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To hell with it. My gut feeling is to wear the jacket; go with that.
—
There were four of what Cronley thought of as “Tiny’s Troopers,” plus two of Gehlen’s men, just inside the foyer of the former chapel. They were seated around a card table playing poker. Packs of cigarettes and Hershey chocolate bars were used as chips.
It was less innocent than it seemed. Cigarettes and Hershey bars were the currency of the land when dealing with the Germans, and could be used to purchase what little the Germans had to sell, including very often the sexual favors of the women.
Everybody quickly rose to their feet when the senior non-com among them, a staff sergeant, barked, “Ten-hut!”
The sergeant—who was uncommonly small for a trooper, not much over five-feet-two, the Army minimum height—casually held an M-3 .30 caliber carbine in his hand. The others were holding Thompson .45 caliber submachine guns.
“At ease,” Cronley said. “I’m here to investigate rumors that gambling is taking place on the premises.”
“Ah, Lieutenant, you know we wouldn’t do nothing like that,” the sergeant said.
One of the troopers hissed, “That’s Captain, asshole!”
“Excuse me, Captain,” the sergeant said. “Sorry, sir.”
“You have an honest face, Sergeant. So I will believe you when you say you wouldn’t even think of gambling,” Cronley said. “And as far as that Captain business is concerned, I’ve only been a captain for a couple days. If you had called me Captain, I probably would have looked around to see who you were talking to.”
The troopers smiled and chuckled.
“I came to have a look at our guest,” Cronley said. “How is he?”
“He’s all right. I’ve got another two guys down there who peek at him every five or ten minutes or so,” the sergeant said.
And then he came to attention.
“Permission to speak, sir?”
Another Regular Army old soldier.
Why am I not surprised? Tiny would be very careful who he put in charge.
“Granted.”
“Sir, my orders from First Sergeant Dunwiddie are to do what Konrad here says about keeping that guy in the hole.”
He nodded toward one of the Germans, a pink-skinned man in his thirties.
Cronley looked at Mannberg, who said, “Konrad Bischoff, Hauptmann Cronley, former major. Interrogation specialist.”
Bischoff bobbed his head to Cronley.
“And . . . ?” Cronley said to the sergeant.
“And, Captain, ever since I put that guy in the hole, he’s been . . . doing his business . . . in a canvas bucket. It smells to high heaven in there. Konrad says, ‘That’s part of the process,’ and not to change it. I’m really starting to feel sorry for that Communist sonofabitch, sitting there in the dark and—”
Cronley held up his hand to stop him.
What do I do now?
Say, “Fuck the Russian” or “Tough shit”?
That’d be the same thing as admitting the Germans are running Kloster Grünau, running Operation Ost.
They’re not. Or at least they’re not supposed to be running it.
