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Kronberg im Taunus, Hesse, Germany
1215 9 October 1945
The massive structure looked like a castle. It was constructed of gray fieldstone and rose, in parts, five stories high. There was no sign of war damage whatever.
There was an assortment of vehicles in the parking lot, some jeeps and three-quarter-ton ambulances—with the Red Cross common to them painted over—but most of the vehicles were German. Most of these were Mercedeses, but there was a scattering of Opel Admirals and Kapitäns, and Cronley saw the Horch in which Elsa had driven away from the Kurhotel.
The place was well protected, casually. There were four jeeps at strategic points, each with a pedestal-mounted .50 caliber Browning machine gun, with a belt of glistening ammunition dangling from each. There were two soldiers at each jeep. They were all enormous black men. They were eating their lunch, but not from mess kits, or even stainless steel trays, but from what looked like fine china, crystal, and silver laid out on the hoods of the jeeps.
O’Duff stopped the jeep before a wide, shallow flight of stairs leading to the building.
Almost immediately, a black soldier came down the stairs. He was even more enormous than the others. He had first sergeant chevrons and the patch of the Second Armored “Hell on Wheels” Division on the sleeves of his “tanker” zipper jacket. He held a Thompson submachine gun effortlessly in his massive left hand.
He saluted. Cronley returned it.
“I’m First Sergeant Dunwiddie,” he announced. “You’re late.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re Second Lieutenant James D. Cronley Junior, right?”
“Right,” Jimmy said.
“Then you’re late,” First Sergeant Dunwiddie said. “The colonel expected you in time for lunch.” Then he effortlessly jerked Cronley’s canvas bag from the back of the jeep and turned his attention to Sergeant O’Duff. “Okay, Sergeant, you can go. I’ll take care of this officer from here on.”
—
It was only as First Sergeant Dunwiddie led him through the lobby of the building that Cronley realized it was a hotel, and not a castle.
Not too swift, Jimmy. It’s the Schlosshotel Kronberg.
Schloss means castle, but hotel means hotel in both English and German.
Dunwiddie led him through the lobby to a large dining room filled with people in uniform—most without insignia of rank—having their lunch, and then through a smaller dining room, and through that to a door.
Dunwiddie knocked using the butt of the Thompson.
“Who?” a voice called.
“Tiny,” Dunwiddie called.
“Come.”
Dunwiddie pushed the door open and nodded for Cronley to enter.
There were three people sitting at a round table, which had places set for five.
One was Colonel Mattingly, as strikingly uniformed as he had been the day before. A second was the man who had also been at the Kurhotel when they had taken Elsa away. Cronley intuited that he was an officer, almost certainly a major or higher, although he was wearing an insignia-less uniform. Cronley could not recall hearing his name, beyond Colonel Mattingly calling him “Harry.”
The third man was a slight, pale fiftyish man in an ill-fitting civilian suit that was almost certainly German. Confirmation of that suspicion came immediately when Colonel Mattingly announced in German: “We’re all speaking German, Cronley.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Say it in German!” Mattingly snapped, in German.
“Jawohl, Herr Oberst.”
“Better,” Mattingly said. “Sit down, Tiny. You’re involved.”
