“In that case, you’ll need parkas. It’s snowing. Miserable conditions.”
Ledbetter had then provided them with the bulky cotton garments, which were olive drab on one side and white on the other. They had hoods, ringed with what Cronley thought could have been fur.
“The last time I wore one of these was in the Battle of the Bulge,” Dunwiddie announced, as he pulled on his parka. “It didn’t keep me warm then, but maybe we’ll get lucky today.”
“We’re going to need all the luck we can get,” Cronley said.
A jeep “comfortably” held four people. Into the one Ledbetter provided went five—Hessinger, driving because he knew the way, plus Cronley, Mannberg, Dunwiddie, and Ostrowski.
Snow fell heavily as they drove up to the bridge, obscuring its far end. The half-dozen men there were recognizable as Russian soldiers, but their faces and rank insignia were lost in the whiteout blur.
The snow, Cronley saw, coated the canvas roof of the MP jeep sitting to one side of the bridge, and made invisible the white line that marked the center of the bridge.
When they got close to the bridge itself, the MP jeep came suddenly to life and moved to block their way. A sergeant got out of the jeep and walked around the front of their jeep to the driver’s side.
“Sorry,” he said to Hessinger with monumental insincerity, “I got to write you up for five in a jeep. Let me have your trip ticket, driver’s license, Russian Zone authorization, and the ID card of the senior guy in there. He’s responsible for the violation.”
“That would be me,” Dunwiddie, sitting beside Hessinger, announced. “Let’s start with this, Sergeant: Don’t the MPs in Berlin salute officers?”
The sergeant was visibly surprised, but he saluted and said, “Sorry, sir. Your parka covers your bars. I didn’t see them. But I still got to write you up.”
Dunwiddie said, “What you still got to do, Sergeant, is get back in your jeep and forget you ever saw us. This is CIC business.”
Dunwiddie fumbled around under his parka, and then turned in his seat and asked, “Has anyone got their CIC credentials with them?”
Cronley, laughing, produced his, and they had the expected reaction o
n the sergeant.
“But I still got to see your Russian Zone authorization,” the sergeant said. “Nobody gets to cross the bridge without a Russian Zone authorization. Orders is orders.”
“Not a problem, Sergeant,” Cronley said. “We’re not going over there.”
He reached between his legs and came up with something wrapped in a blanket.
“Here you go, Sergeant,” he said, handing it to the sergeant. “Keep up the good work.”
“Sir? What’s this?”
“A thermos of coffee,” Cronley explained. “Which I brought along thinking we might be here long enough to need it. Take us home, Freddy.”
The sergeant saluted crisply as Hessinger spun the jeep around and drove away from the bridge.
[ TWO ]
44–46 Beerenstrasse, Zehlendorf
U.S. Zone of Berlin
0715 31 January 1946
Hans-Peter von Wachtstein and the other SAA crewmen were in the process of loading themselves into a Chevrolet station wagon with an SAA logo on its doors when Hessinger drove the jeep into the parking area.
Cronley jumped out of the jeep.
“Hansel, what’s going on?” he demanded.
“Air Force Weather said the snow’s going to stop in the next hour, but they don’t know for how long. As long as it’s stopped, I’ll have the half-mile visibility I need to take off. Which means I’ve got to get out of here as soon as the snow stops.”