Secret Honor (Honor Bound 3)

Kreis Wachtstein, Pomerania

2105 11 May 1943

The train was an hour late, having been sidetracked three times by military trains headed for Russia, which of course had higher priority. One had been a troop train—two second-class coaches for the officers and a long line of third-class coaches for the enlisted men. The other two had been freight trains, loaded with military equipment and vehicles. Each of the three had two special flatcars, one immediately behind the locomotive, the other about halfway down the line of cars.

These held machine-gun positions, steel plates further protected by sandbags. Generalleutnant Graf von Wachtstein identified them as Waffenwagen, armed cars. They were unfortunately necessary because the army and the SS, despite valiant effort, had not been able to completely suppress partisan activity in Russia.

Their own train had one first-class car, no second-class, and a line of third-class cars. The first-class car was nearly empty, and its few passengers were either army or SS officers.

Though there was opportunity for talk in their compartment, Peter’s father showed no inclination to do so, and Peter knew his father well enough not to press him. There would be ample opportunity for that once they reached Wachtstein and the Schloss.

They were the only passengers to leave the train at Wachtstein, and at first glance the station seemed deserted. But just as they were about to enter the small station building, a man in a leather overcoat stepped out of the shadows, showed them his Gestapo identity disk, and demanded their papers.

“When I see Reichsprotektor Himmler next week, I will report your zeal,” the Graf said.

The Gestapo man handed the Graf his identity documents, looked him in the face, raised his hand in the Nazi salute, and then turned away without speaking.

The Graf motioned for Peter to precede him through the station. The street outside was empty and dark, with the only light coming faintly through the shuttered windows of the gasthaus a block away.

“How do we get from here to the Schloss?” Peter asked.

“If we’re lucky, the battery in the Horch will not have run down,” the Graf said. “It’s in the stable behind the gasthaus.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t know what to do with it,” the Graf said, “after you went to Argentina.”

“I meant, why at the gasthaus?”

“The Schloss has been pressed into service as a hospital,” the Graf said. “I didn’t want the Horch being used by the officer in charge. And of course, I couldn’t have it at Wolfsschanze.”

They walked down the cobblestone street to the gasthaus and pushed open the door. Though it smelled of beer, just as Peter remembered it, it was now also somehow more drab, less happy, than before.

The proprietor, Herr Kurt Stollner, was leaning on the bar, a white apron tied around his ample middle. Stollner’s father and grandfather had been the proprietors before him, but his son would not be. His son, ten years older than Peter, had died for the Fatherland in Poland.

Eight men and an old woman were sitting at three of the tables. Once they recognized the Graf, the men rose respectfully to their feet.

The Graf nodded to Herr Stollner, then went to the old lady and called her by name to tell her that he had Hansel with him. She smiled toothlessly at Peter. Then Peter followed his father around the room and they shook hands with all the men. Two of the older men called him “Hansel.” The others called him Herr Baron.

Herr Stollner handed Peter and the Graf gray clay mugs of beer. The Graf raised his and called “Prosit!”, then signaled for Stollner to give everyone a beer.

It was a ritual. As a small child, Peter remembered coming to the gasthaus with his grandfather. Everyone had stood up and waited for the Graf to shake their hands. Then the Graf was handed a beer, took a sip, and ordered beer all around. Afterward, the village elders had come, one at a time, for a private word.

Herr Stollner came close to the Graf.

“Do you think we will be able to start the Horch?” the Graf asked.

“I have charged the battery once a week, Herr Graf.”

“I knew I could rely on you.”

“It will take us a moment to get it for you,” the proprietor said. “To move the hay.”

Peter had a mental image of the car buried under bales of hay in the stable behind the gasthaus to keep it out of sight.

“I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble, Kurt.”

“I am happy to be of service,” the proprietor said. He made a motion with his hand to several of the men in the room, then led them through the kitchen and out to the stable.