Chapter I:
World War
The demolished ruins of the old medieval monastary loomed over the valley. Despite relentless artillery pounding away at the ancient structure, it still controlled the valley, denying the Allied forces the opportunity to penetrate deeper into Axis controlled Italy and break through the Gustav Line. For there was life in that pile of burned out rubble. elite German Fallschrimjaeger of the 1st Parachute Division. To stir in the valley below, to even contemplate advancing toward the monastary through the cleared expanse of the valley was tantamount to suicide. The Germans had demolished everything, buildings and trees alike, to give them an unobstructed view of the valley. Worse, the river had flooded, transforming the barren earth into a muddy morass. Then there were the minefields. Monte Cassino was proving one nut the American army couldn't crack.
Sergeant James Murata of the 100th Infantry Battalion leaned over the edge of the mud bank and fired a shot at the looming mass of the monastery. He didn't really expect to hit anything, but it made him feel better. The answering staccato of a German heavy machine gun rewarded him, its bullets striking the edge of the bank and throwing little plumes of gray mud into the air.
God, he though. I'm probably going to die for a country that has my parents in prison.
He had dark black hair, and blue eyes. However, he was different than most US. soldiers. He was Oriental, or to be precise, Japanese-American.
Murata remembered the events that overcame his family following Pearl Harbor. The FBI agents, he and his family being the victim of hate mobs, and finally Executive Order 9066. When they asked for Nisei volunteers, he wondered whether or not to enlist. He finally decided to, but had always wondered whether he was doing the right thing. He still wondered if he had made the right decision.
Murata looked over at the three other soldiers who shared the cover of the gully with him. There was Hidetoro Honda, a somewhat corpulent man who had joined the Nisei division at its founding, deciding that any change of scenery was preferable to the barren wastes of an internment camp in Arizona's bleak deserts. Hiseki Soong, a perpetually chipper and upbeat man in his late thirties of mixed Chinese and Japanese blood, always quick to point out that he had been unable to convince either the FBI or his paranoid neighbors in San Francisco's Chinatown that he was not a national security risk. Finally, there was Jun Takashi, a late comer to the Purple Heart Brigade, a young man who, if possible, seemed to enjoy killing. A dour, moody man, and one whom few of the 'little iron men' had much contact with during their infrequent terms away from the battlefield.
Each of the Japanese seemed perfectly content to remain in their present sanctuary. They had seen far too many comrades shot down by the concealed German guns, or driven by concentrated fire from the Axis troops into one of the many minefields buried beneath the oozing mud. Murata looked over the lip of the gully, to see how the small group of soldiers that had actually reached the swollen river was faring. He saw a number of green-uniformed bodies lying on the bank, but could not see anyone still moving. Muttering under his breath, Murata turned his gaze. A curse left his lips.
Running through the wasteland were two American soldiers, one of them bearing the insignia of a major. The men were dodging in a zig-zag pattern, trying to take advantage of even the slightest cover. Strangely, the machine guns within the ruined monastery were not targeting the men. Then Murata saw why. Pursuing the two Americans were a dozen Germans, garbed in the camouflage tunics of the Waffen SS. Leading the Germans was a tall officer, a peaked cap upon his blonde head. The officer was shouting orders, directing four of his group to set a heavy machine gun in the shell of a bomb crater. The intention was clear, from that vantage point, the Germans could mow down the two Americans before they made it back behind friendly lines. For some reason, the officer wanted these men alive, but he was taking no chances. Even if the Nazi soldiers were not able to catch their quarry, there would be no escape for the Americans!
"All right now. Let's see how long you can continue without this heart."
The man cried out in pain. He never though they would do this inhuman pain to him, just because he was a Jew. The hatred was something he could understand, but such inhuman cruelty went beyond his belief. Dr. Heinrich Von Frankenstein paid no attention to the suffering of the man. He merely held his finger on the man's neck, checking his pulse, while holding a watch. Eventually, the prisoner cried out one last time, then, to the man's relief, died.
"Four minutes and 38 seconds. Excellent."
"Herr Doktor," a voice said. Frankenstein turned to see Dr. Erich Reisendorf, his 'assistant'. Frankenstein knew the truth. He was a spy. Although he was a Nazi, he wasn't one of Hitler's loyal zombies. They sent the young scientist to learn Frankenstein's secrets, so they could one day dispose of the scientist.
"What is it, Reisendorf?" the Baron asked with annoyance.
"How did you do that?"
"A magician, or a scientist for that matter, never reveals his secrets."
Reisendorf looked at the clock.
"I should go now," he said.
Heinrich would have liked to reply, "Say Hello to Reichsfuhrer Himmler for me", but that would reveal he knew about Reisendorf being a spy. He knew it would be best to keep them ignorant of that fact.
"Yes, I too shall retire for tonight", he said, after a moment, turning his back on the departing informant.
Murata directed his soldiers, snapping orders to his men. He detailed Takashi, the best shot among them, to snipe at the SS troops still closing upon the fleeing Americans. Hopefully that would allow the retreating men to escape their pursuers, or at last keep them off long enough for Murata and the others to deal with the machine-gun and be free to help them more directly.
Takashi favored his sergeant with a chilling smile and crawled away, his rifle cradled in his arms. There was no denying it, Takashi enjoyed killing. For him, the war was a gift from the ancestors. Murata grimly suspected that Takashi did not even care who he killed, which side he fought for.
Murata and the other two GIs krept towards the German position. The Germans were a little too intent on setting up their gun and watching the progress of their comrades and the two fleeing Americans to pay a strict watch on the muddy battlefield. Still, there was not much cover and Murata was forced to move more quickly than caution would have dictated. It would only take a moment for the SS soldiers to swing the gun about and mow down the three Nisei.
They had almost reached the machine-gun nest before they were spotted. One of the Germans happened to glance in their direction. The man dropped the box of bullets he was holding and fetched up his rifle. A burst of automatic fire from Murata's Thompson brought the German to his knees. The soldier's camouflage tunic was weeping scarlet as he pitched forward into the dirt. The man's comrades acted at once. Two of them hastily swung the machine-gun into a new position, the third snatched up his rifle and fired. In the same instant, Soong and Honda threw their pineapples at the German position. Honda's landed short, the grenade exploding and showering the machine-gun nest in smoke and dust. Honda's was dead on, exploding in the center of the bomb crater. Murata could hear the cries of the three Waffen SS men as they were torn apart in the explosion.
'Sergeant!' a voice cried from beside him. Murata turned. Soong was crouched beside Honda's prone body. One look at the glazed expression on the man's face told him that the German rifleman's shot had found a home in Honda's body, killing the GI instantly.
'He's dead!' Murata snarled at Soong, dragging the man to his feet. He could see the other Germans taking what cover they could. The SS officer was waving commands to his men, several of them advancing toward the two Japanese and the destroyed machine-gun nest. 'And so will we if you don't pull yourself together!' Murata pulled Soong to his feet and the two men dropped into the smoking crater. They tried to ignore the smoldering bodies and the smell of death. German bullets pinged from the rocks around them as the SS men tried to keep them pinned down.
Murata lifted his Thompson, spraying a blast of indirect fire. He didn't expect to hit anything and was surprised to hear a cry of pain. Lifting his head, he could see one of the German soldiers crawling away, one arm bloodied and folded against his chest. Two others were crawling still closer, one firing to cover the other as they took turns advancing. Farther away, Murata could see two more SS men lying prone on the ground. A sharp crack sounded and another SS trooper dropped, lethal evidence of Takashi's accuracy. The two retreating Americans had stopped running, taking up positions behind the remains of a wooden lattice for grapevines. They fired at their pursuers, but as Murata watched, one of the men was struck, pitching forward, his weight bringing down a small section of the lattice. Apparently the SS officer had rescinded his orders to capture the two men alive.
Soong gave a yell. Murata watched as the half-Chinese fell, a bullet in his chest. Murata reached into his belt, grabbing a packet of sulfa. Soong waved him away. The man's face was strained. His eyes looked at Murata, then at the grenade clutched in his hand. Murata nodded, scrambling out of the nest. Soong was done for, but Murata hoped that he could at least let his friend take a few of the enemy with him. Bullets plinked the dirt at Murata's heels as he dove into a small depression. He fired back at the two SS men. The automatic fire drove them to seek shelter in the crater. A moment later, the crater was again torn apart by the explosion of a M3 grenade. Soong had certainly died a soldier's death. Murata slapped a fresh clip into his sub-machine gun. Now he would have to see that his friend's death was not in vain.
Murata circled the battlefield, taking advantage of what cover he could. It appeared that there were only two Germans still in the fight. He could see the remaining American behind the lattice firing back with his pistol, but the range was much too great for any real accuracy with the colt. Then Murata saw something else, a body lying in the shadow of a bush, its helmet lying beside it, a wound weeping in its forehead. Takashi had finally met a sniper better than himself.
A cold rage seized Murata. His friends, all that remained of his platoon, were dead. Murata had caused this, ordering them to risk their necks for the two Americans. And to their credit, his men had followed his order without so much as a grunt in protest. Murata roared, charging toward the German position, reckless of the bullets that answered his challenge. He hurled a grenade at the German position, the last of his pineapples. The explosive landed short, but the Japanese did not wait for the smoke to clear. He charged through the dust and debris, his Thompson blazing. He could hear cries and shouts of fear and pain as he emptied his clip. When the sergeant could see again, there were three bodies lying at his feet, one of them wearing the bullet ridden peaked cap of an officer in the Waffen SS.
Murata retraced his steps toward the lattice, wary of any fire from the monastery, now that the SS troops had been overcome. He could see the man his decision had saved rise from behind the lattice, the man whose life had been bought with those of his friends. He wore bars on his collar, the rank of a major in the United States Army.
"You saved my life," the Major said, apparently not even fazed by the foreign cast of the man walking towards him.
"Yeah, so, we're on the same side," Murata replied, brushing off the Major's thanks.
The Major stared at him.
"Son, I'm Major Henry McKernin, of the OSS. You know, I think we could use you. I'm in an operation that could concern the outcome of this war."
Muraata thought about his friends, the men he had fought and trained beside for the last six months. They were gone now, there was nothing more for him in the 100th Infantry Battalion. If the Major was serious about his offer, then perhaps Murata would take him up on that offer.
"You guys make combat pay?" Murata asked.
Reisendorf got into the armored staff car, its hood bearing small flags on wire rods, each crafted of black fabric, each marked out by a silver 'S' shaped lightning bolt. As it started to move, the other man in the staff car's upholstered rear seat made his presence known.
"Did you get anything?" asked the man. His head was smooth, his hair cropped close to the shape of his skull. Dressed all in black, the uniform of Hitler's most feared henchmen, the Schutzstaffel, the SS. And this man was the chief of that dread body. Heinrich Himmler.
"No. Frankenstein will not give me so much as a hint as to what he's doing," Reisendorf anxiously answered.
"Schweinhund!" the Nazi leader snarled in outrage. "For four years we have been trying to get the information from that man. And we have nothing!"
"I do have some good news, though," Reisendorf said, in an attempt to calm the raging Nazi.
"It had better be good news," Himmler said, his voice dubious. "I am beginning to question your value to the Reich, and your loyalty."
"Frankenstein is almost ready to create a super-solider," the spy announced, his voice hurried and nervous. Entire families had disappeared when the chief of the SS entertained even the merest notion of disloyalty.
Himmler adjusted the narrow-framed glasses perched on his small nose, a thin smile flickering on his face as he considered the statement.
"This is good news," the uniformed man at last said. "But I expect more of you, Herr Doktor. This Frankenstein enjoys far too much favor with the Fuehrer, despite the most vocal counsel against him from myself and Dr. Goebbles. The man is a threat. I want him eliminated," a fire of wickedness burned in the Nazi's eyes. "I dare not act until I have learned his secrets, otherwise, even a man in my position will not escape the Fuehrer's ire."
Silence settled into the slow moving staff car. The head of the SS thought for a moment. An evil grin crept across his face.
"Tomorrow, I want you to start asking Frankenstein about his life, and his ancestor, Victor. If he won't tell us his secrets, perhaps we can find something else that will."