The Losing Role by Steve Anderson Page B

Felix said, had kept noble German hunters warm for
centuries. Another Felix fib. Even Max knew that the stuff had only
been around since about 1935.
    “Better drink that up,” Felix said. “Not too many
GIs around with herbal liquor in their canteens.”
    Max wiped the opening with his sleeve and took a
tidy sip. “Thanks, Joe,” he said, practicing his best American.
“Thanks lot.”
    They still sat on their crates, surrounded by the
muck. Felix had calmed down a great deal. When they’d first showed
up in this forest with their American jeep and uniforms, the
regular soldiers of the First SS Panzer Corps only stared and shook
their heads. What these fake Amis were up to with their
tricks and subterfuges they didn’t want to know—and Max, for his
part, didn’t want to be asked. SS Lieutenant Colonel Otto Skorzeny
had called their mission Operation Greif . Fitting name, Max
thought. A Greif , or Griffon, was a mythical monster with
the body of a lion, the head and wings of an eagle, and a back
covered with feathers. In other words, a sideshow freak. Which is
exactly what they were. Felix, on the other hand, had probably
expected an ovation. He had glared at the soldiers and refused to
juggle anything.
    Now it was Max who’d fallen into a grim mood. His
own private little production was looking like a total rewrite. He
had planned to make contact with the Americans carefully,
correctly, and without malice. Anonymity and self-reliance were the
keys to a stellar performance. Talk about a hopeless run. At first
Skorzeny had kept him in the uniform of the feared and hated SS—and
underneath his American garb at that. Nevertheless, he was hoping
to be made a lowly GI corporal or private. When they arrived in
Münstereifel Captain Rattner had issued him the uniform of a US
lieutenant. Everywhere Max turned his plan was coming unhitched. He
had intended to sneak off into the woods and go it alone once the
mission was underway. Yet they were to be crammed into a jeep,
riding at the spearhead of a massive surprise assault that would
panic and enrage the Americans. And to top it off? His jeep team
included Felix and Zoock. How was he to shake his good Kameraden without betraying them?
    As midnight neared, most of the regular soldiers
left for a nearby barn where there was a fire and hot soup. Their
songs and laughter echoed through the trees.
    “They can go to hell,” Felix said in American.
“We’re the elite fighters, not them.”
    “Goddamn correct,” Max said, giving it his best. The
linguists in Grafenwöhr had learned that front-line GIs swore
incessantly so they’d encouraged the jeep teams to curse in
American, the cruder the better. They also produced updated
scripts. Zoock the sailor was a great help here. One went like
this:
     
    Situation: You face an American sentry.
    American sentry: WHO GOES THERE?
    You say: JUST ME, JOE. WHO THE FUCK ELSE?
    Or you say: JUST ME, JOE. WHAT THE FUCK?
    If the sentry is not satisfied, do not try to
understand his demands, as this will only give you away. Respond in
one of four following ways:
    1.) FUCK IT. I’M LEAVIN.
    2.) GO FUCK YOURSELF. OUTTA MY WAY.
    3.) LOOK WHAT WE GOT HERE—A REAL FUCKIN EGGHEAD
    4.) FUCKIN FDR—WHO YOU THINK?
     
    As Max and Felix drank and smoked on their crates
Zoock was over fussing with their jeep, arranging the gear just so
as if this steel and olive drab equivalent of a donkey were his
sailing ship. Their donkey was definitely laden. Tucked under the
front seat was a counterfeit wad of five hundred US dollars and
another of British pounds. American, German and British guns,
explosives, and grenades filled the storage spaces. They had
exquisitely forged papers, a topnotch American field radio, and
Zippo cigarette lighters that each hid a vial of swift-acting
poison. The jeep bore the insignia of the 5th US Armored Division.
Its hood had a white X on the corner—so that German soldiers in the
know could recognize them as German agents.