Opening Moves

“Ah yes, I forgot, you have not encountered our American enemy have you? They do like their comforts and I would expect that many will be away from their posts, enjoying everything this wonderful country has to offer.”

Pförzer indicated with a simple head gesture at a map on the wall of the wheelhouse.

“To our right now is the town of Weins.”

He waited whilst Rolf got his bearings.

“We will face inspection at the Freyenstein checkpoint”, waiting whilst Rolf’s finger traced upriver to the location, “Where we will have some visitors onboard. So long as two of you are well hidden, I see no problem. I go upriver empty mainly so there is nothing unusual.”

Uhlmann’s finger tapped the map pensively.

“You would agree that we must find the right American, Rolf?”

“Yes of course, but I cannot help thinking that time is not on our side here.”

More searching of the map and fingers running imaginary routes.

“Where are you thinking we might find the person we need?”

“Mauthausen. I happen to know a high-up American Commander, a General no less, is visiting the former camp there today.”

Rolf’s enquiring face betrayed no knowledge of the name as he searched upriver. His finger came to rest over the spot.

“Former camp?” Rolf’s voice asked almost disinterestedly.

“Not a place we should be proud of, my friend. One of the camps where the mass killings took place.”

Rolf’s head turned, suddenly focused.

An uneasy shift of weight and a sigh revealed Pförzer’s discomfort. “The world will stand in judgement on all of us who knew and did nothing, and there will be a reckoning.”

Rolf nodded.

“One day soon I expect, but if we do not speak out to the Western Allies immediately, that reckoning will be run by the schiesse Russians!”

Again, Rolf’s finger tapped the map, this time beating out a rhythm of thought over Mauthausen.

“I also believe that the General will be staying overnight in the area,” ventured Pförzer, receiving a grunt from a barely listening Rolf.

“There are few establishments in the area suitable for a distinguished General. I will try to find out once we get through the Russian checkpoint. I have a suitable contact in Enns, a man who might be able to help us; a frontline schwein.”

A gentle turn of the wheel started the vessel on the long right hand bend that would bring them to the Freyenstein checkpoint.

Rolf continued scanning the interior of the wheelhouse and he noticed a modest carved wooden relief of Saint Florian to the left of the wheel.

“St Florian Hub? Why St Florian?”

“I was born in St Florian more years ago than I care to remember, and he has come to mean more to me than just that.”

A new pack of Chesterfields magically appeared and was opened with his teeth before disgorging two cigarettes.

“He is the patron saint of my chosen profession, or at least the one I chose before the war, when I had two arms.”

Rolf looked none the wiser.

“I was a fireman in Linz until the Anschluss, and then I was caught up in the fervour of the times.”

A sympathetic nod said all that could be said.

“Mind you, could have been worse. I might have taken it all the way and joined that bunch of shirt-lifters in the SS Kavellerie eh?”

Rolf laughed, enjoying the joke at the expense of his former comrades of the 8th SS Kavellerie Division ‘Florian Geyer’.

“Here, take the wheel. Keep the same distance from the bank, I won’t be long. Oh and if anyone waves, do wave back.”

Uhlmann took the wheel as Pförzer slipped quickly out and to the deck hatch, slipping inside in the blink of an eye.

The vessel was easy enough to steer and he relaxed into the role, pulling gently on the wonderful American cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth.

He almost jumped as the deck hatch crashed open and Pförzer emerged with a heavy green canvas bag.

Cautiously he looked around before sending the wrapped and weighted uniforms into their wake. Returning to the wheelhouse, he carefully stowed the bag in a small cupboard. Accepting the wheel back from Rolf, he nodded at the cupboard and grinned. “That’s Ivan taken care of when he comes knocking Mein Herr.”

“Vodka?”

“Scotch. Johnnie Walker. Only the best for our communist comrades.”

Rolf grunted, again becoming pre-occupied with, almost daunted by, the enormity of what lay ahead.

Pförzer mistook it for envy.

“In my pocket here,” He indicated the jacket he was wearing and fetched a flask from its depths, thumbing the spring-loaded cap open as he offered it up “Try some of that Kamerad.”

Rolf took the flask and took a slug.

As the choking started to subside, the grinning Pförzer took the flask back, taking his own tipple, flicking the lid shut and slipping it back into his jacket.

In a voice that sounded not unlike a man who had eaten a bowl of sand, Rolf enquired, “What the fuck is that?”

“That, Mein Herr, is our American enemy’s secret weapon! They call it Southern Comfort and I have acquired quite a taste for it.”

Pförzer’s grinning continued as Uhlmann coughed his way to a clear throat.

“I will remember that for the future!”