THE HOSTAGE

If General von Dexter surrendered the garrison, his wife would be ordered executed by
the Fuhrer. If he fought on, he would condemn 10,000 men to a massacre.

C. S. FORESTER

In the autumn of 1944, as the Allied armies were advancing toward the Fatherland,
General of Infantry Friedrich von Dexter received his new orders.
Aloise, his wife, stood motionless by him as he read, trying to conceal her anxiety.
Then Dexter handed the orders to her.
"We have ten minutes," said the general. "Let us go for a walk."
"What does it mean, dear?" asked Aloise before they reached the first street corner.
"A direct order from the Fuhrer," said the general. "I have been appointed to the
command of Fortress Montavril, on the Belgian frontier, near the channel coast."
"What sort of fortress is it?"
"I doubt if it is a fortress at al," he said. "The Fuhrer has a new system. He designates
a particular area as a fortress and appoints a garrison and a commandant for it. The place
is expected to hold out to the last man."
"It is hopeless, then?" asked Aloise.
"It is my duty to obey orders, and to fight for my country, no matter what the future.
But in a siege there comes a time when a further defense is useless," he said. "When the
perimeter is broken. When the enemy's artillery is overwhelming. To hold out longer
means a massacre. But I suppose sometimes it is means necessary, even so."
In her heart of hearts Aloise believed that there could never be any situation worth
the sacrifice of thousand of lives, but she did not say this.
"And you, dear," Aloise finally asked, "have you thought about what will you do?"
"I have my order," said Dexter.
There was a grim, harsh tone in his voice, and Aloise saw that his face bore a
gloomy, hopeless expression.
Most people would have thought there was very little about General Friedrich von
Dexter for any woman to love - a hardened professional soldier limited in education an
outlook.
An old woman of 60, and old man of 63, walking together along the street in a bleak
autumn sunshine, discussing horrors, discussing the death of thousands of men - how
could there be love there? Yet there was, just as flowers grow among rocks.
"My dear," said Dexter, not daring to meet his wife's eyes. "You know there is a law
of hostages?"
"Yes."
No one in German could fail to understand it. The practice had become standard that
summer. If an officer was to desert, his father or his mother, his wife or his children
would be killed. The man who faltered in his duty condemned to death in that moment
those who were dearest to him.
"You are the only one now, dear," said Dexter.
The youngest Friedrichk von Dexter had died at El Alamein; Lothar von Dexter at
Stalingrad; Ernst was "missing, believed killed" at Rostov. There were only the two old
people left. One would command at Montavril, and one would be a hostage at home.
"Did you notice in my orders who was to be my chief of staff?" asked Dexter.
"A Gruppenfuhrer, an SS officer - I can't remember what his name is."
"Gruppenfuhrer Frey," said Dexter. "I know why he was appointed."
"To spy on you."
"To keep me up to my duty." said Dexter.
They were nearly home again. Everything had been said except good-by, which
would have to be said immediately. As Dexter kissed his wife before going out to his
waiting car, he had the law of hostages in his mind.
On the 17th day of the siege of Montavril the Allies launched their third attack,
breaking through the outer defense perimeter. It was a desperate fight in driving rain. The
general himself had taken part in it. Tt was he personally who had saved the day. He had
rallied the broken infantry, had brought up his last reserve, and had plugged the gap in the
defenses.
The counterattack he launched might even have succeeded if an explosion had not
momentarily dazed him. By the time he could stand steady again, the counterattack had
failed.
Back at headquarters, in the crypt below the shattered church of Montavril,
Gruppenfuhrer Frey rose to greet him.
"Congratulations, General," he said in his shrilled voice, and the general stared at
him in astonishment. There was nothing in the past few hours - or days - weeks - which
called for congratulation. With an extravagant gesture, Frey handed something metallic to
Dexter. "The Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross!" said Frey. "The Ritterkreuz! It was never
better deserved."
"How it this get here?" demanded Dexter.
"The plane - you didn't see it pass over? This morning - it dropped a message
packet?"
Dexter had been too busy to notice. "Was there anything else in that message
packet?" he asked sharply.
"Personal orders for me from SS head office."
"Anything for me?"
 "One letter, General."
Dexter knew what it was the instant he saw it. He snatched it from Frey's hand.
Frey's fingers were twitching to open it, born spy that he was; and as political officer he
could have demanded that it be shown him, but he knew Dexter would not have allowed
him to see Aloise's letter, not for anything on earth.
"Have any reports come in?" asked Dexter. He must attend to duty before reading the
letter.
"Verbal reports, sir," said Busse, the assistant chief of staff. The garrison's senior
medical officer had advised that anesthetics and dressings were completely gone, and
plasma nearly so. "And," Busse continued, "the adjutant of the 507th Artillery Regiment
reports-"
Dexter interrupted. "I saw him on my way back. I know what his report says. Ten
rounds left per gun, and very few guns serviceable. Anything else?"
"The court-martial findings, sir."
Two men caught in the act of desertion were waiting to be shot. There could be no
mercy for them if the garrison was to be held together. It was Dexter's duty not to delay.
And yet - he had fought a good fight. In the hands of a bungler the defense might well
have collapsed one the third day, and now it was the 17th. Surely he was entitled to some
reward more satisfying than the Ritterkreuz? Could he not spare two lives? Or even the
garrison 10,000? He was suddenly aware that Frey's eyes were fixed on his face.
"I hope the baroness is well," Frey said, his shrill voice even shriller. "I hope she is
well." There could be no doubt about the implication. Frey was threatening to ensure the
death of the entire garrison. He was infected with the same madness displayed by the
Fuhrer and the whole party, with the same lust for destruction.
Dexter's pistol was at his belt, and he was actually tempted to draw it and kill this
madman. But that would no help to Aloise. It would not remove her from the power of
the SS; rather it would ensure the worst, the torture chamber as a prelude to death. The
general mastered himself by a frightful effort. "I shall go and rest," he said. "For fifteen
minutes."
He walked slowly to the corner where a suspended blanket screened his bed. He
remembered to take a candle with him.
Dexter lay down, his hand holding the letter. There was a moment's incredible
temptation not to read it. He was so weary. The deed he had in mind would end his
troubles. It might well save Aloise's life too. A bloody sacrifice might appease the
madmen of the SS. And even if it did not, he would be at peace, even if Aloise - no; he
must not think along these lines.
Nor would it solve the problem of the garrison. With his death, Frey would take
command, and the 10,000 men were still doomed. He opened the letter.
"My dearest - This letter brings you every good wish and my deepest love, which
you know you have had during all the years of our marriage. But, dearest, I'm afraid this
letter is going to add to your unhappiness. I have bad news for you.
"I shall not be alive when you receive this letter. I have a cancer. It has not been too
bad until recent days, but now I cannot go on. Dr. Mohrenwitz has been giving me pills to
make me sleep and to ease the pain, and I have been saving them up. Tonight after I have
posted this letter I am going to take them all at once. I have made all the arrangements
and I know I shall die."
 "So, I have to say good-bye to you, dearest. You have always been the best, the
kindest, the tenderest of husbands to me. I have loved you with all my heart. And I have
been fortunate to have a husband I could admire as well as love.
"Tonight my last thoughts will be of you, always and ever my very dearest. Good-by,
darling, good-by."
Dexter was conscious only of his dreadful sense of loss. A world that did not have
Aloise was not a world in which he wanted to live. He remembered why he had come
here. He put his hand on the pistol, and perhaps it was the cold contact that recalled him
to other realities. Aloise was dead - beyond the power of the SS. He realized that he will
had a duty to do, a duty which he could now carry out.
He drew his pistol and emerged into the crypt. They were still there, Frey and Busse,
waiting to hear the pistol shot behind the screen, and they looked around in surprise as he
came bursting out.
"Move and you're dead!" Dexter said to Frey.
Frey obeyed; no sound came from his lips, although they moved.
"Busse!" snapped Dexter. "Telephone General Fussel at once."
"You're going to surrender!" said Frey, finding his shrill voice again, his body
jerking with emotion.
"Yes," said Dexter.
"But your wife!" said Frey. "Remember -"
"My wife is dead."
"But my wife - my children -"
Frey's voice went into a scream. He put his hand to his pistols. Before he even had
the holster unfastened, Dexter shot him twice.
That night the BBC broadcast the news of the surrender of Montavril. Ten thousand
men came out from the shadow of imminent death into the prisoner-of-war camps of the
Allies. Far away in East Prussia, in a gloomy frantic tyrant raved like the maniac he was -
because 10,000 men were alive whom he wished dead.
The same night four men knocked at the door of a house in the Welfenstrasse. A
dignified old lady answered, and at a glance recognised their uniforms.
"I was expecting you gentlemen," she said. The old lady's hat and coat hung in the
hall; she put them on quickly and walked to the waiting car. She showed no signs of
cancer. But as she promised, her last thoughts were of her husband to whom she had
written.