The French Border
DECEMBER 18, 9:00 P.M.
After driving all afternoon, Earl Grannit and Ole Carlson entered France at a heavily guarded crossing just north of the town of Givet. Grannit identified himself to MPs running the post and made sure they’d received the bulletin about Skorzeny’s commandos. They showed him that it had been widely circulated and that more stringent controls had been imposed. Traffic was backed up on the Belgian side of the border for a quarter of a mile.
Before pushing on for Reims, Grannit and Carlson were shown to the mess hall next door for a quick meal. Waiting for their food, they drank coffee by a window looking out on the post’s supply depot on the French side of the line.
“You got a wife, Earl?”
“What do you want to know for?”
“I don’t know, I just never asked you.”
“I had one,” said Grannit.
Carlson waited. “That’s it?”
“Yup.”
“What did your dad do?”
“He owned a gas station,” said Grannit.
“Any brothers or sisters?”
“What is this, the third degree?”
“I’m just making conversation.”
“I had a sister.” Grannit spotted something out the window. “You got your binoculars with you?”
Carlson handed them over. Grannit focused them on an American jeep at a gas pump in the supply depot a quarter of a mile away. Two MPs stood near the jeep, one of them dispensing gas into the tank. From this distance and angle he couldn’t make out any unit numbers on the jeep.
“Go ask at the post if a couple of MPs came across in the last hour.”
“You got it.”
Carlson immediately went next door to the border command office.
Grannit watched the MPs at the gas pump. He scanned the vehicle, looking for details that reminded him of Schmidt’s jeep. Nothing jumped out. Carlson returned a few moments later.
“They came through about twenty minutes ago,” said Carlson. “They had the password and SHAEF passes-”
“Did they check the spelling?”
“He said they had that detail from our bulletin, and that ‘headquarters’ was spelled correctly. They said they were from SHAEF, working security on the Skorzeny case.”
“So they knew about it, mentioned it before they were asked.”
“That’s what he said.”
Grannit saw a third MP returning to join the others at the jeep in the yard. “Anyway, there’s three of them.”
“You thought it might be our guys?”
“No, Ole, I thought it was Eleanor Roosevelt,” said Grannit, lowering the glasses.
“You would’ve noticed her teeth,” said Carlson. “Even at this distance.”
Something caught Grannit’s eye just as the binoculars came down, and he drew them back up. A fourth MP came out of a side building and climbed into the jeep.
“Hang on, shit, there’s four of them.”
“But their passes were good.”
“Hold ’em up at the gate, we’ll check ourselves. Go now.”
Carlson hurried back to the post. Grannit hustled out the back of the mess hall into the yard and saw the jeep pull away from the gas pumps. It headed for the nearest exit, an open gate in a chain-link fence a hundred yards away. Heading after them, Grannit broke into a trot.
“Hurry up, Ole,” he said.
As the jeep approached the gate, Grannit saw an MP in the guard house pick up a phone. He stepped outside and rolled the gate shut as the jeep got close. The MP leaned over to say something to the men inside.
The jeep slammed into reverse, spun around, and headed back across the yard toward another exit, quickly reaching top speed. The MP ran after it. Grannit pulled his pistol.
“Hey! Hey!”
The jeep careened straight at Grannit. He lowered the pistol, and emptied the clip. Shots cracked the windscreen and side mirror, but the jeep steered away from him. Ole and MPs from the border post ran out of the main building with guns drawn and angled toward the gate across the yard. A machine gun on top of the post opened up, chasing the jeep with bullets across the yard but not connecting.
With no time to close the rolling gate at the far exit, two guards threw down a line of necklace mines across the opening. The jeep accelerated as it reached the open gate and hit the mines at fifty miles an hour. The mines detonated, blowing off the front tires. The full, oversized gas tank ignited in a fireball, flipping the jeep into the air. It landed upside down, enveloped in flames.
All four men aboard, including their squad leader SS Unterstürmführer Gerhard Bremer, died instantly.
23
Pont-Colin, Belgium
DECEMBER 19, 6:00 A.M.
Bernie Oster and Erich Von Leinsdorf spent the night huddled in their jeep, side flaps and canvas roof raised, wrapped in blankets. Bernie was still too cold to sleep. They had driven west from Bastogne until after dark, sticking to back roads; eighteen hours to cover fifty miles, across empty fields, through abandoned or devastated villages. Twice they pulled into heavy woods to avoid American reinforcements entering from France. Using binoculars, Bernie spotted the screaming eagle insignia of the 101st Airborne on their sleeves.
Snow fell steadily through the night, wrapping the forest in silence. For the first time since the offensive began, they’d left the frenzy of battle behind. At first light they rolled down to a heavily wooded ridge overlooking a minor border post that Von Leinsdorf had selected on the map. Through binoculars he spotted two French soldiers manning a kiosk and guard gate spanning the dirt road. No traffic moved in either direction.
Von Leinsdorf fished around in his knapsack for traveling papers.
“I’ll do the talking,” he said.
Bernie honked the horn and flashed headlights as they drove up to the gate, alerting a middle-aged French soldier, who stepped out to meet them. Von Leinsdorf waved the transit papers at the man as he emerged, and spoke in rapid-fire French. When the soldier asked for a password, Von Leinsdorf lit into him. Bernie didn’t understand a word, but it was clear that hearing fluent French from an angry American officer unnerved the man.
Von Leinsdorf held up his dispatch case. “Je porte les expéditions importantes pour le chef du personnel Américain.”
Von Leinsdorf jumped out of the jeep, red in the face, using names that Bernie didn’t need translation to understand. Cringing and apologetic, the Frenchman indicated he needed to show their papers to his superior inside.
“Wait here,” Von Leinsdorf said to Bernie.
The sentry led him to their barracks, a squat concrete block house twenty yards behind the kiosk. The Frenchman continued to apologize, backpedaling, tripping over his own feet. Von Leinsdorf waved at him to keep walking and followed, reaching for something on his belt.
Bernie lit a cigarette and waited until the two men entered the block house, then climbed out of the jeep and hurried to the kiosk. He looked around for paper and pen, scribbled a note in English, until he saw the door of the block house open.
Von Leinsdorf walked out, carrying a basket and a bottle of wine. He saw Bernie in the kiosk, studying a sheet of paper next to the window.
“What are you doing in there?”
“Take a look. They changed passwords overnight,” said Bernie.
Von Leinsdorf scanned it, a telex from American command.
“Who’s ‘Dizzy Dean’?”
“He’s a pitcher, for the St. Louis Cardinals.”
“Well done, Brooklyn. You finally made a contribution.”
Von Leinsdorf headed for the jeep. As he followed, Bernie noticed a body lying in the doorway of the block house.
“At least the fucking Frogs know how to eat,” said Von Leinsdorf, handing him the basket. “Let’s get moving.”
Bernie pointed to his cheek as Von Leinsdorf climbed back in beside him.