“Surrender! No soldier!”
Higgins moved quickly, kicked the door wide, still pointing the rifle. Benson saw the old man now, tough weathered face, the man’s hands rising over his head, wide eyes staring at the muzzle of Higgins’s rifle. Higgins pushed past him, Benson following, others coming in quickly, Higgins barking out, “Keep a gun on him! Keep his hands in the air! Okay, old man. Anybody else in here?”
“No soldier! Landwirt! Landwirt!”
Williamson was in the doorway now, said, “Farmer. That’s what he’s saying. The field behind the house is full of dead cattle, some chickens running around.”
Higgins continued to move through the rooms, Benson close behind him, and Higgins stopped at a closed door, said in a low voice, “Cellar. Easy now.”
Benson stood ready again, Higgins turning the knob, jerking the door open suddenly. There was a glint of light, two faces, an old woman and what seemed to be a young boy.
Higgins shouted down the steps, waving with his rifle. “Up! Let’s go.”
The boy came first, and Benson thought, twelve, maybe. The old woman seemed unsure on the steps, and Benson said, “Help her out, Sarge. She’s pretty damn old.”
Higgins did not move, looked instead toward the boy, who stared at both of them with a look Benson had not seen before. Higgins said, “The kid hates our guts. Search him.”
“Sarge, he’s a kid …”
“Search him!”
Benson slipped the rifle onto his shoulder, the old woman standing shakily behind the boy, and Benson motioned her away, said, “Uh … arms up, kid.”
“Just check his waistband, any pockets!”
“Right.”
The boy was wearing a short jacket, and Benson moved close, the boy’s stare digging deeply, black hatred on his face. Benson reached to open the jacket, and the boy lunged forward, grabbed for Benson’s rifle, kicked him, a glancing blow to Benson’s groin. Benson yelped, grabbed the boy by the neck, others there now, one hard punch, Mitchell, the boy crumpling to the floor. The farmer was shouting, pleading, the old woman watching in shocked silence, and Higgins said, “Dammit, I told you! Search him!”
Benson’s heart was pounding, the pain in his groin angering him, and he bent low, rolled the boy over. Mitchell’s foot came down on the boy’s shoulder, holding him tight to the floor, his rifle pointed inches from the boy’s face. The young eyes showed fear now, and Benson grabbed the boy’s pants, slapped his hands on the pockets, then around the boy’s back, felt a hard lump. He dug his hand under the boy’s belt, warm steel, pulled it out, saw now, a grenade.
“Holy crap! Look here, Sarge!”
“I told you. Dammit, you listen to me! These aren’t Belgians, for God’s sake! Pull the kid upright.”
The lieutenant was close now, said, “Easy, Sergeant. They’re civilians. The kid probably picked it up to protect his family. God knows what these people have been told about us.”
Benson studied the grenade, and beside him Mitchell said, “That’s one of ours.”
“Yep.”
Mitchell ignored the lieutenant, grabbed the boy by the back of the neck, lifting him by the collar.
“So, you take this off a dead GI, you little piece of—”
“Enough, Private! Leave these people be.”
There was authority in Williamson’s voice, unusual, and Higgins said, “Back off, Private. Nothing else to do here.”
The lieutenant turned to the couple, who had moved close together, the old man supporting the woman by the arm. Benson saw the fear in the old man’s face, thought, this one’s not an old soldier. Doesn’t act like it, anyway.
There was a voice coming from another part of the house. “Hey, Lieutenant! They got eggs!”
The others reacted with enthusiasm, some of the men moving away. Mitchell still held the boy in a hard grip, said to Higgins, “Not sure we should let this one go, Sarge.”
The boy’s expression had hardened again, and he seemed to understand that nothing any worse was going to happen to him.
Higgins said, “Lieutenant, we should check the cellar for weapons. What do you want to do with the kid?”
Williamson said, “He’s still just a kid. Give him to his grandpa. The old man understands what we could have done to all three of them. They know we don’t mean any harm.”
Mitchell released the boy’s collar, seemed disgusted.
Higgins said, “You two go downstairs, check it out. I’ll stay with the family. Be careful.”
Mitchell glanced at Benson, said, “Right, Sarge. Let’s go, kiddo.”
Benson followed Mitchell down the dark stairway, saw a mattress, a stack of clothes, said, “Guess they been hiding out here.”
“Don’t really care. Look under the clothes, poke around.”
Benson moved to the mattress, squatted down, raised one corner, nothing, glanced through the clothing, linens, and suddenly Mitchell said, “Well, lookee here!”
Benson turned, saw a helmet in Mitchell’s hand, an American helmet.
“That little bastard’s done more than the lieutenant thinks. If he didn’t kill our guy, he sure as hell stripped him bare. A Kraut’s a Kraut.”
Benson felt uneasy now, nervous hands still searching through the family’s dusty artifacts. He saw Mitchell poking into a small cupboard, and Mitchell said, “Wine. Guess we oughta take that. Somebody’ll thank us.”
From above, Higgins called down. “Anything?”
Benson responded, “No weapons.”
“Let’s go, on the double. Looey got a call. There’re snipers in the village. He wants us on the move.”
Mitchell tossed the helmet onto the mattress. Benson said, “Wonder who the guy is? Where he is?”
“That little son of a bitch won’t tell us, and the looey won’t let me beat it out of him. Guess we’ll never know.”
Benson moved up the stairs, heard the clink of the wine bottles, Mitchell following. Upstairs, the others had already moved out, Higgins standing with the three Germans, the boy still watching them with the hateful stare.
The old man pointed to the wine, nodded, tried to smile, said, “Bitte, bitte. Sehr gut, ya.”
Higgins still eyed the boy, and the old man seemed to understand, put his hands on the boy’s shoulders, shook his head. “Nein. Sehr jung. Kind.”
Higgins looked at the boy. “Yeah, he’s just a little kid. Means no harm. We should give him back his toy.” He looked at Benson now, then Mitchell, saw the wine.
“Let’s go. The boys grabbed a basket of eggs, and now we’ve got something to wash ’em down with. This sure as hell could have been worse.”
Benson saw the wreckage and debris, at least half the village blown apart by an artillery barrage he could smell. There was one more smell too, not the usual stink of death, something very different. He moved past the remains of a church, heard a low groan coming from one of the men on the flank, and now he saw what the man was staring at. Behind the church was a cemetery, a gaping crater in the center. Headstones were tossed about like so many dominoes, and among them, shattered pieces of wooden coffins. The smell was overpowering, the contents of the coffins lying about in a jumble of decayed clothing and black flesh and bone. Some of the men had moved that way, drawn by the horror, but not for long. Benson saw one man bend over, throwing up, and Benson moved quickly away, the others doing the same.
Higgins waved them on, said, “Let’s go! Nothing we can do there. Thank the artillery boys for that one.”
Williamson slowed them down with a wave of both hands, silent, caution in his eyes. Benson could see now, the main street of the village was wide, houses and shops spread out in a checkerboard pattern, piles of rubble alongside some buildings that were mostly intact. The houses were an odd mix, some of them like gingerbread, ornate and childlike, many that had no damage at all.
Williamson pointed to cover, gaps to one side, an alley.
“There! Go!”
The men obeyed, and Williamso
n moved across, to another squad, the sergeant there doing what Higgins was doing, staring out intently at the windows that lined the street. Benson followed Mitchell into the darkened alley, most of the squad lining up against the side of a stone house, and Benson kept his eye on Higgins, closest to the street, peering out.
Beside him, Mitchell said, “What the hell we supposed to do now?”
Higgins turned toward him, a brief glance, said, “Shut up. We’re gonna have to check these damn buildings one at a time. Krauts could be anywhere.”
The sound gripped Benson, a low rumbling echo, the others hearing it too, some calling out.
“Tanks! That’s tanks!”
Higgins eased out of the alley, looked back from where they had come, said, “Yep. Shermans. Whole damn column, looks like.” The sergeant leaned back into the alley, and Benson saw a hint of a smile. “Makes things a bit easier, I’d say.”
The tanks were coming in on the same road, close now, and Williamson emerged from the alley across the street, moved out, waving. Benson heard the first tank slow, the grumbling idle of the engine, could see the lieutenant talking to someone, animated gestures, and suddenly Williamson dropped to his knees. Benson thought, what, he’s thanking the tanker …? But then the lieutenant rolled to one side, blood on his back, and Higgins said, “Snipers! Son of a bitch! Everybody stay put!”
The tank engine roared to life again, rolled past the body of the lieutenant, the white star moving as the turret spun from side to side. Another tank followed, slowed, stopped in front of the alley, the turret rolling to the side, the barrel of the gun rising, pointing just above the alley. The gun erupted, a blast of fire, smoke, the thundering explosion shaking the stone house beside them. Higgins shouted something, the smoke rolling into the alley, blinding, Benson choking, and in the street more of the big guns opened up, hard thunder, mixed with the rumble of the engines, the ground shaking under his feet. The smoke began to clear, and he saw Higgins ducking low, a hard run into the street, through the black exhaust of the tank. Benson moved out closer to the street, filling Higgins’s place at the wall. Another tank rolled past, and Benson could see Higgins on his knees beside to the lieutenant, and now another man coming from the other side, a medic. Another tank rolled past, and Benson saw his opportunity, ran out quickly, using the tank for cover, reached the men, shouted out, “Sarge! He okay?”
“Get your ass back into cover! He’s got a million-dollar wound, that’s all. Tell the others to stay in the alley until I come get you. Stupid idiot.”
Benson backed away, saw the medic working furiously, blood on the lieutenant’s shirt, a pool of wetness in the soft dirt. Higgins was helping the medic, and Benson saw Williamson’s face, ghostly white, bubbles of blood rolling from his mouth.
Another tank moved past now, then stopped, the hatch opening, a voice, “You need some help? Everybody okay?”
Benson felt stabbed by the raw stupidity of the man’s question. He turned, saw a helmet and goggles, and shouted out, “Hell no, we’re not okay! Our looey’s down!”
The man disappeared into his hatch, the tank moving again, and Benson was furious, looked back toward the medic, Higgins suddenly up, grabbing him, dragging him back.
“I told you to get your ass back there! Nothing we can do out here!” Higgins pulled Benson with him, leaving the medic to his work. There was rifle fire now, more of the men moving in from another street, the snipers seeking targets, the Americans doing the same. There was a wave of shouting, a burst of machine-gun fire, and up ahead Benson saw one tank turn to the side, moving closer to a stone structure, a church. He fought against Higgins, broke free, the fear erased by the power of the tanks. The big gun rose up, pointing at the church, and he expected the blast, had to see it, the rush of raw power.
Higgins stopped as well, looked toward the tank, said, “They must have spotted the bastard. Oh hell, this ought to be good.”
The tank gun spewed out a fat stream of fire, the flames blowing into the front of the church, up the steeple, the church engulfed, a boiling cloud of black smoke. The fire consumed the entire building in a few seconds, and Benson stared, in shock, thought, something’s wrong … the tank’s gun didn’t work.
And then Higgins said, “I’ll be damned. Flamethrower. Bad place for a sniper to hide.”
Along the wide street, more tanks were rolling into the village, and now a half-track, men at a machine gun, others calling out, “Get the hell out of the way!”
Benson ignored them, watched the fire still, thought of the power of the flamethrower, liquid hell, the church fully ablaze. The men began to emerge from the alleys on both sides of the street, drawn by the armor, all of them seeming to understand that the danger was passing. Up ahead, Benson heard machine-gun fire, the fifty-caliber from a tank, more, another hard thump from a tank gun. Higgins began to move away, putting his own men against the front of the blasted building, keeping them out of the street, the advance on foot beginning again. Up ahead, the church began to crumble from the heat, the tanks and trucks moving past, oblivious, the machine gunners still peppering the open windows. Still another tank moved past, and beyond it Higgins shouted, “Private! Get your ass over here! This ain’t a party!”
Benson moved that way, dodged another half-track, and behind it a jeep, four men, brass. He turned back, a last look at the body of the lieutenant, but Williamson and the medic were both gone, telltale scrapes in the mud where the lieutenant’s body had been dragged away. Benson felt like following, but his instincts knew better, knew to follow the man in charge. And now it was Higgins. He turned, saw Mitchell trot out toward him, one hand grabbing Benson’s jacket.
“Come on, dammit. No time to get all mushed up. You can’t do anything about the looey. Stupid bastard shouldn’t have stood out in the street.”
“The sarge said he had a million-dollar wound. That’s bull. He’s dead. I saw his face. He’s dead.”
“What’s the difference, kiddo? Either he goes home with his million-dollar Purple Heart or he goes home in a hundred-dollar box. What matters is us. We’re still here. Let’s go.”
They stayed in the village, the company commander ordering the platoon leaders to encamp their men in any cover they could find. Despite the shelling from American artillery, and the brief assault that cleaned out the last of the snipers, many of the houses were more or less standing. It was one more thing for Benson to be thankful for. Tonight, there would be no foxhole.
The kitchen trucks had come up as well, serving what someone said was pork loaf, a mass of meat that smelled worse than it tasted, and almost no one in the squad could even handle the taste. Benson had long forgotten about the eggs, but the men who hauled that particular treasure had been amazingly careful, nearly every egg surviving the afternoon’s ordeal. It wasn’t difficult to find a house with a stove, and with carefully guarded secrecy, Higgins’s squad was happily scarfing down fried eggs for the first time in weeks. The farmer’s wine had been a perfect accompaniment, enhanced by the discovery of several bottles of cider. Even Higgins succumbed, passing along the suggestion that the water in the village might have been poisoned. Clearly, the wine was the only safe thing they had to drink. No one dared contradict the sergeant by pointing out that the army’s own water trucks had come up as well.
NEAR FRAUENKRON, GERMANY
MARCH 7, 1945
The company commander had come to them at dusk, just missing their private banquet, a fact no one offered to the captain himself. If he smelled the delicious scent of fried eggs or detected the wine and cider on the breath of Sergeant Higgins, he seemed not to care. His orders had been simple and direct. The men in the town would be allowed to sleep through the night, and no one was more grateful for that order than Higgins’s squad. Their feast had been a luxury that few of them had the stomach for, and the effect on men who had become accustomed to K rations was entirely predictable. Most of the men awoke at various times during the night from an urgent signal in their gut that
took them stumbling out into the night, desperate to find a place where relief could at least be hidden, if not dignified. Not all of them made it, and Benson could smell the results. As they awoke to daylight for the first time in many weeks, Benson shared the cursing disgust for the pungent odor that filled the building, not really sure if he was a contributor to the problem or not. For most of the men, the headache they carried into the dawn was punishment enough.
In the streets below, the trucks flowed past, and word had come from the captain again that units of the Sixty-ninth Division were sweeping ahead of them, in what seemed to be hot pursuit of an enemy who was weakening daily. For now the 106th would hold tight to the gains they had made, while in front of them, fresher troops would carry the load. The captain had seemed disappointed at that, as though his men had earned the right to charge once more into enemy guns. Not many shared his enthusiasm. Despite the army’s ongoing push that seemed to leave the 106th behind, the captain would not allow his company to occupy a German village without at least taking care of some kind of useful business. Reports from other villages had sent alarm through the division commanders that the Germans were not all escaping toward the Rhine. The villagers made a considerable commotion to the Americans that orders had been passed from soldier to civilian, even as the German soldiers pulled out. The SS officers had been the most brutal with the threats that the citizens were to obey an order from their Führer to begin a guerrilla campaign against the invaders to the German homeland. Whether or not the order was widely obeyed, reports flowed through the town of brief firefights, somewhere to the north, and one of the surviving platoon commanders, a panicky lieutenant, had convinced the captain that patrols were needed to clear out what might become a serious menace along the army’s supply lines. Despite their hangovers, Higgins had obeyed the order, putting his squad into the street once more, several of the squads marching out on muddy farm lanes that wound into wooded hillsides, land that the lieutenant insisted was still infested with Hitler’s last-gasp resistance.