For God and Country. Mark Bowlin

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      Grossmann decided there was no sufficient answer, so he said nothing.

      After an uncomfortable moment of silence where the colonel merely stared at Grossmann, the colonel said, “Captain Gerschoffer did not. Survive, that is. Explain why you lived and he did not.” The colonel pulled out a pack of American cigarettes from his breast pocket and lit one using an American Zippo lighter with a painted image of Betty Boop. He did not offer a cigarette to Grossmann.

      “Well, sir. We were operating in different areas. As you know, I was in the American encampment at Caserta, and Captain Gerschoffer was providing support to my mission as well as serving as a conduit to corps headquarters in Cassino. At the time of Gerschoffer’s death, we were respectively in the midst of two opposing armies and separated by forty kilometers . . . I guess I don’t understand the nature of your question.” Grossmann understood exactly the nature of the question. The colonel wished to make him uncomfortable and defensive.

      “Yes, I see that. Just answer the questions, Major. How did Captain Gerschoffer die?”

      “As I noted in my report, sir. It appears that he came into contact with an American intelligence officer of the 36th Division named Berger in San Pietro. My source said that Berger kidnapped Gerschoffer from San Pietro, tortured him, interrogated him, and then executed him before escaping back to American lines.”

      “It was this same Berger, was it not, who captured your team in Pisciotta?”

      “I think so, sir, but I don’t know for sure.”

      “And Captain Gerschoffer had taken the responsibility of ordering that team to Pisciotta?”

      “Yes, sir. To arrest the Irish priest.”

      “Yes, now I remember. Back to Gerschoffer’s death. Where is your source now . . . the Roman whore?” The colonel lit another cigarette from the butt of his first.

      “She’s in the Lake Como region of Italy. In Sondrio.”

      “Yes. On the Swiss border, correct?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “And you arranged her travel?”

      “Yes, sir. For her and her parents. I got the passes through the provost’s office. They were authorized.”

      “Quite.” Abruptly the colonel asked, “Did you know that your whore and your Neanderthal captain were lovers?” The colonel smiled a nasty smile and waited for Grossmann’s answer, but he didn’t have to. The look of genuine shock on Grossmann’s face was sufficient.

      “No, sir. I wasn’t aware of that. I had warned—”

      “Have you taken her as a lover?”

      “No, sir.” Grossmann stared at the colonel and asked, “What are you getting at?”

      “We knew you hadn’t. Just a few more questions, Major. Where was Captain Gerschoffer from?”

      “His family moved quite a bit, sir. I understand they’re in the East now—in Posen. That’s where I sent the letter to his family.” It had been difficult—those letters always were, but this was particularly hard.

      “Not Germany, Major, where was he from in the States?”

      “He wasn’t born in the States, sir. He was born in the Fatherland.”

      The colonel sighed in exasperation. “Do I need to ask the question in English so you can understand?”

      “He was from Georgia, sir. In the South. But he was a German patriot who—”

      The Abwehr colonel interrupted again. “You were saying Georgia’s in the South, correct?”

      “Yes, sir. It’s in the areas called the Old South and the Deep South. They’re not exactly the same. You see—”

      “Is Texas also in the South?”

      “Yes, sir, but not completely in the cultural sense. Texas is unique because it’s so large. It’s bigger than prewar France and it’s part southern, part western, part Mexican, part cowboy, part redneck, part roughneck . . . and all loudmouth as far as my experience goes.”

      “Indeed. They both fought for the Confederacy in their Civil War?”

      “Yes, sir. Why?”

      “Does . . . I mean, did Captain Gerschoffer speak in a Southern accent?”

      Grossmann nodded. He wasn’t sure where the conversation was heading, but it inevitably wasn’t going to be down a good road.

      “Are the accents the same?”

      “No, sir. Texas has several regional accents but they’re similar to a Georgian tone in many respects. The two state accents would be distinct to a Southerner but maybe not to a Northerner. It’s the difference between a Philadelphia accent and a New York accent: they’d know the difference even if no one else did.”

      The colonel smiled again—a brief, cynical smile showing tobacco-stained yellow teeth. It was a singularly disagreeable smile, Grossmann thought.

      “I don’t care about Philadelphia, Major. Do you think the Southerners still have an affinity to one another?”

      “Yes, sir. Absolutely. Can you tell me why you’re asking this?”

      “Yes, of course. Did it occur to you that Gerschoffer’s not dead? That perhaps he defected to his fellow Southerners with the connivance of his lover, the Roman whore, who’s now poised to flee to Switzerland—with your assistance? That as we are speaking, your particular friend is being feted and debriefed by American intelligence about our military dispositions, about Abwehr operations, the state of the Fatherland, and the Führer? Answering questions about . . . you?”

      1015 Hours

      141st Infantry Regiment Headquarters, San Pietro, Italy

      The regiment had commandeered a small house on the edge of San Pietro. It was one of the few remaining houses left standing in the unfortunate village. A week before, all the roads and walkways through the village were nearly impassable, as the buildings had collapsed from the shelling and assault of the town. Now, defined trails led back to the church and a few standing homes, but in truth, San Pietro was all but destroyed and little more than a ghost town.

      The residents of San Pietro had been trucked away by the Italian authorities to displaced-persons camps, but many had already returned. Perkin had talked to many villagers, some of whom he had met in the caves before the assault, and they were still in shock and denial about their misfortune. Women sat in the rubble of their former homes and cried; children looked through the ruins searching for toys or food; the men were gone. They had been taken away by the Germans to build their defenses on the Gustav Line.

      Perkin leaned against the wall of the house and watched as one of his soldiers sat on a slab of stone and played a game of jacks with a girl from the village. He recognized the girl, Stefania Frattini. She had confidently led him by the hand through the passages of the caves into the village only a few weeks before. Then she had been starving СКАЧАТЬ