Free Collision of Evil by John Le Beau Page B

be where we’re headed. Its not far from here; thirty kilometers maybe. It’s bound to have bunkers and tunnels, exactly what’s needed to store whatever the hell is in these crates.”
Uwe and I shrugged, judging that the next few hours would resolve the issue.
Our column wheezed to life in a cloud of exhaust fumes. The Volkswagen with its Waffen-SS officer was in the lead. One of the civilians was seated next to the Stuermbannfuehrer with the arm sling. The wounded officer had his well-creased topographical map out and communicated the route to his driver.
We moved from the valley road to a well-paved but serpentine way that took us into the mountains. When the asphalt ended, we found ourselves jostling along a rough earthen path, the valley floor from which we had issued now a distant emerald vision far below us.
There was a dissonant cacophony of engines grinding away, and I wondered how high the abused vehicles could manage to go before they overheated. The Stuermbannfuehrer turned in his seat every now and then, checking the halting progress of his troop. His expression seemed as granitic as the jagged peaks rising above us. Despite the protesting motors, the trucks doggedly moved higher into the terrain, untended meadows to the right and left. The sweep of tall grass was dotted with mountain wildflowers, an iridescent aquarelle of white, yellow, and blue. The rough road curved to the left and the meadows slipped away behind us. Deep shadows from rows of fir trees rolled protectively over the hoods of our vehicles. We entered high forest, and the ground was transformed from green to burnished gold from a thick carpet of needles.
Up ahead of the column, I saw a trio of men standing motionless at the base of a towering pine tree. One of the men wore a brown Nazi Party uniform set off with a swastika armband; a
kreisleiter
perhaps. His two companions were more humbly dressed in Bavarian country attire, with battered loden hats and worn workmen’s boots.
The Stuermbannfuehrer raised his arm and the column eased to a stop, the engines of our vehicles winding down to a low grumble.The trio of men approached the Volkswagen and the Party official stretched out his arm in the Hitler salute, which was casually returned by the SS officer. The men huddled together in conference, occasionally glancing back at the column of lorries. It occurred to me that the conclave could involve a discussion of surrender arrangements. Perhaps the golden pheasant represented the local
gauleiter
and was empowered to come up with the best way for German forces in the area to give up to the Americans, whose arrival was expected any day. I was mistaken.
The Stuerbannfuehrer gestured for some of the other officers to join him, and after the exchange of a few words, they moved along the line of trucks issuing orders in curt, staccato style.
“Engines off. Everyone out of the vehicles,
Mach Schnell
. Five minute pause. We’ll be unloading the cargo after that and returning to the valley. Under no circumstances are the crates to be opened.”
Doors groaned against bent hinges, and we issued forth to the pine needle-coated earth that was like a sponge beneath our boots. Everyone spent their first minute stretching, coaxing away the small hurts caused by our rough journey. The crates would be heavy and unwieldy, and we knew that there was heavy lifting in our immediate future.
Uwe stood next to me and fished a small, unlabeled bottle of schnapps from the voluminous pocket of his greatcoat. He took a swig, and passed the glass container to me. I took a sip without much enthusiasm but enjoyed the burst of warmth as the crude alcohol attacked my throat. We strode into the rows of fir trees.
“I expect this is our last mission, comrade. The rest should be a matter of waiting for the hordes of Negroes and Red Indians to sweep us up.” Uwe’s tone was fatalistic.
“Most GIs look like we do, Uwe, just different uniforms. But you’re right, I guess this is