31

Major D. W. “Black Buck” Cogan jammed his foot onto the brake pedal. The jeep skidded to a stop in a puddle before the guardhouse. He flashed his identification and emergency orders. He pressed the accelerator to the floor. The back wheels spun deep into the mud, hit tight earth and lurched forward onto the three-lane Westerly Freeway.

Cogan’s staff of officers, all wearing the screaming-eagle armpatch, were already studying the table-top scale models of Auschwitz and Birkenau in the Strategy Room when the major arrived. Cogan was briefed, and Kittermaster was called. He arrived shortly afterward with Julian and Spangler.

“Hitting the target will be no problem,” Cogan told Kittermaster. “Overrunning the installations will be no problem, if we’re given enough time and bodies. Finding your man and the boy, if they’re in there anywhere, will be no problem. Getting them out by light plane will be no problem. But how are we going to bring back the fifteen hundred men it will take to do the job?”

“I don’t have the foggiest, friend,” Kittermaster answered. “I thought that was your department.”

“It is. And my suggestion is to go north to the Russian lines. But I’m told you say no to that?”

“Correct. No contact with the Russians. They can’t know we were there.”

“Colonel, everyone’s going to know you were there. You don’t make a raid this size without everyone knowing it. The Russians will probably know as fast as, if not faster than, the Germans. What they won’t know is why we were there, especially if we bring out a couple of decoy prisoners and say we were after them. Not that there aren’t problems going east. First we have to get through German lines, and if we do reach the Russians there’s a chance they won’t let us out for quite some time. Even so, we have to go east.”

“We can’t.”

“Then you tell me, Colonel Kittermaster, how we do it. Shall we go south through Czechoslovakia, Austria and Jugoslavia to the Adriatic? What about west through Germany and occupied Europe? North? It is three hundred and twenty miles through occupied territory to the Baltic. If you match this against an eastern escape, you’ll see it’s only a hundred and eighty miles to the Russian lines, and at the rate the new offensive is going, they may be as close as ninety or a hundred miles by the time we go in. It’s our only way.”

“What about coming out by air?” Kittermaster suggested, “I thought you found an airstrip in the vicinity.”

“The photographs show a workable field sixteen miles to the south, but this would require several additional elements. First we’d need an extra thousand men to take and hold the airfield until our return. With the European invasion shaping up so quickly, I’m surprised you got us, but asking for another thousand men would probably be laughed right out of Supreme Headquarters. Even if you did have the additional men, we’d have to get the Air Force to land there. They don’t mind letting you jump out of their planes, but it’s a different story when they have to land them deep in enemy-held territory.”

Spangler smiled thinly and spoke for the first time. “Put your men in trucks and head for the Baltic.”

“And what are the Germans going to do when they suddenly see fifteen hundred American soldiers driving down their roads?”

“They’re going to think their Army has just won a great victory and is transporting the prisoners somewhere—especially if the drivers and the soldiers guarding these prisoners are wearing German uniforms. And if the prisoners themselves ripped off their collars and insignias and rolled around in the dirt a little, you’d be amazed how difficult it would be to tell them from Russians. Also, you wouldn’t have a language problem, would you? No one expects Russian prisoners to speak German. But I would suggest that the men you pick for the drivers and guards speak German perfectly.”

The silence was immediate and prolonged. It was finally broken by Kittermaster.

“You know what this accommodating fellah’s just done for you?” he shouted ecstatically to Cogan. “Why, in one sentence he’s opened up not one or two, but three escape routes for you. He’s shown you how to go north and south—and, if I ever get a change of heart, even east—without the Germans ever giving it a second thought. I think the least you can do is say thanks.”

“It will never work,” Cogan said grimly. “You’ll never be able to disguise our uniforms to make them look Russian.”

“Tell you what you do, Major,” Kittermaster replied jovially. “You send the measurements of every last one of your men, because I’m not only going to have the best goddam Russian uniforms ever made, I’m also going to give each man a German uniform to boot—just in case you decide to go south. On a long trip they might do better as Germans.”

Cogan’s staff avoided his glance. The major turned back to Kittermaster. “I want one thing clearly understood. From this point forward I’m in sole command of this rescue operation.”

“Haven’t you always been, pal? Haven’t you always? Now we have to discuss our little rehearsal. Yes, your boys get a crack at jumping down on the real thing right here at home. We’ve built it for you, life size.”

For the first time, Cogan felt fear.

Spangler stood watching the alarm clock. At one minute past midnight, February 8, he lit the nine candles on the mantelpiece and began pacing the room. He felt the pains begin in his head. New symptoms he had never imagined began to develop. His hands opened and contracted out of his control. The throbbing rose at his temples, an invisible band tightened slowly around the top of his head. The spasms started and mounted in intensity. The agony grew sharper. His scream was low, guttural and long. It was barely audible above the roar of the endless convoys coming from the road below his window.

When he opened his eyes daylight was streaming through the windows. The candles on the mantel had completely burned out. He rose unsteadily and tried to take a step. His knees buckled, and he fell to all fours. He crawled cautiously to the desk and reached for the phone.

“What day is this?” he asked weakly.

“Tuesday, sir.”

“Not the day, the date! What’s the date?”

“The tenth, sir.”

It’s getting worse, Spangler told himself, much worse. “Get me a doctor,” he cried into the instrument.