“What did Tedworth do to this guy?” Cronley said.
Cronley had another mental image of a bloody and battered man in a chair being beaten, this time by Technical Sergeant Abraham L. Tedworth. Even more massive than Dunwiddie, he was Dunwiddie’s first field sergeant, his Number Two.
“Captain Cronley,” Gehlen explained, smiling, “there are very few Negroes in Russia—very few Russians have ever seen someone of Herr Dunwiddie’s and Stabsfeldwebel Tedworth’s complexion. Or size. When I commented to Dunwiddie that this chap obviously expected to be put in a pot, boiled, and served for dinner, Dunwiddie said he knew there was such a pot—used to process slaughtered pigs—in one of the buildings. He suggested we fill it with water and build a fire under it, let this chap see it, and see if that didn’t produce the cooperation we needed. I told him, ‘Perhaps later, if the disorientation fails.’”
Gehlen, Mannberg, and Dunwiddie chuckled.
Is that what they call torturing a guy in a chair, “disorientation”?
And now that I think about it, I’m sure Tiny heard from his great-grandfathers, the Indian-fighting Buffalo Soldiers, that the Apaches hung their prisoners head-down over a slow fire to get them to talk. Or just for the hell of it. I’m surprised he didn’t suggest that.
Hell, maybe he did. He’s the professional soldier and I’m the amateur.
“Disorientation?” Cronley said.
“Disorientation,” Mannberg confirmed. “We learned over time that causing pain is more often than not counterproductive. Especially with skilled agents, as we believe this fellow has to be. Disorientation, on the other hand, very often produces the information one desires.”
How about pulling out his fingernails? That would certainly disorient somebody.
“What we did here,” Mannberg went on, “was put this fellow in a windowless cell, in the basement of what was the church when this was an active monastery. We took all his clothing except for his underwear, and provided him with a mattress, a very heavy blanket, and two canvas buckets, one filled with water and the other for his bodily waste. And a two-minute candle.” He held fingers apart to show the small size of a two-minute candle. “Then we slammed the door closed and left him.”
“For how long?”
“At first, long enough for the candle to burn out, which left him in total darkness. And then for several hours. Each time, suddenly, his door burst open, and there he could see—momentarily and with difficulty, his eyes trying to adjust to the bright light—Stabsfeldwebel Tedworth. Then the lights—we improvised the lights using jeep headlights—went out and the door slammed closed again.
“The next time the door opened, he was given his dinner. It was time for breakfast, but we served him what the officers were going to have for dinner. And another two-minute candle. By the time his eyes adjusted to the candlelight, it was pretty well exhausted and went out. He had to eat his dinner in absolute darkness and without any utensils. And, pardon the crudity, but can you imagine how difficult it is to void one’s bladder, much less one’s bowels, into a soft-sided canvas bucket while in total darkness? Are you getting the idea, Captain Cronley?”
Cronley nodded. “How long are you going to keep this up?”
“For another twenty-four hours. Perhaps a bit longer.”
“And then?”
“The interrogation will begin.”
“By who?”
“We’re trying to decide whether it should be Dunwiddie or myself. One or the other. Dunwiddie’s Russian isn’t perfect, but on the other hand, he is an enormous black man.”
“Would me getting a look at this guy interfere with your interrogation of him?”
Cronley saw that Mannberg didn’t like the question.
“I’ll keep my mouth shut,” Cronley said. “I just want a look at him.”
Mannberg looked at his watch.
“We’re going to feed him his breakfast in about an hour. That will give you time to have your supper before you have your look.”
“I’ll take you,” Dunwiddie said.
[ FIVE ]
Commanding Officer’s Quarters
Kloster Grünau
Schollbrunn, Bavaria