Chapter Seven.

At the end of the village, a thick row of trees obscured the east bank of the Elbe, through which was cut a narrow pathway that Herr Reicher had said led down to a little landing stage where they would find a boat, unless the German troops had taken or destroyed it. He said they should be careful. They might be mistaken for German troops by the American Defence positions dug in on the opposite bank.

At the road that ran parallel to the river behind the obscuring trees there was one house that lay in ruins. McNeal told his young GIs to gather any white material they could find in the house, from which they could make white flags to tie to their weapons. Whilst they searched the ruins, he crept into the trees to survey the opposite bank. He returned with a grim expression.

'I make out at least three dugouts yonder. We'll need to have a care.'

His two GIs returned with a large, grubby bed sheet. With his combat knife, McNeal cut it into four parts, which they tied around the barrels of their weapons. McNeal took a deep breath.

'OK; let's go.'

Cautiously; with their white flags held high, they moved down through the trees to the river.

First Sergeant Buford Shepard of the 120th Regiment saw a movement on the eastern bank. Kicking out at his loader who was lying in the fire pit dragging on a Lucky Strike, he hauled back the cocking handle of the Browning fifty-caliber as Johnny Sanchez straightened out the belt of ammo ready to guide it smoothly into the big machine gun. His thumb hovered over the butterfly trigger between the spade grips; then, he saw the white rags fluttering.

Grabbing his binoculars, he scrutinised the far bank, then swore sharply in disbelief to himself;

'Damifitaint a bunch of our guys!'

He swung the fifty-caliber away; pointing it upstream. It was locked and loaded... and there was no manual safety on the big weapon.

The party on the opposite bank clambered into a small boat and paddled energetically across the river, still waving their white flags. Shepard counted five; three whites, one huge black GI; and what appeared to be a woman.

As they hit the bank; the first GI, a Master Sergeant; jumped out of the boat, followed by the woman. Throwing a quick salute to Shepard, he grinned.

'Hell! Are we glad to see you! We've been stuck over there for three days since the Krauts blew the last bridge. Where's the XIX Corps Command post?'

Shepard stared at Karyn.

'Who's the Dame? She looks like a goddamned Kraut to me.'

McNeal gave him a hard look.

'None of your goddamned business, First Sergeant.

Shepard drew himself up.

'It sure as hell is my business. You're in my Defence Zone, and she looks like a goddamned Kraut!'

His hand strayed towards the ·45 caliber Browning Automatic in his service holster... then, he saw Dootes Bailey gradually raise the muzzle of the B.A.R in his direction. His hand dropped away to his side.

McNeal faced him.

'I said it's none of your goddamned business, First Sergeant. She's carrying important intelligence. I need to get her down to the Command Post. Are you going to help me out, or not?'

Shepard didn't answer. Instead, he looked beyond McNeal and studied Dootes Bailey. Slowly, a look of recognition spread across his face.

'You, soldier; you're the one I saw three days ago, standing out there ignoring the Kraut machine gun fire; cutting wires and kicking their goddamned demolition charges off the Berlin turnpike bridge with your feet!'

Dootes looked him up and down.

'So what? I didn't fix to get my feet wet when we crossed to chase off them piss-ass sausage-eaters who were laying the grief on us. Anyway; like the Master Sergeant said; are you fixin' to help us get the Lady back to the C.P. or not?'

Shepard eyed the ebony man-mountain casually swinging the B.A.R. Even though he was wearing the shapeless field jacket; his muscles bulged through the grubby, cotton material. Perhaps, it might be wiser to forget about the girl and agree to the Master Sergeant's request. He turned to his loader.

'Sanchez! Go fire up the jeep and get these folks down to the C.P!'

McNeal gave Shepard a sloppy salute; and the party followed the young GI across to where the jeep was parked. He insisted that Karyn sat in front next to Sanchez, and the rest of them piled into the back. Dootes placed himself on the spare jerry can strapped to the back of the vehicle, with the B.A.R resting across his knee. He grinned.

'I've always had a hankering to ride shotgun!'

Sanchez started the engine; crunched in the gears and sent the jeep bouncing away across the rough track. As he drove, he shouted that they were on an island named Werder that lay between the Elbe to the east and the Weser-Elbe canal to the west. The Engineers had thrown a pontoon bridge across the canal, but it was well defended by "I" Company of "Old Hickory" 30th Division, in case the Krauts tried to float mines down the canal to blow it. They were getting bored and trigger-happy; so when they reached the pontoon bridge they would need to take it easy, and not arrive as if they were playing Errol-fucking-Flynn.

The view of Magdeburg on the other side of the pontoon bridge wasn't promising. Sanchez said that there had been a big American air raid on April 17th, and there wasn't very much left standing. He drove slowly across the bridge towards the west bank of the canal. As he approached; two GIs carrying "Burp guns" stepped out onto the far side of the bridge and levelled their weapons at the oncoming jeep. One of them; a Staff Sergeant waved the jeep down.

'Where you fixin' to go, Sanchez?... and who are these guys?'

Sanchez grinned.

'Ole "Buf" Shepard bid me haul 'em across to the C.P. They're all that's left of Baker recon squad. I got no notion about the Dame, though.'

The Staff Sergeant ambled up to McNeal.

'So, who's the Dame?'

McNeal eyed him.

'None of your goddamned business, soldier. Is the town secure?'

Taken aback; the Staff Sergeant stared at McNeal.

'Sorry, Master Sergeant; I was only being neighbourly. The town is secure, but there are still a bunch of those snot-nosed Hitler Youth kids sneaking around in the southern zone. You'd be best to take Poltestrasse, straight out to the C.P. at Diesdorf.'

He stepped back and waved the other GI aside, as McNeal saluted and Sanchez drove on.

Magdeburg was in ruins from the bombing and shelling. What the bombs had spared, the shells had churned into a complete wilderness. The smell of death and demolition was rampant; a mixture of brick dust and charred human flesh. The bombs and the artillery and mortars had missed buildings here and there. They stood gaunt, and ghostly in the surrounding heaps of ash. The ruins were alive with rats. They had grown big and bold, and were the size of well-fed tomcats.

Everywhere was a confusion of derelict houses, burned-out motor vehicles and tanks; shell craters, and piles of rubble and human remains. The corpses that lay everywhere were those of civilians, not soldiers. Squads of Medical Corps personnel were attempting to clear them away. For want of any other means, they were piling them into six-wheeled Army trucks to be taken away somewhere for mass burial.

Sanchez drove fast; bouncing the jeep over the scattered masonry that still clogged the devastated streets, while his passengers hung on desperately. He had learned that it didn't pay to drive carefully through the ruins. Only last week, a Dodge Ambulance had been rocketed on Ebendorfer Strasse by some Kraut kid with a Panzerfaust. They had found it burned out with its wounded still inside... charred and shrunken to the size of ten-year-old kids. Eight good men who had made it all the way from Omaha Beach to within seventy-five miles of Berlin; only to be blown to hell by a chickenshit Hitler Jughead.

XIX Corps Command post was set up in an Eighteenth-century farmhouse complex on the edge of the former village of Diesdorf, which had long since been swallowed up by the western outskirts of Magdeburg. The farmhouse was a typical, Lower Saxony layout with surrounding high walls pierced by an archway that led into the enclosed cobbled courtyard. The entrance was guarded by two sentries; one of whom... PFC Cletus Johnston; heard the unmistakeable howl of a jeep being driven fast along the Grosse Diesdorfer Strasse from the direction of Magdeburg. He turned to his fellow sentry.

'Jeez, Jimbo; they're coming on quicker than a cat covering crap in a briar patch!'

PFC Jimbo Driggers stepped out into the road cradling his M3 "Grease-gun" and raised his arm in a Halt signal. The jeep howl rose in pitch and intensity as the driver of the jeep changed up a gear and began to slow. As it skidded to a standstill beside him; Jimbo Driggers saw that it was crowded with six passengers... five assorted ranks of soldiers and one pretty, blonde girl. The Master Sergeant in the back seat beckoned to him.

'Soldier! Is the Colonel here? I need to see him pronto!'

Driggers looked at McNeal.

'I need to see some identification before I can let you pass, Master Sergeant.'

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McNeal snorted.

'Don't shit me, Boy. We've just high-tailed it back across the Elbe and are carrying important intelligence for the Colonel.'

Driggers stood firm.

'All the same; I still need to see some identification.'

McNeal dragged out his dog tags and waved them under Driggers' nose. Driggers nodded and jerked his head to the rest of the jeep's occupants.

'Ok; what about the rest?'

McNeal exploded. He jerked his thumb in the direction of Dootes Bailey, who was sitting quietly at the back of the jeep nursing his Browning automatic rifle.

'Don't run me like a goddamned squirrel in a cage, boy. You think he's a fucking Reichniggah, or somethin?'

Dootes burst out laughing.

'Hell, Tyler; you ain't never called me that, before!'

Driggers glanced across to Johnston, who had sauntered up and was listening with a faint smile on his face. Johnston nodded to the Master Sergeant.

'Damn me, if that ain't a Georgia accent if ever I heard one. OK, Master Sergeant; go straight into the courtyard and take the second building on your right.'

As the jeep disappeared through the archway; Johnston turned to Driggers.

'Damn, Jimbo; you got your fucking stoopid head on today, boy? You don't go shittin' a combat three-rocker 'less you got a hankering for a spell in the stockade. You know they're meaner than a riled-up wet hog if you give 'em sass!'

The Command Post was busy. McNeal strode up to the desk, explained who they were, and where they had come from; and demanded to see the Colonel. The clerk... a typical, smug Quartermaster Corps nonentity; peered up over the top of his spectacles and surveyed this group who were disturbing his space. He glanced across at the two Military Police who were lounging in the corner tapping their billyclubs on their boots, and nodded. The two MPs began to get to their feet; smiling ominously. Then, Dootes Bailey strolled in through the door, idly swinging the B.A.R. The MPs sized him up, and quietly sat down again.

McNeal asked to see the Colonel again. His tone brooked no argument. The Clerk snatched at the field telephone on the desk; frantically cranked the handle, and spoke rapidly into the mouthpiece. Within a couple of minutes; a young Second Lieutenant appeared. He beckoned to them to follow him.

The Command Post Colonel was about fifty, with iron-grey hair and piercing blue eyes. McNeal and the rest of his squad came smartly to attention and saluted. The Colonel responded by telling them to cut the crap and take a seat.

'So, you boys were cut off on the Kraut side of the Elbe and have made your way back. What's the situation over there? And who's this pretty young thing?'

McNeal was about to answer when Karyn approached the Colonel's desk and slipped her identity card across to him.

'Colonel; it is vital that I see your Intelligence Officer immediately.'

The Colonel studied the identity card. He looked up and stared at her; then dropped his eyes to the card once more. He picked up the telephone on his desk, spoke a few words to someone, and called the young Second Lieutenant back into his office.

'Lieutenant Crandall. Take this Lady down to see Major Lounsbury immediately.'

Second Lieutenant Crandall held out his hand.

'This way, Ma'am.'

And ushered Karyn out of the Colonel's office.

He was silent as he escorted her down the long corridor. At the far end was a door with a painted sign which read... "Counter Intelligence Corps." He knocked; opened the door and asked her to enter.

A youngish Major stood gazing out of the window with his back to her. As Crandall stepped back out into the corridor and closed the door; the Major spoke.

'Good Afternoon Fräulein Doktor von Seringen; and what, pray, may I do for you?'

He turned; and Karyn recognised him instantly. She had seen him in the German Embassy in Moscow as she set off on her expedition to Siberia under Himmler's "Aktion Donnerwaffe" directive. He was then, the under-secretary to Hans von Herwarth; Second secretary to the German Ambassador in Moscow. He saw the look of surprise on her face and smiled.

'Our Scottish poet, Sir Walter Scott said it perfectly...

"Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive."

'I am American, but I was born in Scotland. I was planted as a sleeper in various German Embassies across Europe when Hans von Herwarth contacted us in '35 with his fears as to where Hitler was leading Germany. Von Herwarth, together with Ambassador Graf von der Schulenburg, had already tried to persuade Britain, France, and the United States not to give in to Hitler's territorial demands. Hans von Herwarth was, in fact, the chief contact from the German Embassy in Moscow to those of the Western powers.

Our operatives have watched over you since you returned to Berlin in '39. We were fully aware that you were S.O.E, and what your assignment in Berlin would be when you became operational. Though you never suspected; there were five separate attempts to denounce you to the Gestapo, for various reasons... usually jealousy of your standing amongst the Nazi hierarchy; but each one was neutralised by our "Guardian Angels." Now, all I need from you is the cryptonym that you were given.

'Karyn studied him. A tangled web, indeed! She looked at him steadily.

'My cryptonym is Woglinde.'

He smiled.

'One of the Rhinemaidens in Wagner's Der Ring des Nibelungen. Welcome to the free world, Fräulein Doktor!'

Stephen Lounsbury invited her to take a chair, and walked over to a cabinet in the corner of his office, from where he brought out a bottle and two whiskey tumblers. He broke the paper seal over the neck of the bottle and pulled the cork stopper. Sloshing a good measure into each tumbler he smiled.

'Old B&B Kentucky Straight Bourbon Whiskey, bottled in 1937; a fitting welcome to warm you up as you come in from out of the cold.'

As they sipped the dark amber whiskey; his face became serious.

'We need to get you out of here quickly. We are handing over this sector to the Russians in a few days time, and I'm certain your name will be on one of their lists after the way you stiffed them over your Tunguska adventure. They must have realised by now that you found something, and SMERSH will certainly be looking for you.'

Karyn gave him a curious look.

'SMERSH? I've never heard of them. When I was in Siberia it was the NKVD.'

Stephen Lounsbury nodded.

'Yes; SMERSH was only formed in '42 or '43 to investigate, arrest and neutralise anti-Soviet partisans, saboteurs; spies, conspirators, mutineers, deserters, and people denounced as traitors and criminal elements at the front. The word is a contraction of the Russian words, "Smert Shpionam"… "Death to Spies." When the Red Army rolled into the previously-occupied German territory, the tangle of counter-espionage, counter-insurgency, and occupation was sufficiently large enough to encourage Stalin to consolidate all of SMERSH under his direct control. This year, according to our sources, they transferred to the People's Commissariats of Defence. The NKVD ceased to exist in 1941. SMERSH belongs to the State security apparatus rather than to the Red Army, and they will probably be sifting through all the Displaced Persons camps, looking for people like you.

Unbeknown to us at the time of the beginning of the Battle of Magdeburg was the fact that there was a substantially sized Polte Fabrik Munitions slave labour camp housed in the Stadfeld district at Poltestrasse. This slave labour camp was actually liberated on 13th April 1945. It held American and British POWs, many of whom were air force crews who had bailed out of their planes as they were being shot down, as well as many Allied POWs who had been taken prisoner during the preceding months. Among them were a considerable number of Displaced Persons from many of the surrounding overrun countries of the past several years.

Last, but not least, was a large contingent of about two thousand, five hundred Jewish slave labourers who had been spared a trip to the main Death camps due to the fact that they were young, strong, and able to work in some of the Magdeburg factories for up to eighteen hours a day. When we liberated them; some were little more than skin and bones, hardly able to move, and clothed in ragged clothing and uniforms.'

He shrugged, took a deep pull from his glass of Whiskey, and continued.

'This was a big problem. What could we do with all of these people, who then numbered well over five thousands? It was an immediate necessity to get them out of this area, as the final push of the battle and an air bombardment was about to take place the next day. At the same time, the Russian Army was preparing to move across our front, on the east bank of the Elbe River, en route to Berlin. Not knowing how the Russians might treat these Displaced Persons... and particularly the Jews; it was thought best to remove them far to our rear and away from the front lines.

If they had crossed the river to head eastwards towards their own homes, we had no idea how the Russians might react to them; so we brought up all the available trucks that we had; loaded up with these liberated prisoners and drove them to a Luftwaffe air base near the town of Helmstedt, just east of Brunswick, that we had just recently captured. There were a large number of barracks there that had been abandoned by the Luftwaffe personnel. There, they could receive medical examinations and assistance, as well as being given some available clothing, such as it was; and a feeding programme could be started, conducted by the local German citizens of the town even though they weren't too happy about it. The German citizens were ordered to obtain whatever supplies they could gather, and start to prepare meals for these former captives. We shall give you a new German identity and suitable papers, and conceal you in the camp at Helmstedt, where you can blend in until it is safe for us to move you.'

Karyn gave him a questioning stare.

'Move me where, Major?'

He looked at her steadily; with a trace of a smile.

'The Zone of Interior, Captain.'

'She gave him an incredulous look.'

'The Zone of Interior?'

He smiled broadly.

'The military name for The United States of America. There is an initiative code-named "Operation Overcast," based on The Osenberg List; from which, in early 1943, the German government began recalling from combat certain scientists, engineers, and technicians. They returned to work in research and development to bolster German defence for a drawn-out war with the Soviets. Recall of the now-useful intellectuals for scientific work first required identifying and locating the scientists, engineers, and technicians, then ascertaining their political and ideological reliability.

Professor Werner Osenberg, the engineer-scientist heading the Military Research Association, drew up a list of names of the politically-cleared men... the so-called "Osenberg List"; thus reinstating them to scientific work. Parts of this list were found stuffed down the john at Bonn University last month, and passed to our Intelligence service. It was decided to use this list to collect the named scientists and bring them to the United States, where their expertise could be used to shorten the war in the Pacific. Many of the scientists were rocketeers and nuclear physicists; chemists, physicians, and naval weapons experts. With your expertise in linguistics, it was not difficult to add your name to the list.'

Karyn stared hard at him.

'Major; I am not a scientist. I am an archaeologist.'

Stephen Lounsbury held up his hand to stop her. He opened a drawer in his desk and drew out a slim buff folder stamped with the British War Office Crest, and "TOP SECRET," in red ink. He opened the folder and drew out a sheet of paper.

'This document is signed by Major-General Gubbins, Executive head of Special Operations Executive. It states that in accordance with a request from Major General William Donovan, Head of the U.S. Office of Strategic Services, and agreed with the British Prime Minister Churchill; that you are to be permanently transferred to the U.S. Office of Strategic Service, and become an American Citizen with a completely new identity.'

Karyn studied his face intently.

'How on earth has this come about? What possible use could I be to the American Intelligence Services?'

Stephen Lounsbury paused, and picked up the telephone. He spoke only three words into the handset.

'Provost; Hold the fries!'

He replaced the handset, as beyond the door to his office, came the clatter of running boots in the corridor, and then, silence.

He looked up, almost sheepishly.

'Goddamned stupid code-words. There are now two armed Military Police outside securing the corridor. What I have to tell you is so sensitive, that no-one else can be allowed to overhear what I will now say.

There is a problem with the Russians. Washington believes that Stalin will partition Germany, and that it was a grave mistake for Eisenhower not to push on to Berlin. Your fluency in German, Russian, and English makes you almost unique, and will be of a decisive advantage to our Intelligence Services if that, which we fear, comes to pass. That is why Karyn Helle von Seringen will disappear and an authentic, "All American" Doctor of Archaeology will take her place.'

Karyn took a sip of bourbon from her glass.

'Do I have any choice in the matter?'

Stephen Lounsbury gazed at her. This cool, patrician beauty could so easily become a typical "All American" girl, with her blonde hair, and striking blue eyes. He sighed imperceptibly.

'In all honesty; No, there is no choice... not when you consider what would happen to you if SMERSH succeeded in tracking you down. This way, you will be safely out of their clutches; and should you eventually return to Berlin, you will have the protection of the United States of America behind you... which is a damn sight more than you have right now.'

Karyn was silent for a little while. Yes, the Russians would love to get their hands on her after the Tunguska business. She would also have the resources of a sophisticated Intelligence organisation available to begin quietly tracking down the whereabouts of the dreadful gem... The "Red Horseman." She looked up into Stephen Lounsbury's face, and smiled.

'Very well, Major. I accept.'

He nodded, and closed the folder; placed it in the drawer and locked the desk.

'Good. Now, let me take you down to the dining room and give you your first real American meal.'