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Cronley was about halfway through the six-month Basic Course at the Counterintelligence Corps Center at Camp Holabird in Maryland when he was again summoned to an orderly room. There he was handed the credentials of a CIC special agent, issued a snub-nosed .38 Special Smith & Wesson revolver, and told, “Pack your gear, Cronley, you’re on the 1900 MATS flight to Frankfurt.”

The major from the XXIInd CIC Detachment who met his plane was visibly disgusted when Jim Cronley outlined his military intelligence experience for him, but said, “Well, we’ll find something for you to do where you can cause only minimal damage.”

Cronley was shocked at the near-total destruction of Frankfurt am Main, and just about as shocked when, after an hour’s drive in a requisitioned Opel Admiral sedan, they arrived in Marburg an der Lahn. The city seemed absolutely untouched—except for the population, which was incredibly drab and visibly malnourished—by the war.

He was quickly given the explanation.

Philipps University in Marburg an der Lahn was famed as the site of Roentgen’s discovery of the X-ray, but it owed its survival to something else few people knew and even fewer talked about. Since before the Civil War, it had been where the War Department had sent intelligence officers for training.

One such alumnus had been a brigadier general of the Eighth Air Force charged with selecting targets for aerial bombardment. When the time came to take out the Marburg railroad marshaling yards, the general had personally delivered the pre-raid briefing, ending it with the announcement that if one bomb fell anywhere but in the marshaling yards, the entire wing could expect to be transferred to the Aleutian Islands, where they could expect to remain literally on ice until after every other last swinging dick in the Air Forces had gone home.

Another alumnus, this one a full colonel, had been the G-3 (Plans and Operations Officer) when the Ninth Army approached Marburg on its way to Kassel. He issued much the same threat. Anyone shooting at his university while taking Marburg would regret it.

A third alumnus, another colonel, was named the first military governor of Marburg. He summoned the citizenry to the market square and began his speech in fluent Hessian German. “Meine Damen und Herren, while I regret the circumstances, it is wonderful to be back in the city of my university.”

Cronley was at first nothing more than a translator. But he was smart, and an officer, so he was quickly given greater responsibilities. Keeping an eye on the MPs as they searched for fleeing Nazis seemed to be an ideal duty for him.

He also quickly learned there were certain privileges associated with being in the CIC.

He had the choice of wearing his uniform and insignia of rank or “civilian clothing.” This was defined as a rank-insignia-less uniform. Not only did he no longer have to display his gold second lieutenant’s bar—second lieutenants were a standing joke in the Army—but he could put away what the Army called “Shoes, low quarter” or “Boots, combat” and replace them with something more appropriate for a civilian from Texas: pointed-toe Western boots.

And he had a choice of weapon. He had grown

up in Midland, Texas, around guns. He had a low opinion of the snub-nosed S&W .38 Special he had been issued. He replaced it with the standard Model 1911-A1 .45 ACP pistol, which he elected to carry in a holster slung low on a web belt across his hip.

The first time Elsa von Wachtstein saw Lieutenant Jim Cronley, he was sitting slumped down in his jeep, his Western-booted left foot resting on the left fender extension. He had an overseas hat cocked on his head, and his .45 and holster were dangling from the jeep’s windshield. He was puffing on a long, black cigar.

The first time Jim Cronley saw Elsa von Wachtstein, who was standing in line waiting to undergo MP scrutiny, he was uncomfortable. Her face was gray and her hair unkempt. She was wearing a fur-collared overcoat and had a battered suitcase strapped to her back. Her shoes were literally worn out. She was, he thought, probably fifty.

Sonofabitch! That was once, when she was young, a damned good-looking woman.

Occupied Germany was known to be a cornucopia of sexual pleasure for the victors. Women were literally available for a few cigarettes or a Hershey’s bar.

Jim Cronley had not availed himself of the opportunity. He had wondered why, and decided it was because of his mother. She had been an impoverished German woman when she met his father.

Still, he felt a little sorry for himself: I got laid a hell of a lot more often in Midland and College Station, by maybe a factor of 100-to-0, than I am getting laid here.

Elsa von Wachtstein, aware that Cronley’s eyes were on her, and wondering idly who he was and what he was doing—he was obviously not a military policeman—handed her Personalausweis to an MP.

“Coming from where, fräulein?” the MP asked in halting German.

“I came from Pomerania,” she replied in English.

The MP, surprised, looked at her closely.

“Going where?” he asked.

“Marburg,” Elsa said. “I have—at least, used to have—friends there.”

“And if your friends ain’t there?” the MP asked, as he handed her Personalausweis to the sergeant who had the Wanted List.

“Then on to Wetzlar or Giessen,” Elsa said. “I once had friends in both places.”

“You speak English pretty good,” the MP said.

“Thank you,” Elsa said.

“Got a fucking hit!” the sergeant with the Wanted List cried in surprised elation.