For God and Country. Mark Bowlin

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СКАЧАТЬ the combined fleet.”

      Perkin kept his thoughts about Cardosi’s orders to himself, but they could only mean one thing: the Allied Command was preparing for another amphibious landing in Italy. That was Cardosi’s specialty—intelligence collection prior to a landing. Maybe a shot at Rome is in the works, he thought. Or perhaps even a landing in northern Italy to cut Kesselring’s supply lines.

      Cardosi had been apologetic, but Perkin could see the excitement in his face. As he made his good-byes, he pulled Perkin aside and said, “I know that if you get the chance, you’ll deal with this son-of-a-bitch. All I’m asking is to make one round from me.” Cardosi had looked around, and then lowered his voice. “I shouldn’t say anything, but based on what we talked about last night, I’m not so sure that Fifth Army’s thought through the next step for you guys. I hope I misunderstood the planners, but I think they’ve got you rednecks slated for the river. You keep your head down, Perkin, and I’ll look you up in Rome.”

      He handed over his briefcase with photos and notes, shook Perkin’s hand and returned his salute. An awaiting navy jeep whisked Cardosi away. The total elapsed time from when they checked in with the US Navy liaison officer at Eighth Army to Cardosi’s departure back to the fleet was less than ten minutes.

      Private Kulis and Perkin were in a darkened room in front of several officers, British and American, assigned to the Eighth Army staff. When they had arrived at the briefing room, Kulis had a crash course from a British NCO on how to work a slide projector while Perkin prepared his thoughts. The senior officer present was a British colonel from the Eighth Army staff named Scrope—an intelligence officer who looked younger than Perkin. As the briefing went on, essentially a recitation of Cardosi’s update from two days before, the British officer took copious notes. He nodded frequently, but swore intensely when Grossmann’s culpability in the Bari bombing was brought up.

      “Damn him, and damn that fool colonel of yours! That whole bloody affair caught us flat-footed, you know. We didn’t know about the mustard gas aboard your freighter in the harbor, and because of that, many of our doctors didn’t know what they were treating. The gas saturated the clothing of the victims, including an untold number of British sailors, and when the doctors and nurses handled them, they picked up traces of the agent as well. Poor buggers.”

      Perkin nodded uncomfortably. He didn’t want to be in the position of defending the American stockpile of the poison gas, nor the actions of the colonel who had disclosed the information to Grossmann’s agent, Antoniette Bernardi.

      Perkin continued. He told the assembled officers what he knew of Grossmann’s background—where he went to school in California, what was known of his family, his major at college.

      “Where did you say he went to university?” The questioner was a man with an English accent that Perkin hadn’t noticed before. Two men wearing civilian clothes were sitting in the back of the room in a dark corner not reached by the light of the slide projector. One of the men, a small gray-haired man wearing a crumpled suit, stood.

      Perkin stared into the darkness for a moment, then answered, “I didn’t say, sir. I was about to mention that he went to the University of Heidelberg.”

      “That makes sense, doesn’t it? Heidelberg isn’t far from Darmstadt. Were you aware that Heidelberg is a fanatical pro-Nazi university?” The small man stood and walked forward until he was in the edge of the shadows.

      “No, sir, I wasn’t.”

      “Yes. The Nazis took over the university in the middle part of the last decade and released those that had, well, democratic sympathies. They even made redundant a few old monarchists. Naturally, they were replaced by professors of a National Socialist bent, and the student body underwent a strict indoctrination into Nazism. In past centuries, Heidelberg was known for the fighting fraternities. Today, for feeding the officer corps of the SS.”

      “Thank you, sir. I didn’t know that. I would note, however, that interrogations of the soldiers that we captured in Pisciotta indicated that while Grossmann considered himself to be a German patriot, he was also apolitical.”

      The small civilian spoke again, “Thank you, Dr. Berger, that’s worth knowing. Please continue.”

      Perkin stared briefly back into the shadows and then shared with the audience the remainder of what he knew about Grossmann, Bernardi, and Gerschoffer.

      The small man stood and spoke again, “Would you please detail your encounter with Captain Gerschoffer for us?”

      Perkin nodded and took a deep breath. This was not a subject he wanted to discuss. “Yes, sir. I was conducting a reconnaissance of the village of San Pietro, and I had acquired a German uniform. During my reconnaissance in the village, I met Gerschoffer by chance and we struck up a conversation. I realized at that point that I was talking to one of the men responsible for the terror bombings in Naples. He thought I was a panzer grenadier, so he offered to give me a ride back to my unit. I accepted, and when we were out of San Pietro, I produced a weapon and interrogated him. He told me of Grossmann’s unit of Auslandsdeutsche, and of Bernardi, although he wouldn’t give me her name, and of the penetration of the Fifth Army staff and the mustard gas at Bari.”

      A British major spoke, his tone incredulous: “Am I to understand you put on a German uniform and simply strolled through the village?”

      “Yes, sir. Something like that.”

      “Is your German that good?”

      Perkin’s audience sat forward in their seats, and he felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. For one of the few times in his life, he did not relish the attention.

      “No, sir. I had, um, been wounded . . .” Perkin indicated the scars and bruises on his face. “And my face was pretty heavily bandaged. I couldn’t hardly move my lips . . . he didn’t question it.”

      “Good God, man!” the British officer exclaimed. “They would have executed you!”

      “It was one of those ‘it seemed like a good idea at the time’ experiences, sir. Now, if we could move on to the issue of—”

      “Pardon me, Dr. Berger. How did you induce Gerschoffer to speak and what ultimately happened to him? Is he available for further interrogation?” Perkin was interrupted by the small man in the back.

      A long silence. “He’s not. As I was saying, maybe we should move on to the issue of Grossmann’s training . . .” Perkin had brief flashback where he was sitting in a bloody car with Gerschoffer, the German officer pleading for his life—a plea that was answered with a scream of hatred and revenge as Perkin pulled the trigger on his Colt.

      Perkin stopped for a glass of water and was glad to see his hand wasn’t trembling. He composed himself, the small man took his seat again, and the briefing continued without further questions. When Perkin finished, his audience filed out, and while Private Kulis was putting away the slides and pictures, Perkin was joined by the British colonel and the two civilians.

      “Professor Berger—” the small man began.

      “Excuse me, sir. I’ve not been on a faculty. I haven’t earned that title, and quite honestly, I am surprised to hear it from you, as I don’t believe I mentioned my degree. In any case, Perkin works just fine, or you can call me Captain if you prefer.”

      “OK, Perkin.” It was the taller of the two civilians speaking. Also gray-haired, he was lean and fit, СКАЧАТЬ