Cronley turned and walked into the guardhouse. He took a leather folder from his pocket, showed it to the officer of the day—a first lieutenant of the 1st “Big Red One” Infantry Division—and formally announced, “CIC Special Agent Cronley to see SS-Standartenführer Müller.”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said. “Sir, I have to ask if you are armed.”
Cronley hoisted the left side of his Ike jacket, revealing a holstered Model 1911A1 Colt .45 caliber pistol.
“That question was pro forma,” the lieutenant confessed. “I didn’t notice your holster.”
“That’s the idea of the Secret Service cross-draw holster,” Cronley said as he took the pistol out. “You’re not supposed to notice.”
He handed the pistol to the lieutenant.
“Safety on,” he announced, “a round in the chamber.”
“You always carry it locked and loaded?”
“Only when I think I may have to shoot somebody.”
The lieutenant laughed.
He removed the pistol’s magazine and then racked the action, which caused the chambered cartridge to eject and land on the floor. He picked it up and then turned to the staff sergeant standing behind him.
“Escort Mr. Cronley to Müller’s cell. Second tier, Cell 11-R.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
—
The guard posted at the cell was a corporal whom Cronley guessed had yet to see his nineteenth birthday. He was wearing a white helmet liner and a white Sam Browne belt. Like the staff sergeant, he was unarmed except for a white police baton.
“Open it up,” the staff sergeant ordered, tapping the iron bars with his baton.
The corporal slid a two-by-ten-inch plank out of the way, then put an eight-inch-long key in the iron keyhole and turned it. Finally, with a grunt, he pushed the heavy door open.
A stocky, nearly bald fifty-year-old male was sitting on a GI bed. He looked up with annoyance mingled with curiosity as Cronley entered the cell.
“Guten tag, Herr Standartenführer,” Cronley said, cheerfully.
“Who the hel
l are you?” Müller demanded, in German. “And that’s Generalmajor Müller.”
“That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Who the hell are you?” he repeated.
“My name is Feibleman,” Cronley said. “James Feibleman. I’m the prisoner morale officer.”
“In other words, Biddle or Jackson—probably the latter—sent a Jew to remind me who won the war?”
Well, he knows who Biddle and Jackson are.
And I think he’d challenge me, if he knew who I am. Interesting.
“This Jew was sent to evaluate your morale, your mental condition, to see how depressed you are. We don’t want you to try to hang yourself before your trial.”
“How could I possibly be depressed in such surroundings?” Müller made a sweeping gesture around the cell, then added, “Waiting to be hanged?”