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.
B etty 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
“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.
B etty 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
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