The Losing Role by Steve Anderson Page B

a hollow bang—someone pushed up against
the wall. He tiptoed forward, and took a peak around the
corner.
    Two figures about halfway down the alley. It was
dark, but the one doing the pushing was definitely Rattner—Max
could tell by his thick shoulders. The one Rattner pushed was
Felix.
    “Why should I tell you?” Felix shot back. “Why tell
you anything? You’re just envious.”
    Rattner slapped Felix on the side of the head.
    Max pulled back, squatting low. He heard Felix say,
“You wouldn’t have stood a chance in there.”
    Rattner slapped him again.
    Max could break this up. All he had to do was
whistle and stroll on by. Despite his early stumbles, Felix Menning
had made it into Special Unit Pielau. He’d taken part in a
reputedly heroic operation. And yet Captain Rattner’s wrath over
Felix had only increased. At the same time, Max had noticed a
strange parallel—the worse Rattner treated Felix, the more fervent
Felix grew about their looming mission. Max had judged this to be
the result of longstanding, unrealized drives lurking in each of
them and imagined it a sort of mutual father-son complex—only
through a glorious victory might Felix the son prove himself to
Rattner, the father.
    It had gone quiet down there. Max turned to look.
Felix had grabbed Rattner’s cap. He tossed it. Felix kicked Rattner
at the ankles and knocked the lieutenant to the ice. Crouching,
Felix twisted Rattner’s arms behind his back and pushed the
lieutenant farther down the alley, into the darkness.
    Felix was knocking Rattner around. And Rattner let
him?
    Rattner was on his knees. Felix pulled down his
trousers, slapped Rattner on the side of his head and pulled the
lieutenant’s face to his crotch. Max heard a giggle, and it wasn’t
Felix.
    Max pulled back, picked his cigarette stub off the
ice and hustled off on tiptoes. He was no prude. A man’s company
was one thing, he thought, and he’d seen it often enough in the
theater world. This was something different. This was where love
and hate spoke the same language.
     
    Next morning at mess, the men’s zeal was peaking. The
rumors and theories turned so grandiose, Max found it hard to keep
up. They were to capture the American General Staff, went one
rumor. No, no, they would retake Paris in American uniform, said
another, and push the Allies back to Dunkirk just like in 1940.
Even Zoock got in the game. They were to sail to England and bag
that old navy man Churchill, of that he was certain.
    “Ask me, I say we’re going to take out Eisenhower
himself,” Felix shouted.
    Max was sitting at Felix’s right as always. What
he’d seen the night before did not happen, he’d reminded himself
three times this morning. “That sounds about right,” Max said,
smiling. Then he picked at his potatoes and sipped his cold ersatz
coffee.
    That evening, SS Lieutenant Colonel Skorzeny
addressed Special Unit Pielau in his villa. Numbering about forty
now, the commandos of Special Unit Pielau had packed into
Skorzeny’s dining room. They sat shoulder to shoulder on chairs set
out in perfect rows as if they were about to hear a baroque
quartet. Skorzeny stood before them, where the quartet might have
been, and Arno the adjutant served the men champagne glasses filled
with thinned beer just like they got in the POW camp. Max was near
the back, next to Felix, yet they didn’t have to strain to see the
tall Skorzeny. The man wore the combat fatigues of an American
Colonel, a tight-fitting and much drabber costume than his tailored
SS finery. Skorzeny raised his glass and they all raised their
glasses and stood on the tips of their toes. Skorzeny said:
    “Congratulations, Kameraden —you brave men in
this special unit are the spearhead of what is now called Panzerbrigade 150 . We move out in two days.”
    “Hurrah! Hurrah! Long live the Führer!” shouted the
men. They drank and beamed at their colonel. Skorzeny beamed back,
nodding, and bade them to sit. He