The Second Objective by Mark Frost Page B

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 of 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