The man emerged from the back of the house. “No socks. Dammit. Just lady stuff, old silky drawers. I ain’t wearing lady underwear on my feet. You want any, get it yourself. But damn, you oughta see the beds! Big fat mattresses! They still got sheets on ’em. Those’ll do. I’ll cut ’em up too.”
Mitchell emerged from the kitchen, pockets stuffed with the jars, said, “White sheets? Roll ’em up, bring em along. They could give us some camouflage. The rest of you … we’re not moving in here. Grab some of this chow. There’re some tins of sardines, or something close. Take whatever you can put in your pockets.”
Higgins was at the door now, scanning the others, said, “Let’s go, boys. No time to hang around.”
Benson looked again at the photograph. “Sarge, where’d they go, you think?”
Higgins didn’t answer, and behind Benson, one man said, “Oh hell! They’re right here! I’ll be damned.” The man was standing in a doorway, looking down into a cellar, and he said, “Hey! It’s okay. You can come out. We’re not the Krauts.”
Mitchell was there quickly, said to Higgins, “They hid right here in the cellar, Sarge. They look scared to hell. Any of you idiots sprecken German?”
Word had passed across to the other house, and more of the men were behind Higgins, curious, some of them already eating whatever they had found. Mitchell was waving the people up from the cellar, said, “It’s okay, folks. We’re the good guys. Good God … look what they got there! It’s a damn wine cellar!”
Benson pushed forward, others as well, saw down into the darkness, three white faces staring up at them, wide-eyed terror. He recognized the women from the photograph, and now the old man, much older, standing slowly, and behind him a rack of wine bottles.
Higgins moved through the others, stopped at the top of the stairway, said, “Okay, back up, you slobs. They’re scared enough as it is. You’re gonna ugly them to death. There’s enough wine here to start a riot with you guys, and we can’t be having any of that right now.”
“Aw, Sarge.”
“Hey, come on, Sarge.”
Higgins turned, his voice louder.
“Back away! This isn’t a damn USO! We need to know how to find Saint Vith. That’s a hell of a lot more important than some damn wine.”
He turned to the cellar again, motioned with his hand, his voice gentle, patronizing. “Now, you folks come on up out of there. We’re gonna take some chow and stuff, and we need to know a couple things. That’s it. Nobody gets hurt.”
Higgins backed away, and the old man emerged first, stooped, withered face. He seemed defiant, protective, and Benson looked again at the smaller photograph, said, “Hey, Sarge, this guy used to be a soldier. There’s a picture. He’s in a uniform.”
“Well then, he oughta understand what we want. You cooperate, old man, and we leave you be.”
The old man searched the faces, the black coats, seemed dismayed.
Mitchell said, “He’s looking for an officer. Bet he wants to know who’s in charge.”
Higgins ignored the comment, was staring down into the cellar.
“Holy mackerel. Would you look at these two.”
The women emerged now, eyes holding raw terror, one slightly older, gripping the other’s hand. They came up into the room, scanning the uniforms, curious, confused.
Benson said, “They’re sisters. Look alike.”
The older woman stepped forward, the fear fading slightly, moved in front of the old man, who seemed to object, still defiant, silent. The women had attracted more attention from the others, men crowding in from the street, and Benson could see that both of them were utterly beautiful. There were low hums from the men around him.
Higgins said, “All right. Get a good look. They got ankles and curves and big red lips. Got that? Now get the hell out of here! Start looking in the other houses. No looting, unless you can eat it, got that?”
There were murmurs of protest, Lane, close beside Benson, “Yeah, and what’re you gonna do, Sarge? Taste the treats yourself? I say there’s enough to go around.”
Higgins stared at Lane, a hard hateful glare.
“You get your ass out of here or you’ll leave your teeth right here on the floor. You got that, Private?”
Benson eased away from Lane, saw the animal viciousness on Lane’s face. Mitchell moved closer, seemed to bow up beside Higgins, eager to join any confrontation that would cut Lane down to size. Around the crowded room, some men began to ease away, some out the door, others closing in, the ugliness among them starting to rise. Lane turned abruptly, pushed his way out, and Benson let out a breath.
Higgins said, “The rest of you. Get going. I’ll get some wine from these folks and pass it out later. But I gotta try to find out—”
“You say, Saint Vith?”
The voice came from one of the women, and Benson turned to her in surprise, the others as well.
Higgins said, “English. I’ll be damned.”
“Not good English. You say Saint Vith?”
“Yeah. We gotta head that way. One of these roads get us there?”
The woman seemed flustered, Higgins talking too fast. Benson said, “Sarge, maybe draw a map.”
“Yeah, good.” Higgins pulled a small pencil from his pocket, searched the room, opened a drawer in a little table, found a piece of linen. “This’ll do.” Higgins laid the cloth out flat on a small marble-topped table, drew a circle.
“Here. That’s us, this place. Now, over here, this one’s Saint Vith. Okay? How do we get from here … to there?”
She nodded, understood, pointed to the door, motioned to the left. “Go, six kilometers. Then a road. Turn. Go the other way. Saint Vith.”
Higgins pulled his compass out of his pocket.
“Sounds right. We take this road to the left, then we’ll come to another road, and we turn right. That what you mean?”
She nodded.
Higgins seemed relieved, looked at Mitchell, then Benson, said, “Six kilometers … that’s about four miles. You got that? We get split up, find your own way.”
Higgins handed the linen cloth to the woman, but the old man stepped forward, took it, thrust it back toward Higgins.
Mitchell said, “Better keep it, Sarge. Krauts come through here and find that, he’s dead. I think he knows that.”
“Okay, yeah. Hey, fraulein, you think we can get some of the wine?”
She laughed, still nervous, said something to the younger woman, who scampered down the cellar steps. Higgins wanted to follow, but the old man stepped in front of him, unyielding.
“Okay, old man, whatever you say. I wasn’t gonna do anything to hurt your … whatever she is. Daughter, I guess.”
The other woman came back up the stairs, carrying a cloth sack, the clink of bottles, handed it to Higgins.
He scanned the contents, said, “Six. That’s enough to haul. You gotta save some for the next group who wanders through here.”
Higgins moved toward the door, Mitchell following, and Benson looked again at the older woman, not old at all, the beauty in her face worn down by … what? He looked again at the photo, the face of the boy, a teenager. He’s not here. Maybe … not anywhere.
“Good-bye, miss. Thanks.”
There was a burst of firing outside, rifles, loud voices. The shots were scattered, rifle fire and machine pistols, now the spray of a machine gun. Benson dropped to one knee, jerked the rifle from his shoulder, crawled to the door, saw men running in the lane, diving into cover, into the house across the way. Mitchell was back, then Higgins, pushing Benson aside, the door slammed behind them.
Higgins said, “Son of a bitch! Krauts!”
Mitchell checked his rifle, was breathing heavily. “They got a couple of us. Stupid bastards were loaded down with crap, and the Krauts came running across that square plain as day. I saw the whole thing. They had to know we were here, probably watched us from one of those ridges. We shoulda seen them coming.”
Higgins sat with
his back against the front wall, still held the cloth sack of wine bottles in his hand. He tossed them aside with a loud rattle, said, “My fault. Dammit! We got all damn excited about the loot. Should have posted a guard to watch the roads.”
Benson said, “How many Krauts, Sarge?”
Mitchell moved to a window, peered out, and Higgins said, “I don’t know. A hell of a lot more of them than us. You hear that machine gun? Where there’s one, there’s more. We’ve gotta get the hell out of here.”
Benson turned, looked toward the woman, but the room was empty, the cellar door shut. Higgins said, “There’s gotta be a back door. Let’s go!”
Benson followed, Mitchell taking one last glance through the window, the three men moving quickly through the kitchen. Higgins pushed at a small doorway, cracked it open, said, “Narrow street. I don’t see anybody.”
The rifle fire continued in front of the house, the machine gun ripping the walls, shattering the window glass, more voices, German. Higgins glanced back at the other two, and Benson saw the fear in his eyes.
“Keep running. Head west … that way. If we get split up, remember the girl’s directions. Ready?”
Benson nodded sharply, Mitchell saying nothing, and Higgins opened the door wider, moved out quickly. Benson followed Mitchell, saw the lane empty, a row of neat houses, heard firing on the other side. Higgins was far ahead, running hard away from the sounds, Benson fighting to keep up, pain in his feet. Higgins disappeared around a corner, and Mitchell was there as well, a quick glance back, Benson struggling, driven by the fear. He reached the corner, Mitchell moving on ahead, and Benson saw the white fields, trees, the steep hillside beyond. The machine-gun fire was behind them still, the sound of trucks, many voices, pops from the rifles. Benson felt his lungs giving out, pain in his chest, Mitchell slowing, waiting, a hard hand reaching out, grabbing Benson’s coat.
“Move it!”
They followed Higgins into the snow, the trees close, and Benson pushed his legs, ignored the pain, the trees shielding them now. Higgins stopped, fell down behind a fat pine tree, gasping, looking back toward them, Mitchell moving up close, another tree, his rifle pointed back toward Benson.
“Get up here!”
Benson stumbled, crawling now, the snow in his face, pushed harder, rolled over behind another tree.
Mitchell was watching him, said, “No one followed us.”
Higgins, breathing in short gasps, said, “We made it!”
Benson pushed his back up against the tree, tried to bring the rifle up, aiming as the others did, targets that weren’t there, but there was no strength in his arms, the rifle lying across his legs. The firing in the town seemed to slow, and there was a dull thump, the sound of a grenade, then another. Smoke began to rise through a rooftop, and Benson heard the voices still, one man screaming, and he looked at Higgins, tried to speak, Mitchell cutting him off.
“Nothing we can do. That’s half a company of Krauts. They probably took our guys prisoners … the ones that made it.” He looked hard at Benson, reading his mind. “Nothing we can do about it. Nothing. We were lucky to get the hell out of there.”
“I know. Lucky.”
Higgins said, “We better keep going. Could be patrols all over these woods. This ain’t friendly ground. We get higher up, we can sit low in some cover, wait till dawn.” Higgins held up a jar, part of the booty from the house. “We got some rations at least.”
Benson felt the hard lump in his jacket pocket, the jar of fruit, looked back toward the houses, the black smoking rooftop, a spreading fire. He stared, felt a slow twisting horror, thought of the family, the women, terrified, their worst fears coming to pass, and the old man, the soldier, who had seen this all before.
HEADQUARTERS, OB WEST, KREFELD, GERMANY DECEMBER 18, 1944
Model pranced around the room like an angry bird, stepping past chairs, spinning, hands clasped tightly behind his back. The others sat quietly, had no choice but to wait for the man’s pronouncements. Von Rundstedt watched him play out his game, so much anger, so much frustration. He asked himself, when has it ever been any other way?
The only other officer in the room was Manteuffel, the small thin man waiting for the inevitable harangue. Von Rundstedt gave a small silent thank you that Dietrich was not there. Manteuffel was at least a man of breeding, carried some decorum. They all knew that Dietrich could be crude and vulgar, and likely would respond to a harsh lecture from his superior with one of his own.
Model stopped, seemed to pounce on an idea. He looked at Manteuffel, said, “How quickly can the Fifteenth Army be brought to bear? The Führer’s plan called for them to move in behind your initial thrust and clean up pockets of the enemy who were passed by. We can do considerably more than that, wouldn’t you say? We can use the infantry to drive forward, to add power and mobility to your own spear, to enhance the weight of your armor. Infantry do not require effective roads. The enemy is escaping by the hour, and with a large-scale infantry advance, moving in tandem with the armor, the enemy troops can be gathered up more efficiently.”
Manteuffel seemed puzzled, looked at von Rundstedt, back to Model. “Forgive me, sir, but is this just now an idea that you find useful? This entire assault has lacked depth, and had we designed this campaign to succeed, the infantry should have moved up with us from the beginning. But surely you know, sir, that the Fifteenth Army is worthless as a fighting force, a shell of what it used to be. It is ill trained, understaffed, and underequipped. How can you suggest such a thing? Would you have us halt our advance and wait while ineffective infantry commanders gather their wits about them? I shall be perched up on those miserable mountain passes until summertime!”
“I am aware of their limitations. But do not forget, General, the Fifteenth Army always figured highly in the Führer’s overall plan. You have not forgotten that, I hope?”
“I will never forget, Field Marshal. It is one more portion of this folly in which we are all taking part.”
Model appeared shocked, part of the game. “It is a good thing that you are so respected. Your panzer army is the tip of the spear in this operation, and you have failed to meet the Führer’s expectations. Only by your reputation were you given such responsibility, and only by your past reputation shall you remain in command now!”
Von Rundstedt had heard enough of Model’s bluster. He motioned a calming hand to Manteuffel, said to Model, “We have all gone far on our reputations, Field Marshal. Unfortunately, the Führer’s past reputation is plaguing us far worse than anything your generals have failed to accomplish. I have tired of these dramatics.”
Model did not respond with his usual anger, surprising the old man. Model glanced around, seemed to search the room, his eyes settling on the least uncomfortable chair. He sat heavily, adjusted his monocle, seemed to sink into his own uniform.
“No, you are not to blame, General. Neither is Dietrich. I have seen the conditions we are facing, and I know what the roads are like. There is one positive, of course. The Führer got his wish. He was blessed with bad weather. The enemy’s aircraft are useless to them, and that in itself is a victory. But the weather does not choose sides.”
Manteuffel stirred in his chair, anger of his own. “Is that your explanation for our success? What of our failures? Where are the additional tanks I was promised? Where is the gasoline, those infinite convoys of tanker trucks that were promised to all of us? My tanks have gone as far as they can go without artillery support, and I do not have the gasoline to supply the trucks that bring the artillery. So, I must choose. Advance my tanks or advance my artillery. The tanks are our greatest weapon, and where they have been allowed to wage war, they have obliterated the enemy’s positions. The enemy has weaponry that is adequate to stop us, but he does not have those weapons in force where he needs them. So, if the enemy does not stop us, who shall? No, it is not the damnable weather, Field Marshal. It is the plan. We are brought to a standstill by flaws in our own strategy, and by the flaws in tho
se who tell us what to do.”
Von Rundstedt waved a weary hand. “Watch your tongue, General. It is not always necessary to speak aloud what we know in our hearts.”
“Then what, sir? How should I address the task I have been given? I am not honored to have been ordered to sacrifice my armor in a place where no battle should have been fought. The timetable laid out by our Führer called for me to be at the Meuse River by now, assisting our engineers in constructing bridges to replace those that the enemy would have destroyed in his haste to retreat. Oh yes, the enemy has most certainly retreated. I have seen it myself. He has pulled away from the most dismal ground I have ever seen, and is re-forming his defenses to meet us. But he is still on this side of the river. I am quite certain that General Eisenhower is making considerable use of the Meuse to form a second defensive line, and that those bridges are very well intact. He is using them as we speak to send forward every available American and British unit he can put into motion.” Manteuffel turned to Model. “And depend on this, Field Marshal. General Eisenhower is not struggling to find gasoline for his tanks!”
Model stared at the map on the wall, seemed to ignore Manteuffel’s outrage. Von Rundstedt had enormous affection for Manteuffel, had heard these same kinds of arguments months before, from another of his favorite generals.
“You very much remind me of Rommel, you know. Always pushing forward, always seeking to crush his enemy. In the end, Rommel failed, but not because of Rommel. He failed because he was not given the support he required from those who sent him to do the job.”
Model turned, sniffed at von Rundstedt.
“Forgive me, but this is not a time for reminiscence. There is no romance in this.”
“You are quite wrong about that. There was romance in this. In the beginning, when all of us were handed our commands. Think about this, Field Marshal. We were given the finest weapon ever devised, the German army. We were given technology and tools no one had ever seen on a battlefield. We were superior to our enemy in every way, tanks to submarines, artillery to aircraft. And so we were given a task. For more than a year, we accomplished that task with brilliance. There was no theater of the war that the enemy did not flee. There was no one anywhere, not in London or Washington or Moscow, who did not fear us. We swept our enemies out of Paris and Brussels and Amsterdam. In the early days, we defeated every army placed in our way. That is what we were expected to do, it is what we expected of ourselves.” He paused, took a breath. “So, what happened? You were in Russia. You made your reputation there, you defeated vast armies, and then it stopped. Why did you not continue to roll over the enemy as you were told to do, and force him to a humiliating surrender? Why did Rommel not roll over the enemy in North Africa? Why is it that we are only barely surviving in a quagmire in Italy? How is it that our magnificent army failed to stop the enemy from driving us out of France and Belgium? Do you believe, Herr Model, that it is the fault of the men sitting here? Might we lay blame at the feet of those generals in the field? Or perhaps the German soldier was not what we believed him to be. Could that be it? The British and the Americans are better fighters? Is that what you believe?”