“My quarters?”
“You’re going to be the CO of whatever this is, right?”
Cronley nodded.
“Then your quarters are right next door to the general offices. You know where that is?”
Cronley nodded again.
“There’s a sign on it. Says ‘Military Government Liaison Officer.’ In English. And in German.”
“I think I can find it. Thanks.”
—
Three minutes later, having passed through the third, inner checkpoint—this one manned by three Polish guards and two American soldiers—he found a Signal Corps lieutenant he thought was the one looking for him. He and three soldiers were sitting in a three-quarter-ton truck parked in front of a small house. It was next to the larger building on which was a sign identifying it as the GENERAL-BÜROS SÜD-DEUTSCHE INDUSTRIELLE ENTWICKLUNGSORGANISATION.
If these guys came on the Blue Danube train from Frankfurt, where did they get the truck?
The sign on the smaller building was only slightly smaller.
UNITED STATES MILITARY GOVERNMENT LIAISON OFFICER
US-MILITÄR REGIERUNG LIAISON OFFIZIER
—
Clever intelligence officer that I am, I guess that’s what Mattingly decided they should call the commanding officer. You really wouldn’t want to hang a sign that read OFFICE OF THE CIC OFFICER IN COMMAND OF THIS OPERATION WE DON’T WANT ANYBODY TO KNOW ABOUT.
—
Cronley pulled the Kapitän in beside the truck and got out. The lieutenant got out of the truck and walked over to the staff car. So did the men with him. They were all sergeants, he saw, a sergeant, a staff sergeant, and a technical sergeant.
“You’re from the Twenty-third?” the lieutenant asked.
Cronley nodded.
“Where’s Captain Cronley?”
“You’re looking at him.”
The lieutenant’s eyebrows rose.
That’s two people in a row who can’t believe that sweet-faced Little Jimmy Cronley could possibly be a captain.
No. Not two. Five. Two of the sergeants look incredulous. The older one, the tech sergeant, looks disgusted.
And I really can’t get indignant, because they’re right; I shouldn’t be a captain.
More important, I really have no business being put in charge of this place.
When did Frade say Major—what’s Polo’s name?—Major Maxwell Ashton III is going to get here?
“Sir, I’m not trying to be difficult,” the lieutenant said, “but have you got some identification?”
Cronley produced his CIC credentials.
“I look younger than I am,” Jimmy volunteered, “because I don’t drink, smoke, fornicate, or have impure thoughts.”