Victory Road. Mark Bowlin

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СКАЧАТЬ It wasn’t safe to complain—all of Italy had heard the rumors of the barbaric behavior of their former ally since the surrender of Italy to the Americans and British.

      Although the waiter could barely speak proper Italian—his cousins in Livorno claimed they could barely understand his Neapolitan dialect—he could speak almost passable English. The waiter, whose name was Luciano, had worked as a merchant seaman for years before the war, and during his time at sea, he had picked up bits and pieces of many languages. Luciano not only believed that the two men were speaking English, but he suspected that the German officers were speaking in American accents. He had left the sea at the first hint of war, and it had been so long since he had used the language that he wasn’t sure. Perhaps they were Dutch or Danish. Regardless, only the occasional word made sense to the waiter, who was not interested in German or Dutch or American gossip in any case. Had he been at least a little more curious, he might have confirmed his suspicion that the men were speaking English, and in American accents—one with a neutral West Coast tone, the other with a southern drawl.

      As the waiter moved out of earshot, the thin major poured out the wine for himself and his much larger companion. “I told them it’s illegal…immoral…completely unconscionable.” Major Douglas Grossmann was an intelligence officer and had only a passing regard for legalities, morality, and conscience. He was, however, a practical man and would use whatever argument that might hold the promise of success. “It’s a drain on our manpower and will have absolutely no effect on the war whatsoever except to brand us all as war criminals. I’ll tell you one more thing, Mark…it will turn our few remaining supporters in Italy against us and to no beneficial end at all. It is the dumbest goddamned tasking I’ve ever had.” The Abwehr officer unconsciously started to reach for a pack of cigarettes, but he only had American cigarettes on him and was not in the mood to share with his friend.

      “Don’t hold back, Doug. Tell me what you really think of the Führer’s orders.” Captain Mark Gerschoffer laughed at his friend’s frustration. Both officers knew that the orders did not come from Adolf Hitler, although they had certainly originated in Berlin. Total nonsense, thought Gerschoffer. Whenever headquarters ordered some questionable action, the orders always seemed to originate from Hitler himself. There weren’t enough hours in the day for one man to come up with all the stupidity emanating from Berlin.

      Grossmann broke down, fished for his pack of cigarettes, and offered one to his deputy who declined and lit one of his own—Gerschoffer was addicted to Russian cigarettes, and the Ami tobacco was too smooth for his liking. “I think the Führer is a military genius and is destined to lead us to a new world order based on culture and discipline.” Grossmann rolled his eyes as he spoke and then inhaled deeply of his cigarette, “And that’s all I have to say on that subject.”

      “You’re a wise man, Doug. I tell that to all your friends…every morning in the mirror when I shave.”

      Grossmann laughed at the friendly insult—the mark of true comradeship. He leaned back in his chair and regarded his friend and subordinate fondly. Mark Gerschoffer was one of the bullnecked, thick-bodied variety of German officers, but his size was not just the product of too much beer and too many sausages like many officers. Gerschoffer had been a fullback at the University of Georgia before the war and, appropriately, was the embodiment of a bulldog. Although not particularly tall, he was barrel-chested, muscular, tough, and aggressive. While many Abwehr officers had their reservations about entrusting Grossmann’s group of Auslandsdeutsche with state secrets, they kept their opinions to themselves in Gerschoffer’s presence. Grossmann pointed with his cigarette to the captain’s heavy five o’clock shadow, “Since you need to shave at least twice a day, what do you say about me the other time?”

      Gerschoffer laughed and thought for a second, “I say that Doug Grossmann is a military genius and is destined to lead me to a new world order of…of, what was it? Disciplined culture? Or was it cultured discipline? Failing those, I am supremely confident he will lead me to a new brothel filled with the cream of Europe’s whores.”

      Grossmann slammed his palm down on the table, and then held up his glass, “Yes! To leadership!”

      The officers laughed as they clinked glasses and toasted leadership. Grossmann debated leaving the trattoria and finding either a cabaret or a brothel, but tomorrow would be a busy day. He was sober enough to recognize that busy days in his profession usually required clear thinking, so he shook his head and wagged his finger at Gerschoffer.

      “You’re a bad influence on me. Maybe tomorrow. Let’s figure out how to execute these orders and then call it a night.”

      “Yes sir.” Gerschoffer knew the time had come to transition back to being a subordinate. “Tell me what you were told.”

      Grossmann looked to make sure the waiter was out of earshot. “Our withdrawal from Salerno is going well, and we will eventually hold north of Naples near Monte Cassino. Naples should fall to the enemy in a week or so, and it is Field Marshal Kesselring’s assessment that they will probably pause operationally at Naples to let their logistics catch up with them. Then we will fight a delaying action until the Winter Line is prepared at Monte Cassino. Meanwhile, the directive from Berlin is to make Naples as unusable for the Americans and British as possible. The port is to be destroyed, rail lines torn apart, runways demolished, bridges and tunnels blown. We will take all usable industrial equipment, all locomotives, tractors, and trucks. Take electrical generators. Destroy what we can’t ship. Destroy the telephone exchanges and the radio stations. Burn whatever petroleum we can’t ship north. So, we take what we need, destroy the rest, and make Naples a showcase for other would-be traitors.”

      “Yes sir. I have no problem with that. It’s all standard, but not our mission. The pioneers can do all that. What are we needed for?”

      “In addition to making Naples unusable, we are to make it as…well, as unpleasant as possible. Terrorize the Italians. Put the squeeze on them and their new allies. Food warehouses are to be emptied or burned. Medical supplies come with us. Make the allies feed and treat these traitors. Again, not our job, but we have a related task. We are to use our knowledge of the Americans and specifically target them when they become the occupiers of this miserable city.” He shook his head and looked around the shabby trattoria. “I can’t wait to return to Rome.”

      Gerschoffer poured more wine for himself and his boss. “Me neither. Target them how?”

      Grossmann shrugged, “That’s up to us to figure out. But I was told that we would be given explosives, time-delayed detonators, and demolitions teams to assist us. So we are to plant time bombs. The location and timing is left to us. I was also told to use my imagination—everything is on the table.”

      Gerschoffer stared at his boss, momentarily sober, “Time bombs in the city? Are they kidding?”

      “No, Mark, it’s no joke. And after I complained, the spineless bastards would only give me a verbal. No chance of getting the order in writing. Ach, an order’s an order. Where do we plant the goddamned things?”

      “What’s the objective? To kill or terrorize?”

      “Yes.”

      “Oh, Christ. Well, let me think.” Gerschoffer leaned back in his chair and scratched the stubble on his chin. “Well, there are going to be two types of Allied soldiers in Naples in two weeks—occupiers and sightseers. Might as well go after both of ‘em. I don’t mind fightin’ the Americans, but I didn’t come back to the Fatherland to play dirty tricks on ‘em. But as my dear ole southern mama told me many times, ‘Any job worth doin’ is worth doin’ well.’”

      “Yes, I’m sure your mother СКАЧАТЬ