THE FELDWEBEL SANK into the chair of the murdered officer. His cap was on the desk before him. He reflected grimly that he had rushed into the street at the sound of the shot without a cap, something the Hauptmann had never done in all his army life. Before the Feldwebel were the neat piles of orders—orders from field headquarters in Bayeux, orders from Division Headquarters in Caen, orders from the High Command in Berlin. Each pile was carefully clipped and filed chronologically, according to regulations.
He took up the telephone. “Major Kessler at Division Headquarters,” he said to the operator in the blockhouse.
Replacing the phone he sank forward with his head in his hands. What idiot could have done this? So great was the misery of the Feldwebel Hans, so keen his understanding of what had happened and, more important, of what lay ahead, that a cry of agony burst from him there in the empty room: “Ach, du Lieber Gott.”
The telephone rang. Immediately he straightened up, controlled himself. “This is the Feldwebel von Kleinschrodt.”
“Good. Major Kessler here. Have your men been alerted, Feldwebel?”
“Indeed yes, Major. But I have bad news to report. The Hauptmann Seeler has just been shot by a terrorist.”
“Shot? Impossible! I talked to him an hour ago....”
“Yes, Major, it just happened. He was dead in the middle of the street when the men reached him.”
“Good God! Have you found the assassin?”
“No, Major, not yet, but the men have sealed up the village and are making a house-to-house search. They will surely turn him up.”
“He must be found, must be found, and made an example of. Execute him publicly. Let me talk to the Oberleutnant Schmidt.”
“Herr Major, he is at the Defense School at Ostend.”
“Well then, the Leutnant—what’s his name?—Wirtig, isn’t it?”
“Sir, he is on leave in Bremen.”
“All leaves were cancelled as of yesterday. He should be back this afternoon. For the moment you are the senior officer there. To be sure, we will get another officer to you immediately, for with these terrorist raids up and down the coast Schmidt and Wirtig may have trouble returning. Let me see, perhaps the Leutnant Brandt from Blockhouse 242.... No, that won’t do, we need him for those big guns; he is a specialist. Let me see now. Ach, what a time for this to happen! That Polish chap, that Silesian in Blockhouse H98. No, he is a meteorologist and needed where he is. Well, we’ll get someone to you as soon as possible. In the meantime, Feldwebel, until the criminal is found, six hostages should be taken into custody. Here” — he turned to someone in his office — “get me that folder on Nogent-Plage, Beckenbauer. We were discussing it with the Hauptmann Seeler a short while ago.... No, you didn’t put it back. Ah, this is indeed a bad moment for a thing of this sort, and with two officers away.... Now, here it is. According to this, you have a teacher there named Martin. No, V-Varin, have you not? Right. Do you know the man?”
The Feldwebel froze. Faced with what lay ahead, he could not speak. The Major continued.
“Are you there, Feldwebel? Do you hear me? Those damned terrorists have been cutting wires all along the coast today. I say, are you there? Do you know this man? I can’t hear you. Do you know him? It appears he is a Communist....”
Finally the Feldwebel found his voice. “Yes, you are right, Major. I believe he is a Communist. But never active to my belief. I’ve known him three or four years now and—”
The other broke in. “They’re all alike, all of them, these damned Communists. I’ve had a lot of experience with them; they don’t care a bit for the land where they were born and raised. Moreover, this one is Jewish.”
For a few seconds the Feldwebel was stunned. How, he wondered, had this ever reached Caen? “No one ever said he was Jewish, Herr Major,” he suggested tentatively.
“The records show it. I cannot understand how he was ever permitted to remain in that sensitive area all these years. Someone has blundered badly, and I intend to discover who it was. At any rate, get him now. Then there is another chap, man by the name of Lavigne. Runs the café on the Grande Rue.” He read from a paper. “‘A hangout for dubious characters.’ So the report states. Here it is. ‘To be watched. Owner was mixed up with terrorists at the time of the Dieppe raid in ’42.’ We suspect him also. Is there a priest in the village?”
This was too much. In the mind of the Feldwebel rose the picture of old Père Clement with his soutane tied up around his waist and those thick cotton underdrawers. “Why yes, Major, there is, but actually the local padre is old and inoffensive. Not at all the kind of person to give us any trouble....”
“Feldwebel, we are making examples of these men. Was anyone taken at the time of the murder?”
“No, Major, that is... only an old farmer from the back country. He merely happened to be passing in his cart at the time. He knows nothing whatever....”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted the officer impatiently. “You miss the point. Get him. Or did he escape? Did you pick him up?”
“Yes, Major, we have him. Only, if you would permit, sir, I’d like to suggest....”
“No comments necessary, Feldwebel. Just obey orders. We want six—the teacher, the café proprietor, the old farmer, the priest, a fisherman, a boy perhaps. Give them one hour in which to confess. If the culprit is not found and none of them confesses, make an example of them. Have them shot. As a warning, you understand, to other terrorists.”
“Yes, Major, I quite understand.”
“Good. Now for your personal information as you are in charge at Nogent-Plage temporarily. Terrorists have been at work up and down the coast since dawn. This line may be cut any minute. We have patrols out, but the bridge at Varengeville has been blown up and the highway below Dampart completely destroyed. Hence, as far as reinforcements are concerned, you are isolated for the time being. In fact, we are all isolated. Fécamp is isolated. So is Étretat. We are on our own, Feldwebel. Is that quite clear?”
“Jawohl, Herr Major.” It was only too clear. For the first time in his long years at Nogent-Plage the Feldwebel Hans felt the isolation and the loneliness and the danger. They were Germans in a hostile land, about to be attacked from the front and perhaps the rear. The Major went on.
“Meanwhile, do not forget. The defense rests in your hands. You are responsible.”
“We are ready, sir,” he replied resolutely. After all, perhaps a way out could be found. Perhaps, he thought, the invasion will intervene; perhaps they won’t be shot.
The Major lowered his voice. “For your information, Feldwebel, we are advised that the invasion fleet is now in mid-Channel, making about six knots. Most likely they are planning an early-morning assault, hoping to be covered by this fog. It is thick here at present. And at such a moment! Feldwebel, only one thing counts. The Fatherland. Our country is in peril. The Greater Reich faces its most critical hour. Your first duty is to round up the six hostages. Unless the assassin of the Hauptmann Seeler is found within the hour, have a firing squad shoot them. Report to me as soon as you have them in custody. Remember, this is not a football game....”
The Feldwebel started to say something, but the Major cut him short. “I repeat, Feldwebel von Kleinschrodt, this is not a football game. Understand? Heil Hitler.”
He rang off. The Feldwebel rose from the desk. There was tragedy ahead. And he was in the middle of it. To shoot, to kill a friend. In a way, they were all friends. But they were also enemies of his country, and he was in charge at Nogent-Plage. He represented the Third Reich for the moment. What choice did he have? He was responsible for the safety of his men. There were the orders.
“Corporal Eicke,” he called out, yanking down his tunic with the same gesture the Hauptmann Seeler had used at the same desk just a little while ago.
First, of course, comes one’s country.