a high school in Cleveland. “Just for your information, Dachau was the original concentration camp. It was built only months after the Nazis took power and was where SS guards were trained for the camps that engaged in more serious work. You have probably heard about the gas chamber that was found. It was for killing the inmates, but apparently was never used. Interrogations have revealed that the gas chamber may have been used to train the men and women who used the real gas chambers in the extermination camps in the East.”
“That’s just barbaric,” one of the gathered officers said.
“Yes, no doubt. We also have further information about the locked boxcars full of dead that we found. The guards have told us that those inside were Polish prisoners being sent in from the East to avoid being liberated by the Soviets. The guards let them all die of thirst.”
“What an awful way to go,” another officer responded. “No wonder our boys were so angry.”
Carter stood at the back of the room, listening intently. His ears still had an annoying ring in them and his throat felt abused by the smoke from the fire. He had already heard that American soldiers had promptly executed dozens of SS camp guards after they found the train. It was not his Rangers that had taken justice into their own hands, but regular army soldiers. The 45th Infantry Division was composed of National Guard units from the American Southwest, but the middle-grade and senior officers were men from the regular army. Most of the officers looked at the Ranger company attached to their division with a mixture of envy and annoyance. At one time or another they had all voiced the standard complaints: any good infantry unit could do what the Rangers did; that the Rangers drew off the cream of the crop, making it harder for the rest of the infantry to do their job; and that the Rangers took all the glory, leaving the hard work for the real soldiers. Another source of friction came from the fact that Carter’s commission was in the reserve army, while many of the officers in headquarters had regular army commissions. Coming from Virginia, Carter had a sensitivity to social distinctions bred into his bones, and he was constantly reminded in subtle ways that his gold oak leaves were somehow inferior to the same insignia on a major with a regular commission.
“Yes, our boys were angry, but we must maintain proper discipline, even if we ignore this incident of shooting the guards.” The G-2 looked down at his notes. “On other fronts, we have received news that Army Group C has signed a surrender document. It takes effect in two days. That means all German troops in Italy will be out of the war. As you can see from this map, most of Germany had fallen to us or the Soviets. All that’s left is this pocket in the Alps, a pocket around Berlin, and a pocket up by the Danish border. The battle of Berlin is still going on and we hear the casualties on both sides are pretty high.”
“We should have gone for Berlin,” one of the officers said, loudly enough for everyone to hear.
“Yeah, then American boys could be dying instead of the Russians. Leave Berlin to them.” This officer was one of the battalion commanders. Carter didn’t know him personally, but had always enjoyed his acerbic wit.
“Regardless,” the G-2 said, reasserting control as if his students had become unruly. “Let’s talk about Munich. Yesterday we picked up radio broadcasts from a group called the Bavarian Freedom Fighters. They called their radio station Free Bavaria Radio. The transmissions ended earlier today and the best reports we have is that a coup inside the city has been suppressed by loyal SS troops. When we move in tomorrow, I expect only pockets of organized opposition. We need to be on watch for snipers and fanatical kids from the Hitler Youth. Same old drill, we all know it.”
Major General Robert T. Frederick stood and everyone turned their attention to him. “Thank you, Major, for that report. Now listen up. I’ve been talking to Corps about what we found, and in the next few days we are going to take all the adult residents of nearby towns and force them to tour Dachau.”
This led to a groundswell of approving noises. “We will be leaving the medical battalion, three infantry companies, and the Rangers to take care of the camp. Colonel Walter will be in charge of that operation. The G-3 will issue orders for everyone else for our move on Munich.”
Carter had learned to talk to his superiors and come to their headquarters only when absolutely necessary. He was not a career soldier and intended to return to the university as soon as the war was over, but while the war was going on, he found the real war at the front much more pleasant than bureaucratic infighting in the rear. Staying at Dachau suited him, though he didn’t want to go back into the camp.
General Frederick continued. “Our division has taken almost 21,000 casualties in this war and has been in combat almost 500 days. We only have a few days left. Let’s be careful and get our boys home.”
The meeting broke up, men shuffling out, lighting up cigarettes. Carter positioned himself near the door to intercept the G-2 officer.
“Major, you said that we’ve been finding these camps. Has anyone found anything like the temple that I reported?” Carter asked.
“That was an odd report, John. Very odd. I haven’t seen anything like that in the intel reports, though we have instructions to quickly report anything really odd like that. I’m going to pass it up to Corps tomorrow.”
Carter nodded his thanks and stepped out into the evening air. It had rained a little and high clouds had come with spring rains. The setting sun reflected against the clouds, turning the entire sky pink, like a runny watercolor. Near the setting sun were more sharply defined orange hues. What a glorious reminder of God’s wonders on a day that had seen so much of the Devil’s handiwork.
The 45th Division had taken over the country mansion of some member of the Krupp family. Building the railroads and arms for Germany had yielded handsome financial rewards. Carter would have enjoyed a leisurely exploration of the house; he had overheard that there were more than forty rooms. No time for that, though.
Ferro waited for him at the jeep. The Italian had driven back to pick Carter up at the Krohn country chalet. He had tried to clean off the seat, but Carter knew that there must still be dried blood in the nooks and crannies of the seat and jeep, joining dirt accumulated from France and Belgium. Ferro would serve as his driver until the return of Napier, so the diligent solider kept his sniper rifle in the rear seat.
“Did you find Sergeant Napier?” Carter asked.
“Yes, sir. I can take you there.”
“Please do.” Carter climbed into the seat. “What about the greenhorn?”
Ferro started the jeep and pulled out into the stream of vehicles leaving the mansion grounds. Everyone had their lights on to prevent accidents. “He died, sir. About an hour ago.”
“Dammit,” Carter said in a weary voice.
They drove through the darkened streets of the town. Carter had no idea what the name of the place was. He had looked at the map only that morning and knew at one point the name of the town, but right then he just couldn’t retrieve it from his tired brain cells.
“What was his name?” Carter asked.
“Clayton, I think, sir.”
“Is that a first or last name?”
“Don’t know, sir.”
Carter sighed. “Find out his name. Collect his personal effects and his gear. I have to write the letter.” Carter leaned forward as a dog raced through the jeep’s headlights, concerned that they might hit the mongrel. The dog disappeared into a dark alley. “I hate telling parents that their son is dead.”
“Better you than me, sir,” Ferro said.
The medical battalion had commandeered a hotel for its hospital. Carter found Napier on the second floor, in his own room. Coincidentally, a white-smocked doctor was there, checking on the sergeant. Carter knew of the doctor, who had also served in the First World War, yet his seventy-year-old hands were still steady enough to wield a scalpel.
“How’s my sergeant, Doctor?” Carter asked as he looked around the room. The hotel decor was undamaged: