First Lieutenant Sam Hall ran a bored finger down the map, tracing the farthest point of advance. He marked the spot with a heavy black pen and double-checked the information to make sure the coordinates were correct. Pointless, since by the time anyone bothered to read his report, the front would have advanced a half-dozen times. He set the papers down and rubbed his eyes, yawning and leaning back for a moment. He checked his watch. Twelve hours. Didn’t the major ever sleep?
He scratched the dimple in his chin and looked up and down the narrow hallway outside Stiller’s office. His desk filled most of the space, forcing the endless line of staff members to pass single file around him. His legs were crammed against the metal surface, almost to his chest. He had to be careful. He reached down and ran his hand over his ankle, lifting the hem of his trouser. He looked around. Nobody was coming. Hall pulled a flask out of his sock and drew it to his waist, sitting up straight with his hands concealed. He methodically unscrewed the cap, keeping a lookout down the hallway. He glanced quickly one more time behind him and lifted the metal rapidly to his lips; tipping the brandy down his throat, he pulled a deep gulp, letting the fiery liquid drizzle down inside him. He coughed and sputtered. He’d drunk too much too fast. He recovered and took another swallow. He smiled to himself. Nobody had seen a thing. He hastily screwed the cap back on and returned the flask to its hiding place.
Hall closed his eyes and let the liquid fill him. The brandy warmed his insides, a drawback, as it was already too damned stuffy in here. He shook his head in disgust. Such intolerable conditions. He made sure the hallway was still clear and opened a drawer, retrieving an envelope containing a letter from his father and a magazine. He pulled out the journal and smiled: it was a periodical about Washington State College, his alma mater and his father’s too. He opened the page to an article about the school football program. There’d been no games in 1943 or 1944, but the college was hopeful that the war would end this year and the team could return to the gridiron the coming fall. He hummed the fight song of WSC as he read, the brandy tingling in his fingertips.
“Hall, what in the hell are you doing?” The Texas drawl of Major Alexander Stiller rumbled over him. He jolted upright and hastily covered the magazine with his report. His commander stood in the doorway like a chiseled granite statue. Sneaky bastard. Hall hadn’t heard him open the door. Must be the brandy. Stiller reached out a stone finger and slid the report aside, exposing the reading material beneath.
“Just what in the Sam Hill is this, Hall?”
“Nothing, sir.”
The major scowled. “It don’t look like nothing. It looks like some personal trash covering up my operational map.” He reached down and picked up the magazine, thumbing through the pages before flinging it to the floor. “You know better than that, Lieutenant. That dog just ain’t gonna hunt. We got important work to do and no time for daydreaming over football.”
“I know sir, but I was just—”
“I hope you were finishing my ready report.” The major’s eyes bored in on Hall, as if to burn through him. The weathered leather of his face creased into a frown resting beneath a short-cropped crown of salt and pepper hair. “Is that what you were doing, Lieutenant? Finishing my ready report?”
“That’s exactly what I was completing. I just needed a little break before—”
“What the heck is that smell?” The major took a deep sniff, moving his head closer to the lieutenant’s face. Hall stiffened. If he was caught drinking on the job . . .
He stood up quickly, turning away from Stiller and reaching down for the magazine. “Let me just put this away, sir.” He stuffed the periodical into his desk drawer. “I was looking at the tactical situation, and I had a couple of ideas.”
Stiller watched him closely, taking another deep breath. His eyes narrowed further. “Come in my office. I want a word, boy.”
Hall reluctantly followed his commander into the hotel room that currently served as the major’s headquarters. He took in the space rapidly with his eyes as Stiller bent to examine some papers: a folding table and chair, clothes rumpled on an unmade bed, the ever-present brass spittoon at the foot of the mattress. The major stomped around the table and tipped the chair back, crashing into the seat as he reached for some documents. He appeared to find what he was looking for, a brown leather pouch. He unzipped the wallet and drew out a plug of chewing tobacco. Stiller stuffed the wad into his mouth until a lump formed in his cheek. He swished the substance around for a few moments and leaned forward, hawking an auburn glob of liquid through the air to land violently against the side of the spittoon. The major smiled in satisfaction and turned his attention to Hall.
“How long have you been here now, boy?”
Hall cleared his throat. “About three months, I guess.”
Stiller grunted. “Seems longer to me.” He rested his hands on the desk, his eyes boring into the lieutenant again. “Well?”
“Well what, sir?”
“The report, damn it!” A scarlet storm crossed the major’s brow.
Hall drew himself up and began. “Not too much new since the crossing on the twenty-fourth. The krauts didn’t expect us in boats, and they weren’t prepared. We suffered far fewer casualties than expected. Across the board, we’re now rolling through Germany with little more than localized resistance. Same with the British up north as well. The Russians are hitting hard in the east. Only a matter of weeks, I’d say, before we link up with them, somewhere in the south, I’d wager.”
“Your assessment of the Germans?”
“Not much life left in them, but when they organize, they can still hit hard. To be honest, I think they’re about ready to call it quits, but after the Bulge, nobody knows for sure.”
Stiller nodded. “That was a goat rodeo. Damn krauts don’t know when they’re beat. Should have given up months ago. Instead, they hit us hard with our pants down and damn near drove us back to Antwerp.”
“That’s why I recommend caution, sir. I think we’ve got them this time, but who knows what they’ll pull out next.”
“Anything you think we should be doing differently?”
Hall was surprised by the question. Stiller never asked his opinion. “I don’t know. I could come up with some ideas if you want me to.”
“I’ll let you know.” The major still stared at him, his face a stone scowl.
“Is there anything else, sir?”
“No, you’re dismissed, Lieutenant.”
Hall breathed in relief. He’d delivered his report without incident. He’d expected to be chewed out about the magazine. He saluted crisply and turned to go.
“Oh, Lieutenant.”
He froze, still facing the door.
“I guess there is one more thing.”
He turned slowly around. “Yes, sir?”
“You want to tell me about this?” The major held up an envelope, tapping it a few times against the desk.
Hall felt his heart racing in his chest. Oh no.
Stiller opened the package and pulled out a letter, making a great show of scanning the contents. A crease crossed his forehead and deepened as the crimson flush returned to his cheeks. “Imagine my surprise when Patton handed me this. My own aide writing directly to the general to ask for a transfer.”
“I can explain, sir. I told you what I wanted—”
“And I told you that you’d damned well stay right where you are!”
“But, sir, the war is almost over, and I’ve got to get some combat time. If I don’t—”
The major leaned forward, pointing a finger. “I don’t give a damn about your combat experience, Lieutenant. I care about finishing this war. Now, you asked me direct about finding you a patrol or something, so you could get some exposure. Do you think you’re the first little shirttail lieutenant that’s asked? What did I tell you?”
“You told me that you’d find a chance sometime.”
“That’s right. I told you I’d take care of it,” said Stiller, his voice rising an octave. He rang his spittoon again, the force almost knocking the container over.
“That was months ago. I’ve asked a few times, and you always give me the same answer. Now it’s almost too late.”
“So you went over my head to the general!” Stiller was screaming now. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I . . . I just thought he might help. He knows my father—”
“I’m aware of that, Hall! I know your father too. Trust me, you are not your father! He might have landed you this staff position, but that don’t give you any special rights to go over my head!” The major stood, his eyes still looking up at the lieutenant. “Now you listen here, you little shit. You are gonna keep your mouth shut from now on, do you hear? You are gonna get your work done and do as you’re told. You can forget a combat patrol after this bullshit. The closest you’re going to get to the action is your damned desk! Do you hear me? Stand at attention, boy!”
Hall stiffened and stood rail straight, staring ahead.
“One last thing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If I catch you drinking on duty ever again, you’ll be out of the army so damned fast you won’t know what hit you. And I don’t give a shit who your daddy is. You got that, boy?”
Christ, he knows. Hall saluted again. He willed himself to stay calm.
“Now get out of my sight!”
Hall turned to go, but the door opened before he reached it. A corporal stepped through and saluted nervously.
“What is it?” snapped Stiller impatiently.
“Orders from headquarters, sir,” said the corporal.
The major waved the man over and retrieved an envelope. He lifted a bayonet from the table and deftly sliced open the packet. He scanned the note, his face creasing into a frown. “I’ve been summoned to see the chief. Hall, you stay here and take any incoming messages.”
“You’re both supposed to come,” said the corporal.
“What are you talking about?”
“Look at the envelope, sir; it’s addressed to both you and the lieutenant.”
Stiller pulled the paper up and read the front. “That’s fine, Corporal; you’re dismissed.” The enlisted man saluted and rapidly retreated from the room. A slow smile creased over the corners of the major’s mouth.
“Looks like Patton wants to address you direct, Hall. I wondered why he sent me your letter.” Stiller shook his head and gave a whistle. “Oh boy, that’s not too good, Hall. I figured he’d have me chew you out one-on-one, but if he’s summoning you to an interview, he must want a little bite of you himself.” The major chuckled. “Maybe you shouldn’t get too used to your desk job after all. It might be the slow boat home for you. Get yourself cleaned up. That tie is a mess, and your shirt is wrinkled. You know how Patton feels about that stuff. I’ll meet you in five minutes, and we’ll head over together.” Stiller rubbed his coarse hands together. “I don’t want to miss this. Dismissed.”
Hall saluted again and was finally allowed to depart. He fled the major’s office in dismay. The brandy sat heavy in his stomach now, burning like acid. His mind reeled. He’d been so sure the letter would get him what he wanted. Patton was a friend of his dad’s, after all. He wasn’t asking for much. Just a few hours of combat and maybe a medal. He’d seen plenty of other staff officers get the same treatment in the few months he’d been there. What was the point of connections if you couldn’t get a promotion and a citation out of it? He’d thought Stiller was keeping him down, but now it looked like the old man was gunning for him too. What the hell? Why’d he join in the first place? His dad said it would be easy. A commission, a position on Patton’s staff, a promotion or two, and then a civilian future in Spokane when he came home a hero.
He scrambled to his room, throwing on a new tie and dusting off his clothes. Patton was a notorious stickler for uniforms. When he thought he was presentable, he made his way back toward Stiller’s office, waiting for the jeep that would take him to his destiny.
Hall and Stiller maintained an icy silence during the short ride to Patton’s headquarters in an adjoining villa. Two GIs snapped to attention as the officers scurried into the building. An aide sitting at a desk in front of the lieutenant general’s office waved Stiller past but motioned for Hall to wait. The lieutenant looked around at the walnut-paneled walls of the entry room, filled with oil paintings depicting landscapes from the countryside. He thought about quizzing the aide for information about the meeting, but the sergeant was busy with a pile of papers and the telephone, which seemed to never stop ringing. Hall sighed and found himself a seat to wait for the impending chew-out.
He wondered if Stiller would tell Patton about the drinking? He didn’t have any proof, just the major’s word against his. Still, who would the general believe? Drinking on duty was a serious offense. If Patton chose, he could court-martial Hall. He would never do that to his friend’s son, though, would he? His dad had served with Patton in World War I. They had stayed in contact even after his father left the army and started a law practice in Spokane. His dad knew Stiller too, although not as well. Surely these men would not take drastic action against him.
No, he’d be fine, he decided. A slap on the hand at the worst. It would be no different than at the college. He remembered with an internal chuckle the test questions he was caught with at Washington State. They’d threatened to kick him out then too. A lot of yelling and posturing until his father stepped in. He’d get out of this okay.
Still, what if they wouldn’t let him into combat? He just wanted one mission. One glorious action yielding a Bronze Star or, better yet, a Silver One. Promotion to captain would surely follow, and he would go home a hero, well positioned to rise high in his father’s firm, if he chose law school, or commercial real estate with his uncle. From there, Congress always beckoned. His father talked about it often enough, that was for sure.
He couldn’t come home with nothing, though. That’s what Stiller threatened now. Returning as a staff lieutenant with no combat experience at all? There would be scores of young men with medals and glory. Too many fish to swim with, even in little Spokane. He couldn’t allow it. His father had made that clear, and Patton had promised. Safety and position, mixed with just enough controlled combat experience to win his laurels. They had to give him a chance. This was his future! He felt his blood rising. Who did they think they were?
The door opened, and Stiller stood in the entryway, beckoning to Hall with a stiff flick of his head. The lieutenant tried to read the expression on the major’s face, but he showed nothing. Damn him. Hall rose and walked past the aide, still busily poring over his documents, and into Patton’s office.
The lieutenant general was perched behind a massive mahogany desk at the far end of the room. Maps and charts filled the wall space behind him and most of the surface in front. He was dressed impeccably as always, his three silver stars gleaming brightly from a starched collar. His jaw worked furiously at some gum. Patton watched the lieutenant with hawkish eyes nesting beneath a gray crew cut. Hall’s breath quickened, and his hands shook. He’d met the general twice before, but they’d spoken only a few words to each other. He stood at attention and saluted. The gesture was crisply returned.
“At ease, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Do you know why you are here today?”
Hall hesitated. He could guess, but he didn’t want to admit it. “No, sir,” he lied.
“Major Stiller has communicated to me about you for some time now. A little of this, a little of that. Laziness, bad attitude, a sense of privilege.”
Hall glanced over at Stiller, who stared into space with a satisfied smirk cresting his lips. The bastard.
“Pay attention, boy,” growled the general.
Hall went rigid again and returned his focus. “Sorry, sir.”
“I told Stiller to have patience. After all, we all were young once, and most of what he described didn’t seem too unusual for a young college graduate with a powerful father. I figured it would all work out in the end. Then I received your letter.” Patton leaned forward, his countenance clouding. “I don’t play games, Lieutenant. We don’t break the chain of command in the Third Army. Worse than that, I’m not sure I’ve ever read a correspondence more filled with entitlement.” Patton’s eyes bored into him. “Just who the hell do you think you are? You figure just because your dad ran a tank under my command in the Meusse-Argonne that I owe you something?”
“No, sir, I—”
Patton jabbed a finger at him. “I didn’t tell you to talk, boy. Now listen up. I told your father I’d get you some combat time. I informed Stiller of the same. But it’s his damned decision when and how. I don’t have time to grease the wheels for every damned kid with a father that served with me somehow or somewhere. If you’d worked your ass off and followed the major, you’d already have what you wanted. Instead, you’ve sat back, half-assed, and demanded what you could have achieved if you’d just shut your mouth. Then when you don’t get it fast enough, you have the balls to try an end run around, directly to me!” Patton was shouting now, and a speck of spittle frothed at the edge of his mouth.
“I’m sorry, sir, it’s just that—”
“I told you to be quiet!” The general rose out of his chair, his arms crossed. “I thought I had enough to chew your ass out about. Now I find out you’ve been drinking on the job.”
“I wasn’t drinking, sir. That’s a lie.”
Patton’s face flared an angry scarlet, and a speck of spittle frothed at the edge of his mouth. “So, Stiller’s a liar, is it? Do you want to go home right now?”
Hall hesitated again, his cheeks hot and his eyes on the floor. “Okay, sir, it’s true, I took a little nip. I’d been up twelve hours—”
“I’d been up twelve hours,” Patton repeated in a mocking tone. “The boys in the field are up for days at a time! And their buddies are blown up, shot, and stabbed! No shower, no food, no sleep! Death stalking them every minute! You don’t know a damned thing about being tired! You’re the biggest pile of shit I think I’ve ever seen. What do you think, Stiller?”
The major grunted in agreement.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Hall began again. “I just wanted a chance to serve in combat. I wanted to do more—”
Patton’s eyes narrowed. “I know what you wanted, Hall. You wanted a cushy half hour in pretend combat somewhere near the line so you could bring home a decoration to daddy. Well, I’ve got something different in mind for you.”
“You can’t mean . . .” interjected Stiller.
“I mean exactly that.”
The major stuttered in protest. “I don’t want that boy with me. That’s the last thing I need.”
Hall didn’t know what they were talking about. He looked from Patton to Stiller.
“He’s going,” said the general. “If anything is going to make a man out of this pile of horse manure, this will.”
“Sir, what are you talking about?”
“Shut your mouth before I change my mind.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sending you with Stiller. You’re going to be his bodyguard. I’m authorizing a task force to break through enemy lines and liberate a POW camp near Hammelburg. You’re going with him.”
Hall was shocked, Hammelburg was fifty or sixty miles behind the front. “But, sir, that city is—”
“I know damned well where it is, Hall. You want combat experience? You’re going to get it. But you won’t get a soft patrol in a safe zone. You’re heading balls deep into the shit. If you come out of this thing alive, we’ll talk about a medal. If you’ve done everything Stiller tells you, without question, without hesitation. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Patton stepped right up to Hall, standing an inch away from his face. “But you listen here, you little maggot,” he said, jabbing a finger into the lieutenant’s chest. “If you step a toe out of line. If I hear one thing you failed to do. Then I will run you through the wringer for drinking on duty. You’ll go home without a commission, dishonored, on the slowest ship I can find. You’ll have a tough time finding a job sweeping the damned streets in Spokane. Do you hear me!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Now get the hell out of my office!”
Hall saluted and retreated from the room. His face was flushed, and he was hot with humiliation and anger. He’d never been talked to like that before. His whole life, nobody had dared. That shit Stiller was responsible for this. He’d get his revenge when the time was right. He smiled to himself. They’d be going where accidents sometimes happened. He’d be smart and play the game. He would do everything asked of him on this mission. No matter what, he would get his medal and his promotion. And if there was a chance for some payback as well, all the better.
The stupid aide still sat at his desk, fumbling through papers. Hall looked down at him. “Sergeant, on your feet!” The soldier looked up in surprise and confusion. He hesitated for a moment and then rose, coming to attention. “Salute your superior,” said Hall, keeping his voice low enough so that it would not be heard in the office next door. The sergeant saluted crisply. Hall looked at him for a moment, then turned and arrogantly swept out of the office, already feeling a little better.
He decided to walk the short distance back to their headquarters. Stiller hadn’t expressly ordered him to wait. He smiled to himself. Despite all this, he was getting his way. He had his mission. He would show those bastards and get what he wanted in the end.
Captain Jim Curtis stared out at the frozen fields beyond the barbed-wire fences. There was freedom there, just out of reach. The towers looming above the fence line bristled with guards wielding automatic weapons, MP 38s, and a smattering of the new STG 44 assault rifles. Any attempt to cross that fence, day or night, was instant death for the prisoner. He knew this from firsthand experience. He’d seen men killed here.
He took a couple of feeble steps toward the wire. His legs shook, and he shivered in the cold. He glanced down at his skeletal frame. How much weight had he lost in the past few months? Thirty pounds? Maybe more. He couldn’t weigh more than 150 now. There was never enough food. Even with the occasional Red Cross package, they were all starving. In the last month, the Germans had cut their meager rations in half. Rumor had it the guards were getting less food too. Further proof, if any was needed, that the war would soon be over.
He turned and headed away from the fences, nodding here and there to other forlorn scarecrows standing silent vigil in the camp. As he stumbled on, a figure caught his attention, approaching with an arm waving to attract his attention. Curtis looked over. It was Goode’s aide.
“What is it?” the captain asked, wiping a hand through his greasy brown hair.
“The boss wants you.”
“Do you know why?”
“Search me,” said the messenger, his broomstick of an arm almost folding over itself as he pulled it down.
Curtis breathed in deeply. He didn’t feel like going just now. It meant a long walk, and he was already exhausted. Why had he volunteered in the first place? Well, at least it was something to do. He nodded by way of acknowledgment, and the man shuffled off to pass the message to others.
Curtis turned and headed toward the POW headquarters, his breath coming in rapid spurts from the effort as he passed row after row of Allied barracks looming over him to his right. The buildings were rectangular and brick. The sturdy structures had served as a German training camp before the war. After a few minutes, he entered the headquarters building, a larger structure set off by a courtyard from the rest of the housing. The front of the building consisted of a forty-by-forty room with a couple of card tables and a scattering of folding chairs. The room was inadequately heated by a single woodstove shoved into the corner with a crude pipe jutting upward through the roof. There were already quite a few officers milling around when he arrived, some of the representatives of the various barracks, he realized. The prisoners called themselves “kriegies,” after the German word for war.
In the middle of the room, facing each other and talking quietly, Curtis recognized the commander of the POWs, Colonel Paul Goode, and his executive officer, Lieutenant Colonel John Waters.
Curtis had come to know the executive officer since he and Goode had arrived in the prison camp in early March 1945, when their POW camp at Szubin, Poland, was evacuated. Goode and Waters were the real deal, not volunteer flunkies like Curtis and the rest of the 106th. They were Regular Army types who’d served in North Africa in the thick of the fighting back in ’42 and ’43. As Curtis watched him, Waters glanced in his direction with his hawkish blue eyes and gave him a friendly nod, beckoning with a tick of his head for the captain to join them.
Curtis hustled over, waiting a moment for the commanders to finish their conversation. Waters turned and greeted him. “What’s up, Jim?”
“That’s what I was gonna ask you,” said the captain. He shook hands with the two officers. “Anything new?”
Waters shook his head. “Not too much. We got a sniff of news, but nothing earth-shattering. For now, we’re still shining nickels.”
Curtis felt disappointment creep over him. He’d hoped there might be something exciting. But it looked like Goode had summoned them to the regular daily briefing.
The POW commander lifted his fingers to his lips and gave a short whistle. The dull muffle of conversation faded, and the officers turned their attention to the colonel.
“What do you have for us today?” called out one of the majors from the 21st Division, another of the green formations hit hard on the first day of the Bulge. “Are we rescued?” The comment brought a chuckle from the crowd. There was much talk of freedom, and yet the sun set each day with all of them still living behind the barbed wire and the towe. . .
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