Troopers and policemen and a German shepherd on a leash walked by only boots and paws visible to Cray through the triangular gap between the two wheels and the car bottom. Cray heard guards walk overhead as they searched through documents and looked at faces. And he overheard guards standing along the siding talk about the American they were searching for.
Ten minutes after the train had stopped, it began again, quickly picking up speed. The last of the black boots passed from Cray's view. Then he saw tree trunks and undergrowth as the tracks took the train into a forest. The motion of the train jarred Cray again and again, the slats slapping into his arms and chest and legs, and he knew he could not hang on long. Railroad ties passed beneath him in a blur.
7
SERGEANT GEORG KEPPLER stepped on the starter, but the
truck's battery was dead and the engine wouldn't turn over. He had been traveling south on a road paralleling the rail line. When he had stopped the truck at an intersection, it had stalled. And now it wouldn't start.
"Get out and check the generator belt," he ordered. "Maybe it's gone."
Private Werner Enge opened the Krupp's door and slid off the seat to the ground. He struggled with the latch before he could push up the hood.
"Gone," he called. "We've been running off the battery."
Sergeant Keppler slapped the steering wheel. "The lieutenant is going to hang us from a power pole, Werner." He climbed down from the truck.
The private nodded. "I suppose he will."
Private Werner Enge was sixteen years old. His green eyes were still lively with innocence, and his mouth seemed permanently set in a smile of wonder. His Wehrmacht uniform hung loosely on him.
"The lieutenant does not listen to excuses," Sergeant Keppler said darkly. Keppler was a veteran of the eastern front, and wore fresh maps of scars on his legs from a Russian mortar shell that had found him in the Ukraine. Keppler had been transferred to a transport battalion while he recovered. His face was doughy, with loose jowls and a bulbous nose. He wore his field cap back on his head, showing a tossed crop of seal- brown hair. "He might just hang us."
Pasture, too stony for crops, was on both sides of the rail line. A dilapidated barn was to his left. The crossing road was muddy. Bunches of spring grass grew alongside the road. The sun was a flat gray disc seen through a cloud layer.
Keppler turned to the sound of an approaching train. "They must be done with their search. Goddamn it, we should be back at that field by now, picking up our unit."
Keppler and Enge had dropped off their squadron, then traveled to Linthe to look for fuel, and had been returning for their soldiers when the Krupp broke down.
"It could be worse," Enge laughed, eager to please the sergeant. "Our truck could have stalled right on the tracks."
"Here they come, poor bastards." Keppler leaned against the truck's fender. "Blown up, shot, burned, and broken, the lot of them."
Private Enge watched the train approach. The red cross on the boiler front rippled in the wind. Smoke from the stack blew across the field. Enge's view was along the length of the tram as it came toward them. The cars rocked sideways on the unstable track. The locomotive's main rod rose and fell. A coal tender followed the locomotive. The engineer leaned out the cab window to stare at the track ahead. He lazily saluted Enge and Keppler. The locomotive was a monster of rivets and cylinders and hoses and rods and plates. It seemed to roar by them, even though it was only traveling at fifteen kilometers an hour.
Six cars passed, each with a red cross on a white banner below the windows. Keppler scanned the sky for enemy planes. He had lost two trucks to them in the past week. Whipped up by the tram, wind cuffed
his face.
Enge squinted at the tram. Window glare hid most of the train's passengers, but Enge could see a few bandaged heads as they sped by. The last two cars were converted cattle cars used for the wounded on litters. The cars' slats had been covered with tarpaulins and the red cross. The train had no caboose. The last car rolled by.
"Let's start walking." Sergeant Keppler pulled Enge's rifle from the Krupp's floor and passed it to him, then reached for his own Mauser.
As the last cattle car pulled away from them, a mound on the track caught Enge's eye. The train had left something behind A lump between the two tracks. As Enge watched, the lump rose from the ties and gravel and transformed itself into a man. Someone had been run over by the tram maybe. The man rose, turning toward them.
Enge was relieved. The man couldn't be hurt too badly, even though he had a bandage at his neck. The man's Wehrmacht uniform was soiled. He was an officer, a major. Enge and Keppler hurried toward the man.
The major staggered and fell. Then as the soldiers neared him the man rose again with something in his hand.
Private Enge gasped when he saw the major's face. Enge awkwardly grabbed for his Mauser. Sergeant Keppler also brought his rifle around.
The man moved with startling speed, two steps toward them, bringing his hand around in a vicious arc. Enge saw only a crease in the day, a horizontal blemish against the background, and then heard a solid thump. Keppler collapsed to the ground, a stone the size of a fist hitting the ground next to him. The man had thrown a rock at the sergeant.
Enge's rifle strap snagged for an instant on a shoulder button. He yanked it free and brought the barrel up, wildly searching with his finger for the trigger, too late. The man in the Wehrmacht major's uniform moved so quickly he seemed to be a haze rather than a man, and he grew in front of Enge, a wall rushing at him.
The day blinked out. Nothing but blackness.
The private woke a moment later, his nose in the mud, the side of his head a mass of pain. He coughed raggedly, blowing dirt from his mouth. He pushed himself up with one hand. Sergeant Keppler was still on the ground, his forehead bleeding. Many Sergeant Kepplers, swimming in front of Enge, whose eyes refused to focus.
"Is this all you have to eat?" the voice above him asked in German with a flat accent.
Enge rolled over, and shaded his eyes with a hand. The man was backlit by the dull sun, and his features were obscured, a dark mountain hovering over Enge. The man rustled around in Enge's pack. The private pushed himself to sitting, and carefully probed the side of his head. No blood. Not too bad, he vaguely decided. Sergeant Keppler moaned.
Enge tried to rise, but dizziness kept him on the ground. The man's hand reached under his arm to help him up. Enge shuddered and stepped back. The man's face seemed cut from wood with an ax, with cheekbones so prominent they threw shadows on his face below. His chin was angled. His blond hair was short and spiky, and his nose was blunt. He was thin, and his skin was stretched tautly across his face. His hands looked like a logger's, with thick fingers and solid knuckles.
"You're the American, the one who was at the Vassy Chateau."
Enge's voice wavered as if from the wind. He clasped his hands together so they wouldn't shake, but instead they trembled in unison.
"You know about me?" The American handed Enge the pack.
Private Enge's head pounded. He still had no idea how the American had blacked him out. A hit to the head, for sure, but Enge had seen nothing, just a blur. He pulled a flyer from his coat pocket. Jack Cray's face was printed on it.
Cray studied it. "That's me, all right. Where'd you get this?"
"Everybody in my unit has one. And they are posted all over Berlin, all over Germany."
Groaning, Sergeant Keppler rolled onto his belly.
Cray chewed on nothing, staring at the flyer. Below the photograph of his face were the words NATIONAL ALERT, and then in slightly smaller type, VASSY CHATEAU KILLER ESCAPES POW CAMP. And below that was a description of Jack Cray's actions at the chateau. On the bottom of the flyer was Cray's name, and under that SPEAKS GERMAN FLUENTLY.
Cray returned the flyer to the private. "Let's go." He lifted Enge's
rifle.
Enge was startled. "Go? Go where?"
"North."
"If you wanted to go further north, why didn't you stay on the train?"
"I held on as long as I could," Cray replied. "Let's go."
The private shook his head solemnly. "I'm not going anywhere without my sergeant." He pointed at Keppler, who was now sitting with his legs splayed out in front of him, a hand touching his head, his jaw open and his eyes closed.
"You don't have a lot to say about it," Cray said. "Get in your truck and let's go."
Enge said with satisfaction, "The truck doesn't work."
Cray stared at Private Enge's face, an open face incapable of a lie. "Then let's walk."
The private shook his head. "Not without Sergeant Keppler."
"You read that flyer." Cray smiled. "You are talking to a dangerous fellow here. You should do what I say, and quickly."
Another adamant shake of the private's head. His lip was out.
Cray shrugged. "All right. Let's get him to his feet."
One on each side of the sergeant, they pulled Keppler up. He swayed, but could move his legs as Cray and Enge began walking north along the road. The sergeant's rifle was left behind. Cray carried the other Mauser in his free hand.
"That's quite a bloody wrap you have on your neck," Enge said. "Are you really injured?"
Cray shook his head. "I do it for sympathy."
After a while Sergeant Keppler shook off their help and walked unassisted. He said nothing. Red welts were forming on his forehead where the stone had hit him. Blood seeped into an eye and he wiped it away with a finger. Cray dropped a pace behind so he could watch both of them.
High in the east, a bomber formation moved south, the rumble of the Fortress engines rolling softly over the fields. The country lane paralleled the railroad tracks, and the three of them passed several farmhouses.
"Where did you get that Wehrmacht major's uniform?" Enge asked. "Did you kill some poor guy to get it?"
"From a box in a warehouse."
"I'll bet you killed somebody for it," Enge insisted. "Took it off a dead body."
Sergeant Keppler scowled at Enge.
"I promise I didn't." Cray moved his hand across his uniform. "Cross my heart."
That satisfied the private.
Keppler said his first words to the American, "Where are you taking us?"
"As far north as I can get."
"Why don't you kill us now and save us the walk?" Keppler asked.
Enge's eyes widened. "You think he's going to kill us, Sergeant?"
"Christ, Enge, you read about him. That's what his country pays him to do. I'll bet he's got a knife half a meter long hidden under his coat, and he's going to stick it into us."
Enge stared at the American. "He's not going to do that."
"Why would it be any different for you and me than it was for those poor bastards at the chateau?" the sergeant said.
"But he seems friendly and all," Enge argued.
Cray smiled to prove it. "Americans are friendly people."
"Enge, you are stupid even for the Wehrmacht," Keppler said. "You and I are already dead. This man here just needs to decide exactly when."
"What town is that?" Cray nodded north.
"The outskirts of Potsdam," Enge answered. "I can see the white steeple. I've been in that church."
"And then what town is next?"
"Berlin is only a few kilometers beyond." Enge paused and squinted down the road. "Something is coming." He pointed. "A motorcycle and sidecar."
The motorcycle had rounded a bend in the road. The two riders bounced high as the motorcycle found pocks in the road.
Cray reached into his boot and brought out a two-edged knife that gleamed like evil in the gray sunlight. He removed the clip from the Mauser and put it in his pocket, ejected the shell from the chamber, then handed the rifle to a startled Enge. He abruptly caught Sergeant Keppler around the neck, the knife at Keppler's throat, but the blade hidden in Cray's hand.
"Tell them I'm your major, and that I've been injured." He put his other arm across Private Enge's shoulders. Cray let his head slump to his chest. He pressed the blade into the skin of Keppler's neck.
"What if they don't believe me?" Keppler's voice was a frightened, ragged whisper.
"Make something up," Cray said. "The minute I sense they are doubting you, I'm going to cut your throat from ear to ear. So you'd better put your heart into your acting." He dragged his left foot as if it had been injured, and sagged so that Keppler and Enge had to lean into him to support his weight. They each held one of his arms.
Keppler gasped, "The knife, it's cutting into my skin." "Not yet it's not," Cray replied under his breath as the motorcycle closed on them. "You won't have any doubt when it does, though."
He held the knife high on the blade, the blade and handle hidden by his hand. His left arm was around Keppler's shoulder, and his hand at his neck. Cray's head seemed to hang loosely.
The BMW and sidecar stopped in front of the three walkers. The passenger was holding a Schmeisser, its barrel pointed at the ground just in front of Cray. Both driver and passenger wore rubberized motorcycle coats and shiny metal ornaments that read FELDGENDARMERIE around their necks. They were military field policemen. The BMW's engine popped and roared.
"Get out of my way," Keppler yelled at them. "I've got to get to the aid station."
A bit defensively, the sidecar passenger said, "We've been ordered to look for the American commando. He's been..."
Keppler growled, "I know all about him. Everyone does. Do the three of us look like an American commando? Now get out of my way or you'll be responsible for my major's death."
"I need to see your..."
With his free hand, Keppler brought out his identification card and waved it at the policemen. "Give me your motorcycle. We'll take the major back in the sidecar."
The driver shook his head. "This belongs to my unit."
Keppler half-stepped toward the motorcycle. "This is life or death."