Five Past Midnight - James Thayer [38]
12
THE LINE OF REFUGEES at Sergeant Hans Richter's checkpoint was growing. His post was on the road between Colditz and Leipzig, at the small town of Rotha. His company had erected a barricade across the road and was checking all vehicle and foot traffic. He took documents from the next traveler in line.
Richter was a member of the Police Group General Goring, a guard unit originating in Prussia, where in the early years of the Reich, Goring had become commander in chief of the Prussian Police. The unit was now under the auspices of the Luftwaffe, with Goring at its head. On the left sleeve of Richter's green greatcoat was a dark green cuff title with silver Gothic letters spelling LPG GENERAL GORING. The sergeant wore a service knife and a canteen on a belt at his waist.
Richter's unit had been at the road barricade for the past twenty- four hours. At their barracks in Berlin the sergeant's men had been given thirty minutes to pack their kits and climb into troop trucks headed south. Fire police, barrack police troopers, railway protection police, waterways police, police tank crews, motorized traffic police, female police auxiliaries, Party member volunteers, members of the Security and Help Service, the Air Raid Warning Service, National Labor Service guards — Richter had seen them all heading south to isolate a portion of Saxony. The size of the operation awed him. Three of his mates had been killed in a British strafing run during the journey south.
The checkpoint was on the outskirts of Rotha. Pastures were on both sides of the road. Fields were overgrown because cattle that would have grazed the grass down had been added to the Reich's ration. Police patrolled the fields, insuring that the refugees kept to the road, funneling them to the checkpoint. The company's first duty when arriving on the Rotha road had been to dig a slit trench to dive into if Allied planes were spotted.
Richter was only twenty years old, and his face was moist and undefended, a twelve-year-old's countenance, he knew. He compensated by scowling while on duty, molding his face into one of authority. The Schmeisser submachine gun he carried across his chest helped.
He passed the identity card back to the refugee and waved him through. The refugee grabbed his suitcase with one hand and his daughter with the other, and continued on. Richter rose to his toes to glance back along the line. Must be three hundred people waiting to pass through, he guessed. They were hollowed-eyed with fatigue. They wore a mixture of cast-off military uniforms, peasants' field clothes, and city attire. Some had blankets over their shoulders. Many had stuffed newspapers into their coats and down their pants because nights were cold. They pulled carts and pushed wheelbarrows. Horses led wagons piled with furniture and trunks. Richter even saw a cart drawn by a white goat.
Low clouds had moved in over the hills to the south. The clouds were about the only defense Germany had left against Allied planes. Richter was glad for the respite from skyward vigilance. It let him do his job, searching the line of refugees.
He looked again at the clipboard attached to the back of his Borg- ward troop transport at the side of the road. On the board was a large print photo of an American. At the briefing that morning Richter's captain had warned that the fugitive was to be shot on sight.
A horn bleated, and a Horch limousine parted the refugees as it approached the checkpoint. The auto had a lieutenant general's ensign above its sweeping black fenders. The driver stopped the automobile at the crossbar and rolled down his window.
Sergeant Richter bent to the window "May I see your papers, please?"
From the back seat came a bark, "I am Wehrmacht Lieutenant General Karl Drager. Let me through immediately."
"I must see your identification, General And your driver's. Those are my orders, sir."
The general leaned across the seat back to bellow, "And I'm giving you new orders. Raise the barricade right now."
Sergeant Richter put his hand around the