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Authors: Mark Frost
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coquettishly.
“What a pretty name. And might I ask, where is Herr Escher?”
“German Army. Four years. I see him last time two years.”
After a while looking at her, he probably ran all the way to the Russian Front,
thought Bernie.
“Four years without your husband is a terrible sacrifice,” said Von Leinsdorf. “We’re proud of you, working for our cause, giving us information with your radio. Risking your life during this American occupation. You’ve done a great service for your country.”
She blushed again. “So kind of you to say.”
Bernie couldn’t tell if she was crazy or just simple. Maybe it was both.
“Another favor, Frau Escher,” said Von Leinsdorf. “We were told you could give us something to eat. And shelter for the night.”
“I would be happy,” she said; then she frowned and re-gripped the cleaver. “But why you dress like the
Amis
?”
“A top secret assignment,” said Von Leinsdorf. Then whispering: “On orders from the Führer himself.”
“No.”
“I swear to you, it’s true.”
“
Mein Gott
. I go now. You eat.”
Frau Escher laid down the cleaver, flashed a travesty of a schoolgirl smile at Von Leinsdorf, and waddled into the front room. Von Leinsdorf signaled the others to follow, while he turned to the radio. He fingered the tuning knobs; their slotted grooves were slippery with clotted animal fat.
Disgusted, Von Leinsdorf took out his handkerchief and wiped off the knobs. He dialed in the frequency for their corps command post, twelve miles east of the border. He spoke in prearranged code, broadcasting less than a minute, letting headquarters know they were safely across. He made it clear their other jeep squads should steer clear of the Elsenborn logging road, but made no mention of the shooting at the checkpoint. He also let them know the package they’d expected to find from the
Abwehr
in Waimes had not arrived. After a pause, the dispatcher told him to return to the butcher shop the next day and try again.
Report of their success encouraged Colonel Skorzeny to step up deployment of their remaining commando squads. Before dawn, nine more advance teams of Operation
Greif
would infiltrate the American line.
Then there would be only twenty-fours hours until it began.
8
Spa, Belgium
DECEMBER 15, 2:00 A.M.
S hortly after Earl Grannit and Ole Carlson arrested Captain John Stringer and his squadron of thieves near the Clermont station, two platoons of MPs raided the 724th’s barracks at Liège and dropped a net over the rest of C Company. MPs herded the suspects into the ballroom of the Hotel Britannique. Set on top of a ridgeline to the north of the Losheim Gap, this marshy plateau around Spa had been uninhabitable until the Romans discovered natural thermal baths percolating up from under the barren sulfuric soil. Over the centuries, as the city of Spa grew to accommodate the well-heeled travelers who came to bask in those beneficial waters, the name became the generic term for all such pleasure-seeking temples. Since early October, Spa’s ornate nineteenth-century resorts had all been commandeered by First Army.
When he arrived at the hotel, Grannit was pleased to see over ninety anxious GIs cooling their heels in the ballroom. The two officers, and three others who’d been hauled in from the barracks, including the battalion commander, had been confined to private rooms upstairs. Grannit and Carlson filled out their paperwork in the hotel’s ornate lobby, smoked cigarettes, and ordered coffee and sandwiches from the kitchen, while they waited for their superiors and counterparts in Army Intelligence to arrive.
“What the heck is this, Spam?” asked Carlson, scrutinizing the contents of his sandwich.
“Pâté,” said Grannit.
Carlson kept staring at it. “Sure looks like Spam.”
“I’m pretty sure they use some of the same parts.”
“Of what?”
“Of whatever goes into Spam. Pig, cow,” said Grannit, taking another big
“What a pretty name. And might I ask, where is Herr Escher?”
“German Army. Four years. I see him last time two years.”
After a while looking at her, he probably ran all the way to the Russian Front,
thought Bernie.
“Four years without your husband is a terrible sacrifice,” said Von Leinsdorf. “We’re proud of you, working for our cause, giving us information with your radio. Risking your life during this American occupation. You’ve done a great service for your country.”
She blushed again. “So kind of you to say.”
Bernie couldn’t tell if she was crazy or just simple. Maybe it was both.
“Another favor, Frau Escher,” said Von Leinsdorf. “We were told you could give us something to eat. And shelter for the night.”
“I would be happy,” she said; then she frowned and re-gripped the cleaver. “But why you dress like the
Amis
?”
“A top secret assignment,” said Von Leinsdorf. Then whispering: “On orders from the Führer himself.”
“No.”
“I swear to you, it’s true.”
“
Mein Gott
. I go now. You eat.”
Frau Escher laid down the cleaver, flashed a travesty of a schoolgirl smile at Von Leinsdorf, and waddled into the front room. Von Leinsdorf signaled the others to follow, while he turned to the radio. He fingered the tuning knobs; their slotted grooves were slippery with clotted animal fat.
Disgusted, Von Leinsdorf took out his handkerchief and wiped off the knobs. He dialed in the frequency for their corps command post, twelve miles east of the border. He spoke in prearranged code, broadcasting less than a minute, letting headquarters know they were safely across. He made it clear their other jeep squads should steer clear of the Elsenborn logging road, but made no mention of the shooting at the checkpoint. He also let them know the package they’d expected to find from the
Abwehr
in Waimes had not arrived. After a pause, the dispatcher told him to return to the butcher shop the next day and try again.
Report of their success encouraged Colonel Skorzeny to step up deployment of their remaining commando squads. Before dawn, nine more advance teams of Operation
Greif
would infiltrate the American line.
Then there would be only twenty-fours hours until it began.
8
Spa, Belgium
DECEMBER 15, 2:00 A.M.
S hortly after Earl Grannit and Ole Carlson arrested Captain John Stringer and his squadron of thieves near the Clermont station, two platoons of MPs raided the 724th’s barracks at Liège and dropped a net over the rest of C Company. MPs herded the suspects into the ballroom of the Hotel Britannique. Set on top of a ridgeline to the north of the Losheim Gap, this marshy plateau around Spa had been uninhabitable until the Romans discovered natural thermal baths percolating up from under the barren sulfuric soil. Over the centuries, as the city of Spa grew to accommodate the well-heeled travelers who came to bask in those beneficial waters, the name became the generic term for all such pleasure-seeking temples. Since early October, Spa’s ornate nineteenth-century resorts had all been commandeered by First Army.
When he arrived at the hotel, Grannit was pleased to see over ninety anxious GIs cooling their heels in the ballroom. The two officers, and three others who’d been hauled in from the barracks, including the battalion commander, had been confined to private rooms upstairs. Grannit and Carlson filled out their paperwork in the hotel’s ornate lobby, smoked cigarettes, and ordered coffee and sandwiches from the kitchen, while they waited for their superiors and counterparts in Army Intelligence to arrive.
“What the heck is this, Spam?” asked Carlson, scrutinizing the contents of his sandwich.
“Pâté,” said Grannit.
Carlson kept staring at it. “Sure looks like Spam.”
“I’m pretty sure they use some of the same parts.”
“Of what?”
“Of whatever goes into Spam. Pig, cow,” said Grannit, taking another big
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