The Haigerloch Project

As he said it — he knew it wasn't true. But Wallace didn't know that. He'd never told his CO about the time he'd taken the wrong road and lost his way. It was shortly after the Siegfried Line had been smashed. He'd ended up in a small Kraut village on the Prüm River that hadn't been taken yet. Only he didn't know that. He'd strutted into the Bürgermeister's office, kicked the man out and replaced him with a non-Nazi farmer. He'd ordered the townspeople to dismantle a half-finished tank obstacle across the main drag on the double, and generally thrown his weight around. And he hadn't known that the cellar of damned near every house was filled with Waffen SS troops lying in ambush — any minute expecting the cock-sure Ami officer's support troops to roll in. He'd only learned that two days later when the town was occupied and he'd dropped in on the man he'd installed as mayor. He'd had one helluva time pretending that he'd known the situation all along.

But this time it was different. This time he knew.

“Your German is perfect,” Wallace said.

“Who is this Decker guy?”

Major Wallace just shrugged.

“Don't know. All I know is, they want him. Badly.” He glanced sideways at Kieffer, then looked back at the wall map. “You'll have to infiltrate to Mayen,” he said briskly. “Find Decker on Ostbahnhofstrasse and transport him back here.”

“That all?” Kieffer said bitingly. He threw the message on the CO's desk. “That damned message says believed ready to defect. What if the bastard doesn't want to go?”

“Persuade him.”

“As in kidnap? You're out of your fucking mind!”

“Play it as it comes.”

For a moment Kieffer stared silently at the map. Then he turned to Wallace.

“Okay,” he said “Okay. I'll go get him.” He glared at his superior officer. “But I'll do it my way!”

“And what way is that?”

“First, I go in uniform. Infantry insignia. Dogtags. The works. I don't want to be stood up against the nearest wall if they catch me.”

Wallace nodded. It made sense. Anyway, German troops had captured a lot of GI equipment and clothing during their abortive Ardennes offensive. They were putting it to practical use in the cold weather. A bastard American get-up would not attract attention.

“I'll go in by jeep,” Kieffer continued. He was getting caught up in the challenge of the mission. His eyes flew across the wall map. “I'll scrape off the stars. Muddy the numbers.” He turned to Wallace. “And I want a driver. Marshall. Jerry Marshall. That sergeant in the motor pool. He's crazy enough to go along.”

“Marshall?” Wallace was startled. “He can't speak a word of German.”

“But he can make a bathtub run like a Rolls. He's one damned good mechanic, and that's a helluva lot more important to me than language. I don't want to be stranded in a conked-out jeep in the middle of nowhere thirty miles into Kraut country. If we get into a situation we have to talk ourselves out of, we've had it anyway.”

“It's okay with me — if Marshall agrees.”

“He will. He's always bitching about not seeing any action.”

“You'll have to get Decker out tonight. Tomorrow he'll be gone.”

“Yeah. Do tell.”

“You will be jumping off tonight,” Wallace went on, briskly authoritative now the matter was settled. As he had known it would be. “From Bitburg. They're mopping up now. You will contact Major Baldon at Eleventh Infantry CP. He will have further instructions for you. He will get you through the American lines. From then on you're on your own. Any questions?”

“Yeah, one,” Kieffer said dryly. “How do you get out of this chickenshit outfit?”

Wallace grinned.

“Section Eight…?”

* * *

It was 1647 hours on February 28 when CIC agent Martin Kieffer and Sergeant Jerry Marshall drove into Bitburg.

The fields along the road on the outskirts had been blanketed by a paper blizzard. Surrender leaflets, dropped by the Air Force. And obviously ignored.

The town itself had been taken that same day by units of the 11th Infantry Regiment, 5th Division, who'd fought their way in from the south against heavy opposition. Air had plastered the important road junction, and Corps and Division artillery had slammed barrage after barrage of steel and high explosives into it. The place was one huge pile of muddy rubble.

Kieffer looked around with awed curiosity as Marshall threaded the mud-caked jeep through the half-cleared streets, following the signs to Regimental CP. He knew that the famous Long Tom 155 mm. gun of the 244th Field Artillery Battalion had been brought into action to soften up the burg before the infantry assault. To reach its target with the required accuracy, the gun had been hauled so far forward that it was placed up among the mortar crews firing infantry support for the advance. The mortar men had bitched like hell. They'd caught a lot of the incoming mail of the German counter-battery fire searching for Long Tom. Judging from what he saw — and smelled — the gun had done its job on the town of Bitburg.