Of Smiling Peace

By Stefan Heym

Of Smiling Peace is a novel about the hazards of victory, told in the human terms of liberators, liberated and oppressors. As a story it is an absorbing duel of wits and force between resourceful Bert Wolff, American Intelligence officer, and Major Ludwig von Liszt, highly placed German Staff officer. Caught up in this duel—as bait or prize, no one knew which—is the beautiful, shrewd Marguerite Fresneau, Liszt’s mistress.

Between the dueling forces is the man Jules-Marie Monaitre—the cynical betrayer-collaborator, the man of Vichy who thinks he can trade “masters” as casually as mistresses. The Monaitres, the Liszts made French North Africa a wilderness of subtly hazardous intrigue.

Upon entering Algiers, Wolff is sent to arrest the Nazi Armistice Commission that had been “legally” looting the colony. One man is missing, Liszt, of Franco’s staff, whom Wolff knew by reputation during his days with the Loyalists in Spain. Liszt is a Junker, contemptuous of Nazi party hacks, with German superiority and destiny deeply rooted in his blood and background. To Wolff Liszt becomes the embodiment of the enemy, martially and emotionally.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arcole Publishing
• Release date: Jan 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781787209183

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Text originally published in 1944 under the same title.

© Arcole Publishing 2017, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

OF SMILING PEACE

BY

STEFAN HEYM

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

DEDICATION 4

CHAPTER ONE 5

CHAPTER TWO 25

CHAPTER THREE 44

CHAPTER FOUR 68

CHAPTER FIVE 89

CHAPTER SIX 107

CHAPTER SEVEN 132

CHAPTER EIGHT 158

CHAPTER NINE 171

CHAPTER TEN 191

CHAPTER ELEVEN 210

CHAPTER TWELVE 235

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 257

DEDICATION

TO

MY DEAR WIFE

Play fast and loose with faith? so jest with heaven,

Make such unconstant children of ourselves,

As now again to snatch our palm from palm,

Unswear faith sworn, and on the marriage bed

Of smiling peace to march a bloody host,

And make a riot on the gentle brow

Of true sincerity?

—King John: Act III, Scene 1

CHAPTER ONE

AT 4.31 IN THE MORNING, the French opened fire from their positions in back of the beach and along the road which ran parallel to the shoreline towards Algiers.

At that very moment the landing craft carrying Sergeant Shadow McManus and some of his men crunched on to the sand. The ramp of the barge fell open, forming a short gang-plank into the shallow breakers.

Shadow, who had crouched behind it, felt as if someone had torn the warm cover from his bed. He felt naked and cold. Between him and the orange fire of the mitrailleuses was nothing—just some hundred yards of flat beach.

But his dream went on. There were two soldiers named Shadow—one who did all the things he had learned in innumerable rehearsals of this particular operation, who jumped forward, catlike, his moist hands holding his tommy-gun above his head, who waded to shore, lifting his legs high to offset the resistance of the water, and who, after reaching ground, zigzagged ahead, signalling his men to follow, and finally threw himself flat on the sand, panting. The other Shadow observed the first one and kept saying: None of this is true. None of it. It can’t be. It’s a movie or something like that. Nobody can be crazy enough to aim at you and fire. Nobody can be so stupid as to run headlong into such fire.

The eerie light of dawn, torn by the flashes of the ships’ batteries from the seas, and the answering flashes of the coastal guns, heightened the observing Shadow’s sense of the unreal. This is terrific, he thought. For whom is this show being put on?

Then he noticed that the active Shadow was afraid. Or at least he seemed to be, for he had drawn his head deep between his shoulders, and his stomach was all over his body—in his throat and in his feet, an all-engulfing stomach which rocked with convulsions.

An arc of bullets struck the beach a few feet ahead of Shadow, dousing him with sand. Someone yelled, and then the yelling ceased as abruptly as it had started. That guy’s been hit, said the observing Shadow, and he’s probably dead. Say, kid, you were lucky this time.

That ended the Sergeant’s odd sensation that he was split in two. Suddenly, the world regained its perspective. He remembered that he was not alone. He realized that his men were round him and that, if he couldn’t get up, they would have to get up without him and go forward, and that would be the end of him.

Lifting his head cautiously, he saw that the beach was peopled with men in all postures—running, walking, standing, kneeling; some were lying as he was, others were sprawled on the ground as if flattened by a truck; an officer was gesticulating, but Shadow could not hear what he was saying. He looks foolish. Shadow thought, He saw other men labouring to move equipment—guns and boxes of ammunition; a few jeeps and light tanks came splashing out of the water and began to pick their way through the mêlée.

All this chaos roused his desire for order and organization. This must be stopped, men must be lined up. Didn’t they know what to do? Hadn’t he drilled them time and again?

He jumped up and signalled them to form a skirmish line. Ah, they moved! Good boys—they saw his signal and followed orders—there was something which, after all, had weathered the test. The beach here was not at all different from the beach in Virginia—same sand, same dunes, same principles.

Yes—but were they the same men? Was he the same?

He recognized the gaunt figure of Corporal Pope, his second in command. Pope was moving up behind him and waving to him, his thumb and forefinger forming a circle—the way Pope waved to the waitress when he ordered another round of beers. At the extreme right of the skirmish line, precisely where he belonged, sat Slotkin. He was resting his elbows on his knees to hold his rifle steady, and kept firing away at the dunes. That Slotkin, the slowest man of the squad, who always had to be helped along by the others, should be the first to fire, amazed Shadow. In fact, it reminded Shadow that he was carrying a gun himself.

Why did Slotkin do that? What had propelled Slotkin into doing something on his own? Shadow shook his head.

And then the unexpected happened. It was as if a strange fist had struck a vicious blow against Shadow’s skull. Inside his helmet, the blow sounded like an explosion. Thoughts began to pour with unimaginable speed.

I think, therefore, I am still alive. It must have been a bullet that grazed my helmet. His hand shot up, his fingers touched the jagged dent. That was meant against me. That was meant to kill me, kill me dead, snuff me out. They are shooting at me. What the hell am I—a clay pigeon?

It may have been the pain of shock, or the fury that rose in him and threatened to choke him, which cast a red veil before his eyes. Everything he saw was red—for the first time in his life, he saw red. He rubbed his eyes to get them clear, he began to shout—wild, inarticulate sounds to free his throat.

Shouting, he ran forward. Soon, the running became a jogging trot, because the sand was heavy under his feet, and he wanted to steady his gun on his hip. His voice kept pounding from his throat. It was as if his shouts were carrying him forward. Now he had reached the middle of the beach. The incline was not too steep, but he had gained sufficient height to recognize the enemy. He saw their helmets like turtle backs on top of the dune, and, between them, the belching machine-gun. He moved directly ahead. There was no sense zigzagging before a machine-gun. He did not know those men firing at him, but he hated them with a fierce, vengeful hate. He even gave his hate a colour—it was white, glaring white. He hated them because they were out to hit his knees or his testicles or his belly—they could not hit his chest or his head, their angle of fire was too low.

He wanted to kill them. He did not care whether his squad was behind him, he did not care whether he was alone on the whole field of battle. He felt warm and good. It was good to hate and attack, attack and hate. Running, he fired. The butt of his firing gun, pressed against his side, shook him. That was good, too.

Then he was upon them. Only much later did he realize that the enemy must have ceased firing long before he reached their emplacement. How otherwise could they have been lined up as they were, kneeling, their hands raised above their heads?

That none of them was wounded or dead was a disappointment. For all of Shadow’s pain and exertion, his fear and self-conquest, they had not suffered the least

Then he saw their shabby coats, their hollow, dirty faces. Get up! he ordered.

They did not understand or did not want to understand. "Camarade!" said one of them, his eyes anxious, pleading.

Pope, who had come up and held his rifle trained at them, said, "Camarade—hell!"

But Shadow shrugged his shoulders. Take them back, he ordered Pope. Then he gathered the squad. As they were marching inland, through the broken line of the enemy, he saw many groups such as his, winding in and out of the dunes. He waited for Slotkin and slapped him on the shoulder and said, Well?

Well—what? replied Slotkin, acting unconcerned.

They both broke into laughter.

*****

The two men leaving Marguerite Fresneau’s house in the Rue d’Epignan were not similar at all. The one in the lead was of slight build and his face, half hidden under a wide-brimmed hat, was smooth. Though the other was not much taller, his powerful body made him appear hulking, ill-proportioned in his much too tight clothes.

He was buttoning his jacket and having trouble with it. Damn this indecent haste! he puffed. Give me a chance to get dressed, will you? Where’d you get a suit with such a waist-line, anyhow?"

It wasn’t made for you, Tarnowsky, said the slight one, slowing his steps. You ought to be glad I had one to spare. You wouldn’t like showing yourself in your usual get-up, would you?

No, said Tarnowsky, I guess not. What are we coming to, I ask you? Things must be in a fine mess that we have to hide in these—these——

I wish you wouldn’t talk that loud—at least not in German. Can’t you hear those guns? They aren’t ours.

Very well, sir. Tarnowsky’s voice indicated that he was accepting an order. Then it changed. It became timid and nagging. Major, it asked, how is this going to end? I don’t like being on the spot. What are you planning to do? You must have some idea!

Now, as they walked beside one another, their feet moving in equal step, their shoulders erect, the difference between them curiously seemed to vanish. They were dogs of the same breed, officers of the same Army—and at this point they were caught in the same predicament.

But while Tarnowsky floundered on his fears, the Major was outraged to such a degree that he forgot the very real threat which lay in the sound of the invaders’ fire.

"Diese Unverschämtheit! he muttered. The nerve!"

He felt the American assault like a personal slap against the foresight and omniscience of himself and his colleagues. It was inconceivable that these minds could have been fooled so completely! Had they not planned and plotted and led an Army which had overrun one continent and ruled sections of two others and now was about to embark on the final conquest of the rest of the world? The even keel of his own mind—and his was one of the leading brains of this Army in spite of his youth and minor rank—demanded that he deny that a basic error had been made.

Tarnowsky, he said, how long are the French going to hold?

Tarnowsky was an artillery specialist. His big, fleshy ears would register the sound of the howitzers and anti-tank guns, the nervous cackling of small-arms fire, the whole throat-gripping instrumentation of battle, and he could note them on paper like a musical score. He turned his head against the wind. He recognized the popping of the French 75s—that was familiar enough. He had heard it often, while accompanying the Major on visits to the French North African garrisons: surprise visits which served as check-ups on the garrison commanders and on how well they kept themselves to the restrictions of the Armistice. Not that he or the Major or any member of the German Armistice Commission in North Africa had been afraid of the French. The French had been beaten and cowed and knew that their outmoded arms and their outnumbered troops were no match for the German divisions. He remembered those visits, he remembered the subservience of the French which he accepted stiffly, and the childish pride with which they demonstrated the few popping 75s left to them—the same guns which, now, were almost drowned out by the deeper roar of the strange invaders’ strange cannon.

I give them three hours, said Tarnowsky, answering the Major’s question. The Americans must have landed 105s and 155s, and the real heavy stuff comes from their ships. Three hours at most. Then the French will be blotted out.

And the coastal batteries?

Tarnowsky shook his head sadly. "Kaputt, he said, or they don’t want to fire. How is this going to end?"

How is this going to end! mocked the Major. Disastrously! You just said so yourself. But how did it begin? And who is to blame?

This show was no piratical venture, it was a full-sized invasion. It must have been prepared long beforehand, and, to be carried out so surprisingly, it must have had the co-operation of at least part of the French military.

In thinking back, the Major saw that the signs had been there, unmistakably. But they had been misinterpreted and underestimated. There was the report which Jerez had placed on his desk—of the house at the beach, and the rubber boat which had been observed landing there one night; but when the police finally got around to investigating the house all that was found was a drinking party of French officers. Why, however, the officers should hold a drinking party at such a desolate place remained unanswered. There was the careless remark of Commandant Grosjean at Marguerite’s house, only three weeks ago: "Mon cher Major—yours is a token occupation but so is the fleas’ in the dog’s fur." And the smiles the Major had seen on some faces, too many faces, indeed, and the insolence of the customs officer; and the attempt to split up Monaitre’s Bat d’Af although that had been approved by General Friedlein....It all added up It all had added up quite a while ago.

And now he knew, too, on whom to place the blame: Friedlein.

Carefully, as if he were outlining a dossier for Berlin, the Major recorded the events—how he had gone to Friedlein and had said, General who is Robert?

Robert?

Sure, Robert! Haven’t you seen the chalked inscription on the wall of the Hôtel Aletti—our Hôtel Aletti—our Hôtel Aletti—our headquarters?

The General hadn’t seen it. He had heard it discussed among the personnel of the Commission. A silly urchin’s scrawl: November 15—Robert Arrivera! General Friedlein laughed.

But, this has been seen at many places! said the Major. Sir, something is going on—I can’t lay my hands on it—but it’s dangerous, and deep underground, and perhaps bigger than we estimate——

Facts, General Friedlein had demanded, I want facts! I cannot act on hunches.

You can have the men in File No. 17 arrested—just as a precautionary measure."

Major, I’m sure I appreciate your interest. But I suggest that you devote your energies to the economic field for which you are responsible.

And how about File No. 17? the Major had persisted.

I know—I know! We suspect those officers. They’re not wholeheartedly on our side. Wholeheartedly! Would we be if the enemy had overrun our country and demanded from us all we are demanding from them? Gossip! Bring me proof that they would revolt against their government in Vichy!

That was Friedlein. The Major grinned. He looked forward to meeting him now, with the Americans knocking at the gates of the city.

But what was so pleasant about the cheap little triumph of: I told you so? What was the good of his having reported the whole affair to Berlin—his suspicions and Friedlein’s blindness—when Berlin did not act? Or were they shutting their eyes in Berlin as Friedlein was shutting his?

There was weakness in Friedlein’s attitude, and in Berlin’s silence and the Major disliked weakness. And this was the result—a terrible result catastrophe.

But he had seen it coming. And had not stopped there. He had made contact with the only man powerful enough to allay the threat—Monaitre. Monaitre was to come on the thirteenth—today was the eighth. The Robert announced on the house walls had arrived a week too soon.

I told you so! the Major said, and his words were so loud and sudden that Tarnowsky turned in surprise.

Told me what?

Ah—nothing. Nothing for you. He snorted with glee. He was free of all blame! That was neither cheap nor little! More than that—if he was shrewder and harder than his colleagues, then he was also better able to solve this problem and extricate himself from the situation and, perhaps, save the day!

Tarnowsky, observing the hilarity of his superior, feared that the débâcle had affected the Major’s mind. Afraid of being left leaderless, he moaned, Awful! What’s going to become of us?

What are you afraid of, Captain?

Tarnowsky winced. Do you know where our nearest troops are stationed?

The Major shrugged. You tell me, he prodded.

In Sicily Tarnowsky’s upper lip was beady with sweat. His hand searched for the pocket of his jacket—but since the jacket was too small the pocket was not in its usual place. His arm moved about jerkily like that of an oversized marionette. Finally, the hand found home and brought up a crumpled handkerchief.

Sicily! he repeated, handkerchief fluttering in that direction. For all the good they’ll do us, they could be in Siberia!

That’s right, confirmed the Major. He enjoyed having Tarnowsky around. The man was a good bodyguard as well as a court fool ‘And furthermore, the Americans have the nastiest habits. Ever see the knife they carry?"

Tarnowsky stopped in his tracks. Shut up! he cried.

Quiet! Quiet! The Major took his Captain by the elbow and dragged him along. Having pitched him to the depths of despair, he decided to pull him out.

In the last analysis, Tarnowsky—you and I are absolutely safe. We are not combatants. We are diplomats!

It was the first time in his life that the bulky Captain had heard himself classified as a diplomat. From the bottomless pit of fear, it took effort to grasp the rope of security thrown down to him. His fat-embedded Adam’s apple rose and fell rapidly with his repeated swallows.

The trouble with you—the Major spoke slowly, derisively—the trouble with you is that you have so little imagination. As far as I am concerned, I already know what I will say in case we are arrested.

He lifted his hat, acting the scene to the fullest:

My name is Ludwig von Liszt, Major, Infantry.

Ah—where is your uniform?

Don’t come to false conclusions, sir. I’m not on active service. I’m a diplomat. As a member of the Armistice Commission, I am accredited to the French Government in North Africa. And I expect to be treated accordingly!

Captain Tarnowsky held his breath. A completely new and glowing vista unfolded. The Captain had never liked his assignment. He preferred the mental security of ordnance work—playing around with trajectories, the breech mechanism of a new gun. No one could change him there: he was important in his own right and credited himself with a small but definite share in all of the victories achieved up to the time he had been ordered to Africa.

Now, however, Liszt had raised him to a new plane. Diplomat. That meant dealing with people instead of with matériel and it also meant that one could not be treated as an ordinary poisoner.

Did you know that all the time? he asked.

Yes, said Liszt.

The battle, still some miles outside the city, seemed to mount in fury.

Besides, continued Liszt, I have no intention of giving myself up. We might have to disappear. We might have to merge with these charming people for a while; at least until the invaders have been driven back to where they came from—the sea.

Who’s going to do that?

We are.

Sure, said Tarnowsky. Now he had completely lost track of which of Liszt’s words could be taken seriously, which were facetious, and which were the outgrowth of madness caused by the unfortunate disaster. Perhaps it was best to humour the Major. I’m sure you’ll find ways and means...

His words sounded hollow and over-loud to Liszt. The Major tried to fathom the peculiar tone of Tarnowsky’s voice. Then, suddenly, he knew it was not his escort’s voice that had changed, but the background against which it had spoken. That background was silence—deep, absolute, frightening silence.

The battle had ceased.

The two men stopped walking.

To Liszt, it seemed as if he saw the streets for the first time. The outlines of the houses, of each cobblestone, appeared so sharp, so clear that he knew the impression would remain in his mind for the rest of his days: the house at the corner, its white walls glimmering in the light, its small deep windows, the shades flapping in the breeze, and above all the blue, cloudless silence.

The silence was broken by a far-off rumbling.

The rumbling came closer. The Major identified it—tank treads on cobblestones. As simple as that. Tank treads. Tanks. They are coming.

I must hurry, he thought. I must help the men in the Hôtel Aletti, Friedlein and the rest. The Major had known tanks throughout his thinking years. But always they had moved in front of him, protecting him, opening up the breaches through which he had walked into the conquered countries. He appeared hypnotized by the discovery that there existed tanks which could move against him. The self-assurance he had mustered, despising Tarnowsky, blaming Friedlein, cultivating his own mastermind, vanished.

Then he found himself running, followed by Tarnowsky whose breath came fast and rasping.

The spell of the tanks had been broken by a clamour of voices, few at first and high-pitched as of children, but growing deeper and stronger with every passing second.

The people had come out of their cellars and basements and from behind the thick walls of their houses.

A pall hung over the gathering in Friedlein’s quarters in the Hôtel Aletti. The thin smoke curling from the fire in the two metal baskets in the centre of the room heightened the funereal mood, although documents, not incense, were being burned

With the exception of Liszt and Tarnowsky, all of the officers of the Armistice Commission were assembled. The enlisted personnel had been told to don field uniforms and to grab whatever rifles were handy in order to defend the headquarters. Much to the chagrin of the management and to the horror of the hotel guests, they had been posted at all exits, had improvised hasty barricades, and were even occupying the roof where, on starlit nights, the city’s society customarily enjoyed soft music and hard drinks.

Between the two baskets—the only metal ones found in the Hôtel—paced the General, comparing the small, ineffectual, struggling flames with the layers of documents covering his desk and the chairs.

The two priests performing the rites were Lieutenant Zedelbusch, tears in his smoke-filled eyes, and Captain Rantzau, who grew more annoyed each time the General looked over his shoulder.

Quicker! Quicker! the General urged. And turning his wrath on Zedelbusch, he said impatiently, Didn’t I tell you to stir it up? Poke in it! Do something!

He rushed across the room and dug beneath the papers on his desk. Again at Zedelbusch’s side, he announced, Here, I’ll show you! and pushed what he had retrieved—the long, delicately curved stem of a copper pipe, carved with Arab symbols—into the fire. A present from the Bey of Tunis! he explained, as if the fact were of any importance now that the Americans had arrived and soon, perhaps, would receive similar pipes from the Bey.

The fire answered the General with short belches of smoke and threw up small curled leaves of ashes. Zedelbusch, fearing that the burnt scraps still might reveal some of their secrets to the eyes of a chemical analyst, tried to catch them and throw them back into the flames. The General’s proximity hampered his movements and forced him into a ludicrous dance.

Stop that! the General finally shouted.

He took Zedelbusch by the scruff of his collar, set him aside, and said, I’ll tend to this myself.

Crouching before the blackening basket, he tried to plan his behaviour. He thought of the picture at home in his library, on his estate near Oldenburg—the picture of another Friedlein being taken prisoner.

He had always admired the weather-beaten, stiff face of his forebear, the blue, slightly fishy eyes defying the conqueror even in defeat. The thing had happened at Jena, in 1804, and Napoleon, looking rather diffident, had just accepted the proffered sword of old Friedlein. They said that Napoleon, in an attack of magnanimity, had returned Friedlein’s sword with the words, Keep it, General, a good sword should stay with a man unto death. But an old aunt who belonged to the poorer branch of the family, and who was much disliked for her bitter tongue, had once remarked, "Fiddlesticks! What the Emperor really said was Merde!"

Anyhow, the Friedlein of the year 1942 regretfully figured, he could not very well proffer a sword because it was worn only with dress uniform. And he felt it would be in bad taste to carry one since the Americans probably would appear in battledress.

But how—the General reverted back to his illustrious ancestor—how had the old man felt on his way to surrender to Napoleon?

The wars had been different then. Napoleon had been the one who did the shooting of hostages, the pillaging and burning, and his marshals and enthroned brothers the blackmailing. Friedlein the ancestor had had nothing to fear—his hands were as clean as a General’s hands could be; he had been conducting an aristocratic war on gentlemanly premises—and thus he had weathered the deplorable affair most handsomely. He was retired and spent the rest of his days hunting the stag and the boar on his Oldenburg estate, living on a pension from his gracious monarch.

But Friedlein the Present had set his heel down hard. And he knew that no one could wipe off the imprint.

He fervently wished to be transplanted back into the past, right into the soft, well-worn leather pants of the ancestor. Enviable pants! Enviable lot!

He could no longer bear the sight of the documents, every one of which contained evidence incriminating him. He could no longer endure the sight of his officers who waited mutely and were of no help and probably expected him to perform a miracle.

He wanted to hide in his own room.

But his exit was barred by Captain Rantzau.

Where are you going, sir? the Captain asked.

The General grew hot round the collar. Was discipline, always jeopardized by defeat, already breaking up? Or was what he had long suspected true—that Rantzau was the Gestapo man on the Commission?

The others came closer, sensing the clash.

You aren’t going to run out on us? said Rantzau. You won’t leave us here to face the consequences of what you have done?

Friedlein felt the issue was in the balance. He had to assert himself, prove his authority, I’ll have you court-martialed for insubordination! he said hoarsely.

The Captain sneered.

Court-martial? he asked. There are no German court-martials in Allied prison camps.

Friedlein tried to pass him, to make a dignified exit; but the Captain stood his ground.

You’ve been having a good time running this show, said Rantzau. You’ve garnered the honours, and the fruits of our work.

Friedlein was ready to burst. The Captain’s face loomed before him like an ugly mask.

The mask spoke, You’re the one to be tried—by an Allied court of law!

The General lifted his arm to strike at the sacrilegious mask. Rantzau ducked. From below, he said, Oh no, you don’t!

The General’s defences crumbled. He knew that Rantzau was right. By slinging the facts in his face, Rantzau prevented him from escaping their full realization.

I’ve done nothing! stammered Friedlein. What I’ve done was perfectly legitimate and defensible——

You forget, sir—the shoe is now on the other foot. Legitimate! Defensible! That depends on who makes the laws and who must defend himself. Rantzau was relishing his job. The General had to be forced to cover up for him and the others—and piling his own apprehensions and fears on Friedlein made Rantzau forget that he, too, was still closeted in the Hotel Aletti. The vanquished become the victors! he taunted. And the new victors will call for their pound of flesh—and you, sir, are going to supply it for them.

Like hell I will! The General searched for a likely rod for his lightning. Zedelbusch, awed by the struggle of the two men, stood handy. Did Zedelbusch horse-whip the President of the Small Business Association or did I? Friedlein shouted. Let Zedelbusch take what he has coming to him!

It was a grave tactical error. Each one of the officers had his share of guilt and wished to dispose of it.

Angry cries of Leader principle! and Responsibility of the Commanding Officer! were heard.

Rantzau stepped back. He had the General where he wanted him.

Responsibility! Friedlein tried to silence his officers. There’s a limit to it! I can’t be blamed for every execution——

They were done over your name!

For every sack of wheat confiscated——

Over your signature!

Of most of it, I didn’t even know! I’m only one man! I’ve got only two eyes, only one head. Most decisions were up to you!

Nobody was tending the fires. Friedlein rushed to fetch fresh papers, and threw them into the baskets. Then he turned to face his tormentors once more, with a new idea.

If you want to place responsibility on one man—place it where it belongs! There’s a man in Berlin who started the whole thing! Why blame me? Blame him! This whole war is handled wrong! Too much improvisation! We’ve conquered more than we can hold. We shift our divisions over half the globe—tear open one hole to plug another—and this is the result! Me—I just followed orders! I’m not responsible!

Into the appalled quiet following the General’s outbreak, Rantzau hissed only one word, Treason!

Then Rantzau said, The Commission is now under my orders. We will present a common front to the Americans. Even Herr von Friedlein will, for the last time in his life, behave like a German officer.

Feldwebel Schnapper, a Bavarian with a glandular over development of his jawbones, took the packages of candy and tobacco out of the deep pockets of his baggy pants and stowed them away in the leather pouches of his cartridge belt. The cartridges he dropped on the milky glass of the roof’s skylight, next to his rifle, and explained slowly, Those I won’t need for running; but my legs got to be light.

"Do you think we might have to do some running? asked Corporal Weitzlein.

The Feldwebel ground his jawbones in a slow, chewing motion. You got orders not to?

We haven’t got any orders.

See? The Feldwebel pulled up his pants. "If they knew how they could fight the Amerikaner, they’d give us plenty orders."

But where are we going to run to? asked the Corporal, his eyes glancing over the expanse of the roof, and the empty space surrounding it.

The Bavarian did not share his Corporal’s doubts. Anywhere. There’s always room to run away in. I never knew there was so much room in the world until I got into the Army. It sort of gives you an education.

Look! Weitzlein exclaimed suddenly. He pointed with his thumb over the edge of the roof. There!

Carefully, Feldwebel Schnapper pushed his helmeted head over the warm sandbags. What he saw convinced him of the wisdom of his preparations. The Americans had come in a few half-tracks and light tanks. The halftracks kept to the background; the hatches of the tanks were tightly sealed. One tank was moving the barrel of its machine-gun, like the antenna of a June bug.

They look pretty down there, so little, observed the Bavarian. He was reminded of the toy shop in Munich, its displays brightly lit at Christmas time—all the tiny playthings of war.

Weitzlein did not