Under False Flags

by Steve Anderson

  “They done pulled out,” the kid was saying, “the krauts, they high-tailed er. Everone figgered you done fer.”

  Lett tried to speak, but it didn’t work. It must have sounded like a squawk. He swallowed, tried again: “Where’s Godfrey? Where is Tom?”

  Lett’s company lost ten before the Germans pulled out of Mettcourt, including Sergeant Charles and another medic. The replacement kid who’d walked Lett back was killed by artillery the next day—friendly fire. Lett never knew his name. Lett wondered why they couldn’t have just bypassed Mettcourt. Then he heard another division had pinpointed the town as a headquarters complete with staff brass, which meant the place would be off limits to enlisted men.

  The aid station had sent Tom Godfrey to the rear for treatment, and that was the last Lett heard of it. Mettcourt left Lett as the last original Joe in his platoon and yet luckily, horribly, another looie was ordered to take over, Rossini. Lieutenant Rossini had experience going back to North Africa, but Rossini had been off the line injured so long he might as well be green. He had the highly tuned fear of the doggie. He deferred to Lett’s opinion on most decisions, which was just about right. Lett would be named platoon CO in due time. They might even make him lieutenant with a field commission. And that would be that. He was too tired to care. He was walking dead and knew it. His nerves had no sting in them. His skin felt like a thick covering he’d pulled over himself, dull to the touch and rubbery. He always had a sometimes briny, sometimes metallic taste in his mouth and the harshest country brandy couldn’t wash it out. His stomach was a knot that turned into snakes, writhing. At rest, his eyes only saw things as blurs. Every town was gray, every field green. It seemed like his whole body was filled with a sand slowly hardening into concrete. Sometimes, didn’t matter day or night, he saw dead guys he knew sitting next to him, or nuns and kids from the orphanage, and he found himself talking to them. Odd memories popped into his head from as far back as his few years with mom and dad—a happy dinner, on a drive in the country, and the episodes were so real they would jolt him up, making him stand and pace around, even in his hole. He had stopped asking the name of whatever puppyface he shared holes with, even after they had slept hugging each other all night for warmth. No one really wanted to be his foxhole buddy, because legend had it that the ones who did kept dying off the quickest.

  He had seen guys reach this point. When they started getting visitors, when their very presence signified death? A man didn’t need an abacus to do the math. Lett thought about it openly now. When he did go, provided his face was left intact, his skin would go off-green and a little shiny like wax. Maybe his mouth would stay open a little. Or his eyes. He hoped not. Things could crawl in there, or crawl out. But then again, what would he care?

  It was all too true what Sheridan had predicted—this really was just a chain gang. It all haunted Lett. Godfrey coming apart, more dead kids, his lunatic spree in Mettcourt. The latter preyed on him. Why hadn’t he gone to find those civilians down in that cellar, protect them, lead them out if he had to? Those people hadn’t occurred to him, not even the children. He had become a mindless ogre, a murdering troll about to be murdered. He would never kill himself like his deluded and dipso father, but wasn’t this what he was doing to himself? What they were doing to him? If nothing else he would let himself be overworked to death, like his mother. And no amount of killing could quench the demand on him.

  It was the only way out, the one-way street. The men in charge gave them no rest, and if they did they would only send them back out, the rest they got being the only thing worse—taunting a guy with a taste of living again. And when they were done in the ETO they would only ship off to Japan for more, or maybe keep advancing into Russia, to fight Joe Stalin. Sure, they would. It would go on forever. The new war was a total war and the whole world to come would know nothing else.

  ***

  Holger Frings could not find Vigo the sea dog anywhere on board. Their little hunting terrier had the whole crew searching for him after they had survived a wild sortie up the mouth of the Thames dodging searchlights and mines and coastal artillery. Vigo had stayed below but had been shaking and howling more than usual. Then he was gone, missing in action. The only answer was, Vigo had found a way off the boat. Their clever Vigo had chosen to take his chances in the surging cold dark water. Hanssen called crew together to discuss getting another sea dog. Frings insisted they did not. It was too goddamn deadly even for Hunde now.

  Frings’ flotilla had pulled back again, northeast to the S-boat pens in Ijmuiden, Holland. It was September 1944. On land, all along the broad Western front, the invasion could not be stopped. Allied forces were charging across Northeastern France after trapping untold thousands of German troops in the Falaise Gap and saturation-bombing them into shreds, shock and madness, ants in a sandbox trampled by schoolboys.

  He had written a brief letter to Christiane’s sister, Hedwig, asking about his girls. Hedwig wrote back that she hadn’t heard from Christiane for months. His girls had never visited. Hedwig’s man was missing in Russia and she had her hands full with her own children. Once she had offered to take his girls in, but Christiane had declined.

  On the morning of September 10, Frings stayed aboard their boat inside its concrete pen while the crew went back to the billet hotel. He was doing this more these days. He had already gotten word they were going out again that night, so why not? There was too much to get done. He fell asleep on a seaman’s bunk, down in the stern.

  When he woke, an envelope lay next to his head. A sailor had left it for him. He sat up on the bunk, trying to shake the cobwebs from his head. It was from Christiane. The postmark was from Königswinter, a charming village along the Rhine and a magnet for tourists and Nazis on holiday. He ripped open the envelope and scanned the letter:

  I’m staying here permanently, with our girls . . .

  It’s safe here, so far from the war. Dearest Holger, I wish you could know just how much I have suffered too. I have been so scared, so frightened all the time that I thought I was losing my mind . . .

  The girls are so happy here. They’ve made fast friends in the local League of German Girls . . .

  There is another man. I can tell you know. If you must know, his name is Werner Scherenberg. He’s the former Nazi Party Gauleiter—

  Frings had heard of Scherenberg—guru of Golden Pheasants and bronze bigwigs party-wide. They didn’t get any browner or more smeared with shit. The type who liked to have his portrait photos taken in profile, peaked uniform cap and all. The former regional Nazi party leader had become a rich factory owner, it was said, using forced labor to produce winter clothing for the Eastern Front.

  Herr Scherenberg has a villa here. It is our fortress. He will keep us secure until we win the war . . .

  I’m sorry it has to be like this. Herr Scherenberg has friends who are excellent lawyers. They will file divorce papers. We would like you to have a certain sum of money to keep you well, should you ever return from our heroic war at sea.

  Please do not write. You will not receive a response . . .

  Best of luck to you. You’re a brave soldier for Germany . . .

  ***

  Wendell Lett had a rattling cough and constant diarrhea and spastic tremors when he wasn’t muttering to himself or just staring into vacant nothingness. The thousand-yard stare or the goony bird look, they called it. Speaking in dogface tongues. He had red, leaking eyes. He had long fingernails, which served him well as tools, and his beard had become matted. He had long ago quit bitching about rations or not getting hot food. He only ate for fuel now.

  Lett had become the platoon CO de facto. As expected Lieutenant Rossini had proved a wreck, childlike in his worries. The unknowing bystander would never have thought Lett capable of leading. He may have looked and sounded cracked, but when it came to the job at hand the fundamentals kicked in, like someone winding up a key in his back. He insisted that the company keep a warm, preferably lighted dugout or buildi
ng for any patrols or sentries going out or coming in. They were risking their butts and deserved it. They could take their time there, with hot coffee if possible. A man could field strip or just dry out his weapon if he wanted. Like a coach, Lett would go around explaining the mission to each man, telling the latest replacements exactly what made them dead fast. He wanted to lead the patrols by this point, anything to escape waiting to be shelled again.

  In late September, Lett’s company approached the border of Germany. They faced the Hürtgenwald, a dense wooded area to the south of the nearest German city of Aachen. The Hürtgen Forest contained the Westwall border fortifications, which war correspondents were calling the Siegfried Line. Company had Lett send out patrol after patrol in the forest, day after day, like logging crews filling a cut quota. They got into few firefights, not many. They found out little. Usually they came back with the eerie feeling the Germans were just lying in wait, watching them. To most, the German forest looked the same as the forest on the Belgian side. Most were fools. This was the Germans’ country at stake now. Who knew what they had in that dark forest? And it was getting colder, fast. Over the summer and into fall Lett and his now-dead friends had spent their share of nights in the rain, but those nights were warm and summery. Wet was one thing. Damp and chilling was another. Then there was snow. If this was to be anything like Ohio, they didn’t have the gear or clothing and supply was nowhere near catching up to them.

  Lett knew the big play. All those patrols told him. Soon they were going to clear out the Hürtgen, for as long as it took, and the Siegfried Line with its pillboxes and bunkers and death traps. Then Rossini, Lett and the other platoon leaders were hearing just that from company, who got it from battalion, and division, and up and up the chain went the links.

  They pushed deeper inside the Hürtgen but had to dig in. The forest here was like nothing Lett had ever seen, something out of a bleak folk tale foresworn in the Middle Ages. It teemed with fir trees one hundred foot high, the trees choking all sunlight, their dark and thick branches hanging low and intertwining with those from other trees, so low the men had to stoop to make it past, the rain, dew and melting frost trickling down from on high to pick up speed and dump on them, the drops slapping at their helmets and shoulders and gushing cold down their necks. They trekked over hill after forested hill. The only roads were narrow, with little passage for armored support, and the few firebreaks mined or booby-trapped. Yes, this one was infantry’s show. On the first night of rain, their holes filled with a foot or more of water and mud. In the mornings, guys were starting to rise from their holes with numb feet. Trench foot would hit fast.

  Then came the artillery. Like evil scientists, the Germans had studied the forest and asked a question: How could they turn all those close-packed trunks and branches, stories and canopies and the very earth itself into weapons in themselves?

  Tree bursts, they called it. The Germans fused their artillery shells to explode above them, inside the treetops. Impacts and craters, concussions and searing shrapnel had been bad enough. Now the trees—the canopy sky above—rained giant and sharp wood shreds and splinters and hot metal. When not in their holes, GIs had been trained to hit the earth. With tree bursts, this only offered a man to the tree burst gods. Men lying prone got hamburgered, liquefied. So GIs figured it out. No more hitting the deck. Now men hugged tree trunks. It was the only way to get clear. The shrieks of incoming and the cracking and splitting of branches sent whole squads hugging trunks, sometimes a few men deep, which made the outer ring a bulwark that didn’t always survive. The dead would simply drop away, slashed and ripped apart from above and down the back.

  Guys covered their foxholes with logs, earth, rocks, anything they had. The wood-metal storm found them if they weren’t protected, and sometimes when they were. The last original from another platoon bought it that way, a splinter the size of a lamppost hammering down through him like a huge nail. Maclean was that guy’s name. The burly redhead had seven kids back home in Oregon, where he had been a logger of all things. Then Lieutenant Rossini bought it by tree burst. The medic had to pick him up in pieces and place him in a soggy basket for handing off to graves registration.

  On October 2, a Monday, Lett took out a squad of eight to patrol a small ridge. It had started raining hard before dawn as Lett huddled with the team in the CP tent, the gusts ripping through the branches above sounding like beach waves crashing against the canvas. Their tent lantern went out and wouldn’t relight so Lett poured some gasoline on the dirt floor and lit the patch, just to give the guys the impression of warmth. He had finally scored the new double-buckle boots with high leather cuff and Goodyear rubber soles. Not even these would stand a chance in this weather, and that worried him more than anything.

  He glared at the newest replacements, making each look him in the eye. “We make no sound, got me? Anyone got an itchy throat? No? Yes? Then suck on a cough drop or press on your Adam’s apple in a pinch. Stop a sneeze by pressing a finger to your upper lip, like this. Got me? Always whisper. Always. Don’t bunch up, but stay in sight of the pack, and keep it moving.”

  His patrol headed out, filing through the forest, crouch-walking under the low branches. They had to cross a swelling stream. They hopped rocks to get across and a couple guys lost their footing and got dunked. Lett’s boots held tight for now. They plowed onward. They approached the ridge as a wedge, spaced out at trunks, whispering their names out to know each other’s position because it was still dim and foggy. Lett kept the newbies from bunching up. The ridge stood only about thirty feet high, but its crest got blurred in the haze. When patrolling ridges like this, Lett had learned to run his squad halfway up while sending a guy up top now and then to scout. If they stayed too low, the enemy could get on top of them and fire right down on their heads. They moved along, from bush to trunk and over fallen log, barely crunching in the underbrush.

  The old anxiety pressed at the inside of Lett’s chest, like hundreds of fingers prodding and probing at his ribs and under his skin, wanting to tear their way out. Something didn’t feel right. He heard something.

  “Hug trees!” he hissed. “Hug fucking trees!” He clambered through mud and slammed his body around the nearest trunk.

  Nothing had come in. Not a sound. And no one had followed him. A few of the newbies let out nervous chuckles. A kid corporal shushed them. Lett hopped around on his haunches, saw guys whispering to each other, probably wondering if their sergeant had finally lost it. Lett glared back at them, his nose dripping like a tap. He wasn’t going to tell them again. His chest rattled and worked out a screeching, burning cough that he suppressed with a wheeze.

  He listened up. He needed to listen.

  He heard it. The “whump-bangs” sounded, another and another. 88s. Incoming.

  The men rushed for trunks and held on as the shells soared in. Time stopped and lasted forever as Lett squeezed his eyes shut, gritting teeth and yet screaming through the grit. The din and force and storm of it was like being inside a revving engine, a thresher. The dark day went darker and thunder boomed and lightning flared inside the woods.

  Lett felt like someone was beating him with a rifle butt, then it was a machete, pummeling him into the bark. He was hit. Had to be. He held on. The earth rocked and the force of air rushed up under his uniform, puffing up the layers of wool and denim as the shelling kept pounding. Something struck his side. He went down, sideways. In flashes he saw dirt and underbrush erupting, men cowering, splinters and sparks, others running screaming, thick objects and jelly-like masses hurtling by. His tree trunk creaked, shrieked, shuddered. He dropped away from it and curled up, into the earth, and imagined himself digging ever deeper as the shelling pounded him and them, bringing on night, squishing him into the earth with the staccato rhythm of a jackhammer.

  All went green, then black.

  He woke. He had passed out. He couldn’t feel his body, but he could feel the squishing crunch of soldiers slogging by, and something told hi
m not to move. He was on his stomach, his head to the side in the mud or something slimy. He smelled grimy oily leather straps and gear, and vapors of grain alcohol. He knew these smells. It took all he had left to part one eye.

  Germans soldiers were trudging past, but quiet as squirrels.

  He shut his eye. He kept it shut a long time.

  Sunlight beamed through the trees, sparkling, arcing. When Lett opened his eyes again, he didn’t know where he was, or how long he had been there. Was this his first battle? Was he dead? Bodies and parts of bodies lay strewn among shards of trees and churned earth. The mud had a dark red hue. A rifle stood straight up with its barrel in the ground, a gloved hand still grasping it connected to an arm, ripped off at the shoulder.

  He bolted up, stiff and staggering, and he ran, hoping he was going the right way. A ridge was at his back, and he sure as hell was not climbing that. Keep moving, keep moving, stop and you’re cornered. He came to a stream surging beyond its banks and didn’t stop, just stomped right through, lunging for rocks to step along. A foot gave way and he plunged into the water, thigh deep, the water so cold he gasped. He reached the opposite bank, slipped and cracked his chin on a log. Kept going. He was calling out his name, his own name: “Wendell, Wendell,” but in an urgent whisper, as if calling out the names of a whole patrol of Wendells.

  He lurched onward but daylight kept flickering, like someone turning a switch on and off.

  All went dark again.

  The next thing Lett knew he lay outside a tent, on a pile of bedrolls. A few from his patrol sat around, some passed out, some staring dead into space, not blinking. This was the company aid station. He sat up. He remembered where he was, what had happened, and a deep, droning ache of despair gnawed at him, from deep inside his bones. He cried. Shaking his head. It was raining again. Where was that sunlight, so bright?