When the Germans brought the buckets, the guards had taunted the men, what Logan assumed were insults, the German soldiers calling the Americans something that sounded like koos koos. Logan assumed it was German for “stupid,” cuckoo, but then, as new prisoners arrived, there had been an American officer, the man staying only a few days before the Germans took him away, but long enough to tell Logan that koos koos was in fact what they were eating.
The officers who came into the camps stayed only long enough to catch the attention of the guards and their commanders. The German officers seemed to welcome their American counterparts with far too much graciousness to suit the enlisted prisoners, but for the American officers, it was a blessing. They had often come into camp as badly mangled as their men, and for them the Germans brought doctors and ambulances, carried the officers to some distant place, what Logan could only guess was a hospital. Word had spread that many of the officers had been taken away altogether, that despite the German major’s promise that they would all cross the Mediterranean, only the officers had actually gone.
As the wire enclosure grew more cramped, others were pulled out of the ranks as well, enlisted men, the guards reading from confiscated dog tags, calling out names, the men who could respond drifting forward. When the guards took those men away, they seemed to simply disappear, days at a time, and Logan did not understand that, his weakened mind wrapping around the mystery, the dramatic fantasy that those men might be spies, making their reports, betraying the Americans they had served beside. But the missing men had friends, men who reacted with fists to any suggestion that the missing prisoners were anything but good soldiers. Logan had begun to believe that they might just be chosen at random, and the lurid fantasy filled him that he might be next, hauled away to some kind of dark torture chamber, his imagination giving way to the ridiculous, something from a bad horror movie. But the concern was real enough, and he had searched his mind for scraps of information, if there was anything the Germans might want from him, any piece of intelligence he should die to protect.
But then, the missing men began to return, battered and bloody, and if they survived at all, they spoke of interrogation and torture that was real, and very graphic. Those who could speak at all told of a different kind of German soldier, a different kind of brutality. Logan began to notice now that each time a prisoner was taken away, there were men in black uniforms, what the guards called Gestapo, eyeing the prisoners from a distance, lurking back behind the guard shacks. The interrogations had little to do with battle plans or communication, with any details the Germans could possibly find useful. And then, they all realized that there was nothing random about the men at all. In every case, they had names like Epstein and Bromberg, and soon everyone understood that the Gestapo had come only for the men who were Jewish.
F or several weeks now, the prisoners seemed to come in waves, the wire enclosure more crowded, and almost no one held hope that they would ever leave this place. The German major still spoke to them, still poured out his speech in grand gestures, glorious pronouncements, but there was no mention now of the transport ships, and no one but the officers were led away for good. Most of the captured officers were young, front-line men, many of them lieutenants. But along the march, Logan’s first grueling climb up and over the passes east of Sidi Bou Zid, there had been older men as well, and a few younger officers of high rank. Logan recalled it still, the fog not erasing the stark memory of one man in particular. As the wounded fell out, one of the American officers had taken charge, had taken a dangerous chance by moving back and forth along the line, helping the men to their feet, shouting at the Germans to keep away, cursing them to provide water. Logan had watched the man through his own choking thirst, the burning pain in his eyes and lungs, had expected the gunshot that would end this foolish bravado. But the Germans had surprised him, had backed away, seemed to respect the man’s rank. Soon, other prisoners had risen to the officer’s challenge, the German guards finally allowing the Americans to help each other. Logan had tried to help as well, and he’d glimpsed the man’s torn shirt, saw the oak leaf, realized the officer was a lieutenant colonel. When they first reached the camps, the officer had seemed to take charge, angrily demanding that the guards treat the wounded, that food and water be quickly provided. But the protests changed nothing, and soon the German major had come, ordering the guards to pull the American officers out of the mass of prisoners, pointing out this one man in particular. As the man was called out, he had slipped close beside Logan, grabbing his arm, a hard, urgent whisper, words that brought Logan out of his fog. The officer told him that if Logan survived, if he was ever returned to the American lines, someone might ask about this one lieutenant colonel, would want to know what had happened to him. The agony in Logan’s throat kept him silent, the man’s words filling Logan more with sadness than surprise. For all the officer’s good efforts, Logan now thought the man insane, delusional, his mind having given way to the brutality of the march. The man said his name was Waters, and Logan was too shocked and too exhausted to laugh when the man told him he was George Patton’s son-in-law.
B eyond the camp, the city of Bizerte spread like a pink-white jewel, the beauty marred now by the shattered buildings, daily bomb runs by formations of planes too high to identify. The camp was positioned with a distant view of the harbor, a distraction for men whose minds had nothing else to focus on. Logan had watched the ships, constantly in motion, had listened for the planes, bombing runs growing more frequent. Several times each day now the air above them seemed filled with planes, faint specks of bombs dropping into the harbor, plumes of water peppering the ships. Then would come the great black blast, fire and smoke, a direct hit, the prisoners responding with as much of a cheer as they could make, but not enough to draw the anger of the guards. The planes had come twice that morning, at first light, and again just after the guards had brought the food buckets. The guards had watched with them, one plane swooping low, streaking fire, a black, smoky trail, the plane tumbling into the harbor. Then it was the guards who had cheered, the prisoners cursing, waiting for revenge. It came quickly, a sudden flash out beyond the harbor itself, a ship on the horizon, a burst of white light, then great columns of black smoke. The guard closest to Logan had said the word petrol, and Logan understood. Yes, a fuel tanker, on its way into the harbor. Not anymore. Now it’s on the bottom.
T he rumble of artillery was growing louder, and the men continued to gather close to the wire, crowding behind him, one man close to him stumbling, a hand on Logan’s shoulder. The guards were gathering as well, facing them, but the Germans could not avoid glancing behind them, toward the smoky horizon. There was no confrontation now, no one threatening with the bayonet, just two groups of men, held apart by a high wall of wire, both captured by the sounds of what seemed to be rolling toward them.
The air above them came alive, a hard shriek, a shell falling beyond the guardhouses, into a cluster of block buildings. More shells came down farther away, tossing debris skyward, the ground jumping under Logan’s feet. The German officers began to call out, orders, the guards responding, moving away quickly. They ran toward the destruction, more men gathering from the streets beyond the camp, all of them running toward the shattered buildings, flames rising out of the wreckage. The prisoners watched silently, no one reacting, and Logan’s brain strained once more to pull itself out from behind so many weeks of fog. He felt his heart beating faster, looked again to the west, black, billowing clouds, the sudden impact of more shells, one enormous flash of light, fire and smoke, a deafening explosion, just inside the edge of the city. The Germans were mostly gone now, but he could hear the shouts of men, a new wave of artillery fire close by, a battery of German guns that had deployed a short distance beyond the guardhouses. Most of the incoming shells were falling on the city itself, shattering the stone walls, some falling closer, punching shallow craters in the open avenues. There was traffic on the nearest road, a fat truck, machine guns on both sides
, German soldiers peering out, the truck bouncing heavily as it roared past. More trucks came, smoke from an engine, the truck limping from a flat tire, sparks trailing behind, the driver not slowing. The trucks and smaller vehicles continued to roll out of the city, some full of soldiers. Their drivers stared ahead, pushed on past the compound, the caravan disappearing down the one wide roadway that led toward the harbor.
Beside him, one man spoke, gravel in his weak voice. “By damned, they’re running away.”
A wave of smoke rolled over them, the sounds of the fight closer still, chatter and pops of rifles, a burst of machine-gun fire, jolting his brain, made him push forward, hands on the wire, straining to see. He knew the sound of the German machine guns, too much experience of the guards firing above them, or splattering the mud, just for effect. There were horrible times as well, when one of the prisoners had made his mad climb up the wire, the machine guns chopping him down, spraying blood on the men who had tried to hold him back. The German guns had a hard, hollow sound, but the gun he heard now was different, familiar, and he heard it again, mingling with the pops from the rifles. The machine gun was a Thompson. It was an American.
Germans were coming out of the rubble now, a steady stream along the blasted street, blackened hands and dirty uniforms, some without helmets, two men carrying a comrade by the arms, blood on the man’s chest. They continued to come, some running, stumbling, one man, more blood, the man collapsing a few yards from the wire. The prisoners began to push forward again, some now climbing up on the wire, and Logan felt the energy, the awareness in all of them that the Germans no longer cared about guarding prisoners. Around him, more men began to climb the fence, and Logan felt himself pushed from behind, the energy building, one man pointing to the dead German’s rifle. The fight was closer still, more of the Thompsons, too many sounds, the short blast of grenades, German machine guns responding.
Beyond the guardhouses, a truck rolled toward them, rolled into open ground close to the wire. Logan saw the machine gun, one fifty-caliber up top, a man at the gun, swinging the barrel toward the prisoners. Men poured out from the back of the truck, familiar, the guards, two more heavy machine guns brought forward, set on the ground, supported by tripods. The guards stood motionless, tense, seemed to wait for something, the Americans up on the wire still as well, a hard silence. Logan saw the major now, the man coming out from behind the truck, saw the face, the arrogance, a glimpse of hell in the man’s eyes, the man Logan so desperately wanted to kill. The officer stopped a few yards from the wire, stood with his hands on his hips, looked up at the prisoners holding tight to the wire, smiled, shouted something in German, an order. The guards seemed to move in one motion, men close to the machine guns, pointed straight into the compound. Logan stepped back, instinct, men around him making low sounds, the men up on the wire still frozen. The major stepped closer now, stood out in front of his own machine guns, a few feet from the wire, still smiled at them, a small laugh, scanned the faces of the Americans, stared straight into Logan’s eyes, said:
“You will die now.”
He shouted another order, stepped to the side, and Logan saw the faces of the guards, the Germans all staring at them, wide-eyed fear, nervous hands. The men around Logan began to back away, but not all, some moving up close to the wire, the men up on the wire still motionless, hanging, waiting, all of them staring into the guns, staring into the faces of the enemy. Logan felt his heart racing, an icy chill, looked at the major, saw the man’s smile fading, a cold, gray stare, the man pulling a pistol from his belt.
“You will die now.”
Behind the guards, the sounds of artillery erupted again, a burst of machine-gun fire. The sounds were close, just beyond the guardhouse, and the guards reacted, some moving back to the truck, peering around. The major ignored the commotion, stared at Logan, the two men drawn together, Logan’s fingers gripping the wire, the man raising the pistol. There were new shouts, the guards starting to run, one man suddenly punched down, tumbling heavily to the ground. They all ran now, disappeared into rolling smoke, and above Logan, the men on the wire began to call out, some climbing up higher, the machine guns that pointed toward them unmanned. Logan could not look away, focused only on the major, past the small black hole of the pistol, stared into the man’s eyes, saw cold fire, felt his heart racing, ice in his hands, clenched hard around the wire, the growing fury, the wire bending, his arms pulling it slowly toward him. The smoke was all around them, a rolling cloud, and there were more shots, single pops, the truck abandoned now, the fight rolling toward them through the rubble. Logan kept his stare on the officer, the man doing the same, and the pistol wavered, a slight quiver in the German’s hand, and suddenly the man’s knees buckled, the major tumbling forward. The smoke engulfed them both, and Logan could see movement, shapes of men at the truck, men moving forward all through the smoke, swarming out in both directions, some moving into the guardhouses, the sharp blast of a grenade, shouts, a scream, more machine-gun fire. Logan stared at the major’s body, saw blood on the man’s back, the pistol still in his hand. He looked up, no one on the wire, the prisoners gone, and he looked back around him, saw a truck on the far side of the compound, the gate, the truck pushing slowly into the wire, ripping the tall steel posts from the ground. He saw now, the truck had a white star. They were Americans.
The wire collapsed on the truck itself, and the truck backed away, pulling the fence apart, ripping a great hole in the wire. Prisoners were cheering, pouring out of the compound, limping and battered men rushing forward. Some stopped just beyond the shredded wire, collapsing to their knees, soldiers gathering around them, more trucks now rolling close. Logan moved that way, ignored the pain in his leg, stumbled, the smoke choking him, and he passed a tin shelter, saw men crawling out, the sick, barely able to move, soldiers there now, stretchers, medics. He saw one man, lying flat, under a strip of canvas, and he dropped to one knee, leaned close, put his hand on a man’s shoulder, said, “Come on! The fence is down! We can go! It’s our boys!”
The words choked, tightness in his throat, and he felt tears, but the man didn’t move, didn’t seem to hear him. Logan felt his face, cold stiffness, and he leaned closer, the man’s face gray and still, the name in his mind, Harris…
“Damn.”
He felt a hand on his back. “Hey, Mac, you need some help? I’m a medic. How’s your buddy?”
Logan pulled himself out from the shelter, sat. “He’s gone. Didn’t make it.”
“Too bad. Lemme see that leg. Pretty nasty.”
Logan said nothing, the man wrapping something on his leg, a hard sting, the leg jerking.
“Easy, Mac. I’ll get you some morphine.”
“No, that’s okay. Just help me up. I’ll be okay.”
“We’ll get you a stretcher. Ambulances are coming up. We’ll treat that leg in the field hospital.”
The man lifted him up under the arm, and Logan stood, the man pointing him toward the opening in the wire. A crowd was there, a chorus of shouting, cheers and crying, an ambulance rolling close, more men, officers. Logan moved that way, felt the pain in his leg, tried to fight the fog returning, his brain echoing the sounds of the fight, the machine guns, the thunder of the artillery. The soldiers were mingling with the prisoners, and he felt a chill, wanted to warn the men, thought, it can’t be over…there’s still a fight, be careful. Germans just over there…
He stumbled again, his hands on the ground, pain in his leg, the jolt waking him, clearing his brain. He pulled himself up, moved toward the gaping hole in the fence, looked toward the rubble beyond the camp, the guardhouses, windows punched out, more smoke. The fog drained out of him, and the sounds faded, distant and harmless. He saw a column of Germans emerging from the rubble, their hands clamped tightly on their heads, prisoners, guarded by filthy, jubilant Americans. He limped forward, pressed his way through the men at the wire, felt hands on him, words flowing past him, couldn’t speak, tears blinding him. He moved out pa
st the enclosure, walked back along the wire. On the road, trucks were in motion, foot soldiers still advancing, scattered gunfire in the distance, more smoke, burning buildings, sickening stench. He ignored it all, moved along the wire, saw it now, the gray heap, the bloody stain. He stood over the man, tried to make a fist, to feel the anger again, to open that dark and dangerous place, to bathe himself in the hard, black hatred. But it wasn’t there, his fist weakening, the stirring of anger growing still. He leaned down, pulled the pistol from the German’s hand, looked at it for a long moment, raised it high over his head, pulled the trigger. The gun jumped, a hard crack, and he pulled the trigger again and again, fired the gun until it was empty. Men were shouting at him, moving up close behind him, nervous, an officer, and he turned, saw a lieutenant, a flash of anger.