Order of Battle by Ib Melchior Read Free Book Online

Stauffenberg. Keitel himself had been shaken, but uninjured. . . .
    Keitel walked to the map table. The. officers gathered around him. He selected a map, and Stauffer spread it out on the table. It was a map of the Alpine areas of Bavaria, Austria and northern Italy. Keitel’s voice and delivery, as he went on, was familiar to them all from previous briefings. Yet this was to be something more than just another briefing. This was to be something extraordinary. They all felt it. The air itself was electric with their curiosity.
    “The time is now,” Keitel stated. “At the earliest opportunity we shall regroup—consolidate our forces as planned—here.”
    He placed his whole hand over the map. “The Bavarian Alpine Fortress— Die Alpenfestung. From here the war shall be won! I have recommended to the Fuhrer that Field Marshal Kesselring be given the Southern Command.”
    Keitel looked from officer to officer.
    The Americans have sustained a great blow in losing their war-intoxicated President at this crucial time. They are confused, demoralized. The German people—our troops—need a focusing point. Now. A bold, a dauntless stroke to rekindle them, to make the Alpenfestung truly invincible! We shall give it to them!”
    Stauffer watched the field marshal, spellbound. Did the man really believe what he was saying?
    Keitel went on.
    “The Americans have been struck to their knees by fate. We must act now. We must bring them all the way down! They have lost their political head. We shall cut off their military head as well! Meine Herren . . .”
    He paused dramatically.
    “ Meine Herren, the Führer has ordered General Eisenhower killed. Now!

15 Apr 1945
Feldstein
    2047 hrs
    Riding on rubberless metal rims, the battered bicycle made a grating, crunching sound on the gravel at the roadside. A group of six men and a woman came walking along the dark country road. They carried bundles and knapsacks. One man had two old suitcases hanging from a rope across his shoulders, and the bicycle, pushed by another of the men, was loaded with bundled-up gear. All seven looked tired and bedraggled—a typical little group of aimless civilian refugees left in the wake of war. The night was dark; the sky was overcast, and there was a hint of a cold drizzle in the air.
    Three and a half miles west of Feldstein in the Frankfurt am Main area, the road wound through a sparsely wooded region. Here a large area had been enclosed in accordion-rolled barbed wire. Scattered among the trees mountainous stacks of jerry cans and drums could be made out dimly. At the guarded gate in the barbed wire a well-lit sign showed the area to be a U.S. Army Supply Dump, Class III Supplies. Gasoline and Oil.
    The group of weary refugees trudged past the gate on the opposite side of the road and disappeared around a bend.
    T5 Henry Williams watched them go. He was in his fourth hour of guard duty and he was itching to be relieved. He wondered briefly if he should call the sergeant of the guard and report the refugees. He decided against it. He wasn’t really sure what the hell the curfew hours were out here, and he wasn’t that eager to get his ass chewed out if he guessed wrong. Those Krauts could be perfectly okay—and anyway, they were gone. So why rock the boat?
    Around the bend in the road the barbed wire enclosure came to an end and the wire ran into the woods at a ninety-degree angle. The band of refugees shuffled across the roadbed toward the corner of the compound. They left the main road and started down a dirt path along the wire running through the darkened woods. And a striking metamorphosis took place.
    Almost instantly the weary group of wayworn refugees was transformed into a deadly efficient commando team. Two of the men at once picked up the old bicycle and carried it along, as they hurried silently down the path. There was not a sound to be heard. Then, as if on an unspoken command, they all sank to the ground next to the wire.
    For