for an hour at least, is blinded when the lights shine in his eyes. We can see him, but he can’t—”
“Okay, Sergeant,” Cronley interrupted again. “Let’s go.”
The sergeant led the way through the former chapel to a room behind what had been the altar, past crates of supplies where once, presumably, there had been pews full of hooded priests and monks.
Two troopers, both armed with Thompsons, were in the room. They popped to attention.
“What’s he doing?” the sergeant asked.
“Ten minutes ago, he was sitting with his back against the wall,” one of them, a sergeant, replied.
“Open the door,” the sergeant ordered.