The 34th Degree

93

What was left of the National Bands of Greece base was being mopped up by the SS Death’s Head unit of Standartenfuhrer Spreicher, a man who delighted in this sort of thing, personally picking off any wounded men who were half dead. Medics, he reasoned, were unnecessary baggage in these sorts of operations. After all, he himself had lost half his face in Crete and managed to survive. If any of his own men were wounded, they were to fight to the death or be shot by their brothers in arms. It was simpler that way. All for one and one for all.

Spreicher worked his way through the debris and bodies, searching for Andros. He spotted a British battle dress uniform by the gorge and found the man sprawled facedown, still alive and groaning in pain.

Digging the toe of his jackboot under the man’s body, Spreicher kicked him over. “Hey, Englishman,” he said in crude, brutal English. “It’s morning. Face your maker.”

Death-glazed eyes looked up at him from the ravaged face. Out of the dirt-encrusted mouth came a spurt of blood that dribbled down the chin and matted in the red beard. Half torn from the soiled uniform was a New Zealand insignia.

“Where’s the film negative?” he demanded. “Where’s Andros?”

When he received no answer, he put his jackboot on the New Zealander’s skull and began to apply pressure. His second in command, Oberfuhrer Borgman, ran over with the S-phone. “Linder wants to know if there are any prisoners up here.”

Spreicher looked down at Doughty. “Well?”

When there was no reply, he dug the heel of his boot deep into the skull until there was a crack and he crushed it. Then he turned to his second in command and said, “None up here, Oberfuhrer. What does Linder say at the bottom of the gorge?”

“His party had nothing to report down there.”

Spreicher moved to the edge of the gorge and looked down the nine-hundred-foot cliff walls. Linder and his men were busy looting what little they could find among the smashed bodies of the Greek andartes strewn among the rocks. Spreicher spat and wiped his nose. The stench of burned horse and human flesh was foul. He told Borgman, “Looks like you’ll have to inform General von Berg that we have no prisoners or survivors, so far as we can tell. Nor any film.”

Borgman looked terrified. “You want me to say we found nothing?”

“Tell him we’re still searching.” Spreicher frowned as he surveyed the destruction and devastation. Damn, he thought, I missed all the fun on this one. Furthermore, he hadn’t obtained the microfilm, and he knew all too well from his predecessor, Ulrich, what happened to those who failed von Berg.

He heard a shout from across the gorge and saw Miller waving his hands. “Go see what he wants,” he told Borgman.

While Borgman left, Spreicher looked down at the New Zealander’s head on the ground and watched the blood seep out of the cracked skull.

Borgman returned with good news. “Miller and his men found tracks on the other side of the gorge, sir,” he reported. “They’re not ours, and they’re fresh. Someone must have made it over the bridge before she blew, perhaps someone from that patrol we ran into during our advance.”

“General von Berg’s orders are clear,” Spreicher said with a gleam in his eye. “We must hunt this man down. We’ll turn over every village between here and Sparta if we have to. Andros cannot get away. Let’s move.”

“Zu Befehl!” replied Borgman.

Yes, thought Spreicher, surveying the destruction, the fun was just beginning.