The Haigerloch Project

“Do it, dammit!” Kieffer snarled vehemently. “And keep your mouth shut!”

The jeep came to a halt. The MP walked purposefully toward them.

Kieffer jumped from the jeep. Quickly, impatiently, he strode toward the approaching MP. He met him halfway. He scowled at him. In his hand he held the Wehrmacht map. For show.

A glance etched the man on his mind. Single silver cord and orange piping on his shoulder strap: Unteroffizier — Sergeant — Military Police. Half-moon chest plate with its two prominent dots, Nazi eagle and the word FELDGENDARMERIE — Field Police — daubed with luminous paint.

The MP non-com saluted smartly.

“Heil Hitler!”

With a show of irritation, Kieffer returned the salute.

“What the devil is the meaning of this, Sergeant?” he barked.

“Get that damned roadblock the hell out of the way!”

“I am sorry, Herr Major,” the MP said stiffly. “It is not possible. I am under orders to let no traffic onto the highway. It is to be kept clear for a top-priority convoy, Herr Major. It is due any minute.”

Kieffer glared at the man. His mind whirled. He knew they could not turn around and take the other route. There was no time. And he could not wait for the convoy to pass. It would take too long….

“You hear me well, Sergeant,” he snarled, emphasizing each separate word. His voice was dangerous, rising in anger until he was shouting “I am Major Ritter. I am escorting Standartenführer Adolf Himmler to the front! The front, dammit! It is of the utmost importance that we get there as quickly as possible. You understand me?”

Pointedly he narrowed his eyes, glaring at the MP.

“I am sure you know Colonel Himmler's uncle, Sergeant!”

The MP looked apprehensive.

“Jawohl, Herr Major,” he said. “May I—”

“You may not! Delay is out of the question!” Kieffer shouted. “Have I not made myself clear? Verdammt nochmal! How dare you defy a superior officer?”

The MP non-com was visibly shaken.

“I have — orders—” he started.

“Orders!” Kieffer screamed. “To the devil with your orders'” He suddenly drew himself up, shaking with rage. “Very well, Sergeant. I shall inform Colonel Himmler right now that you refuse to let him pass!”

He turned on his heel, stopped short and whirled on the terrified MP. He whipped Decker's photo folder from his pocket. Imperiously he held out his hand toward the MP.

“Your pen!” he demanded curtly. “I shall want your name. Your service number. For the record.” He smiled maliciously. “The Reichsleiter will wish to know exactly who delayed a mission in which he is vitally interested!”

The MP was chalk-faced with fear.

Suddenly the low, dull roar of many motor vehicles intruded on their attention. Automatically they both looked toward the highway. Driving with blackout lights only, the convoy was bearing down on the road junction — a giant, growling shadow snake with a thousand slit-orbed eyes.

The sergeant wet his bloodless lips.

“Herr Major,” he said, “the convoy is going to the front. Perhaps — if the colonel would join—”

“Good!” Kieffer interrupted him curtly. “See to it! At once!”

He turned on his heel and stalked back to the jeep.

“Come on, Jerry,” he said. “We—” His voice broke. He was suddenly aware of his heart pounding in his throat. He swallowed hard. “We're joining that Kraut convoy,” he finished. “Get going!”

“Jesus!” Marshall whispered. He eased the jeep into gear. There was a rough, grating sound, a dull backfire; the engine sputtered, coughed — and died.

At the roadblock the MP's were pushing the barriers aside. The non-com stepped out onto the highway — raising his traffic baton….

Kieffer whirled on Marshall. He was about to shout at him, shake him…. He stopped. It would do no good.

Marshall was intent on the jeep. He played the ignition, the throttle, the choke, the clutch like an organ virtuoso.

The MP non-com turned toward them and waved them on.

Oh, God! Kieffer prayed. Let it start…. Let it start….

The engine turned over; it coughed… missed… sputtered and the jeep moved.

They drove through the roadblock. The MP non-com stood on the highway, holding up his baton, stopping the convoy so the jeep could join it.

He peered into the back of the vehicle as it passed. He was curious. He could just make out the figure huddled there. Imagine. Heinrich Himmler's goddamned nephew! He considered himself lucky. He'd come out of a run-in with a real Bonze—a real big-shot — without getting his balls crushed….

He gave Kieffer a stiff-armed salute.

It was returned with an impatient wave of the hand.

Staring at the truck ahead of him, Kieffer was suddenly aware of the fact that he was shivering with cold. The sweat that drenched him was drying on his skin.

He looked back at Decker. He wondered what the man thought. Had he known how close it had been?

“Colonel Adolf Himmler”—in a wrinkled raincoat and a grimy hat, petrified with fear…

He wondered if Himmler actually did have a nephew. Possible. He did have an older brother.

Anyway — Standartenführer Adolf Himmler had done a prima job!

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