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Schollbrunn, Bavaria
American Zone of Occupation, Germany
2145 4 November 1945
Captain Cronley, First Sergeant Dunwiddie, and Technical Sergeant Tedworth watched as the medic liberally daubed merbromin on the hands of the gravediggers. The topical antibiotic stained the wounds a bright red.
When Cronley first saw the blisters, he thought it was kind of funny. Enormous, muscular men with delicate hands. Then he got a better look at the blisters and had second thoughts.
These guys are not only in pain now, but have been in pain since probably after the first five minutes of furiously swinging the pickaxes and shovels.
And they hadn’t said a word.
He had then sent for Doc, the medic sergeant, who had been in the NCO club having “a couple of beers,” he’d said, when he arrived a hair’s-breadth from being royally drunk.
“Doc,” Cronley said, “I was about to suggest a bottle of Jack Daniel’s to comfort our afflicted brethren. Would that be medically appropriate?”
“Sir, that’s probably a very good idea. What the hell have they been doing?”
“Field sanitation. Digging latrines,” First Sergeant Dunwiddie answered for him.
“First Sergeant, get a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the bar, then send our walking wounded to bed,” Cronley ordered. “No. Change of plans. I’ll want a word with them after you leave, Doc.”
“Yes, sir.”
When the medic had, none too steadily, left the room, Cronley asked, “Why do I think that when Doc gets back to the NCO club, he’s going to say, ‘I don’t know what the captain had those guys doing. They claimed digging latrines, but I don’t believe that. They had the biggest blisters I’ve seen since Christ was a corporal. They were digging something.’
“And then do you think it’s possible that someone will guess ‘Maybe they’re digging a grave for that Russian that Sergeant Tedworth caught and they’re going to shoot?’ Everyone of course knows about the Russian because of Sergeant Loudmouth.”
“Oh, God!” Dunwiddie said. “I should have thought about that!”
“Let me catch up with Doc Lushwell, Captain,” Tedworth said. “I’ll tell him to keep his yap shut.”
“Thank you, but no thanks. If you think about it, what’s wrong with somebody guessing we’re going to shoot the Russian? If that word gets out—and I think it will—it will come to the attention of the Germans the NKGB has turned. Then they won’t be so surprised when they hear the shots when we ‘execute’ him.”
“Yeah,” Staff Sergeant Petronius J. Clark boomed appreciatively. “That’s how it would work all right.”
Then he blew gently on his red merbromin-painted hands and winced at the stinging sensation.
“Let’s carry that one step further,” Cronley went on. “Sergeant Loudmouth, please present my compliments to Major Orlovsky and tell him I would be pleased to have him attend me in my quarters.”
“Captain, you going to tell the Russian that we was digging graves?” Sergeant Clark asked dubiously.
“That’s exactly what I’m going to tell him. What are you waiting for, Sergeant Loudmouth? Go get Major Orlovsky.”
“With respect, sir,” Dunwiddie said. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“No, Sergeant Dunwiddie, I do not. Go get the Jack Daniel’s and some glasses.”
[ SEVEN ]
Staff Sergeant Harold Lewis Jr. and two soldiers from das Gasthaus, as Cronley had called the cell in the basement of the former chapel, led Major Konstantin Orlovsky of the NKGB into the room. Orlovsky’s head was covered with a duffel bag. He had a blanket over his shoulders, held in place with straps. His hands were handcuffed behind him and his ankles shackled.
Cronley gestured for Lewis to take off the duffel bag.
“Good evening, Konstantin,” Cronley greeted him cordially. “Some things have come up that we need to talk about. I thought you’d be more comfortable doing so here, over a little Tennessee whisky and some dinner, than in das Gasthaus.”
Orlovsky didn’t reply.
