by David Healey
It was clear that Angela instantly had Danny’s full attention. From the stunned look on Danny’s face, it was evident that his grandson had taken one of Cupid’s arrows right through the heart.
“Uh hi,” Danny said.
“Hello,” Angela said. It was obvious from her bright smile that meeting a young American her own age was an unexpected benefit of escorting her great-uncle around town.
Hans winked at Cole, who thought with amusement that the old German knew exactly what he was doing. Like Danny, his grand-niece had likely expected a boring afternoon keeping her aged uncle company, but Hans had set the stage for something else.
More coffee arrived, along with a plate of pastries, and after some polite exchanges among the four of them, the table divided into two conversations, one between Hans and Cole, and the other between Danny and Angela that seemed to focus on music.
“I want to thank you for inviting me to the museum dedication,” Hans said. “I am truly honored. I am also curious. I must admit that we Germans have mixed emotions about anything to do with the war.”
“That’s understandable,” Cole said.
“Of course, the people of Munich have an even more difficult relationship to the war, considering that the Nazi party got its start in the beer halls here. Berlin may be the capital of Germany, but Munich is seen as the capital of the old Nazi party.”
“Not the proudest history.”
Hans shrugged and sipped his coffee. “But you know, the Nazi party involved relatively few people here, especially at first. It is the end of the war that many people have the bitterest memories of. That’s when the Allied bombings took place and so many people died. People in my own family. Women and children. What did they have to do with the war? Nothing, really. Many see those bombings as retribution. It was revenge, pure and simple.”
Cole nodded. He had no love for Nazi Germany, but he had to admit that the thought of the many civilian deaths in the air raids made him uncomfortable. “The war wasn’t fair,” he said.
“It left many people bitter,” Hans said. “Also, here in Munich at the end of the war, many Germans saw us as giving up too easily when the first Allied troops arrived. There was very little fighting except by a few die-hards.”
“Maybe most people had the good sense to know when to call it quits.”
Hans nodded. “If only they had called it quits much sooner. We might all have been spared a great deal of sorrow.”
The conversation moved to more pleasant topics, which was just fine by Cole. Already, he was having some misgivings about the big museum opening tomorrow. The war had ended decades before, but some wounds took a long time to heal. The museum was intended to help that healing process, but Cole couldn’t help but feel that the museum was still managing to pour salt in some of those wounds.
As the afternoon moved toward evening, with the shadows lengthening outside and after-work crowds beginning to fill the street, they started to say their goodbyes for now. Cole was starting to think about his supper and maybe trying the Schnitzel tonight.
But to Cole’s surprise, Danny announced, “Hey, Pa Cole, Angela invited me to the Hofbräuhaus with her friends after this. If it’s all right, I mean.”
“I reckon I can find my way back to the hotel.”
Hans said, “I certainly won’t get lost, either. I’ve known Munich my whole life. You two go along and have a good time with friends. It is what young people should do.” He looked at Cole. “Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Cole said.
Danny and Angela headed for the Hofbräuhaus. Hans melted into the crowds flowing home. Cole returned to the hotel and ate alone, which was, well, lonely, but the food was good.
Much later, back in his room, he heard Danny return. His grandson was out in the hall, fumbling with the door to his own room. He seemed to be having some trouble fitting the key to the lock and getting it open.
Cole went out and found his grandson reeling a bit, but smiling happily.
“I guess someone had a good time,” Cole said.
“Probst!” Danny replied, then hiccuped. “I had two beers! I feel a little dizzy.”
“Oh boy,” Cole said. In his experience, a German beer was a large stein of strong lager. “Let’s get you to bed.”
He got the door open, helped Danny get his coat and shoes off, then tumbled him into bed.
Danny fell asleep instantly.
Shaking his head, Cole decided to stay and keep an eye on his grandson. The damn fool boy. He sat in a chair by the window, where he could look out and see the lights of the city. From time to time, a plane took off, bound for New York City or maybe London or Paris. His thoughts wandered across the years, strung out like beads of dew on a spiderweb. He dozed. At first light, reassured that Danny was fine, he slipped back into his own room.
“I’ll never drink another beer as long as I live,” Danny stated miserably.
They were having a late breakfast at the hotel restaurant. Danny sat slumped with his head in his hands, looking miserable.
Cole had to laugh. “If I had a nickel for every time I heard someone say that the next morning, I coulda bought Rockefeller Square.”
“You’re making fun of me,” Danny said.
“No, it’s just something to keep in mind when you feel better tonight and you have an urge to visit that beer hall again. I ain’t gonna lecture you. Hopefully, you learned your lesson.”
Danny just groaned.
Cole gave him his fresh-squeezed OJ. “Don’t worry. You’ll live.”
“I did have a good time, though. Angela was nice. Her friends were fun. She said I ought to come back and visit this summer.”
Cole surprised himself by saying, “Something to think about.”
By the time the hour arrived to get ready for the museum opening that evening, Danny was fully recovered and back to his usual chipper self. That was youth for you, Cole thought, along with some help from a nap and an afternoon swim in the hotel pool. In fact, it was Cole who felt himself dragging after he had put on his suit, freshly pressed by the hotel staff. Sure, part of it was the damn jet lag. But another part of him was simply dreading the opening and all of the old wounds it might open.
Colonel Mulholland picked them up promptly, pulling up in his BMW in front of the hotel.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Cole said, slipping into the front seat while Danny got into the back. “I haven’t felt so nervous since D-Day, but I’ve got to say, this car is a lot more comfortable than a landing craft.”
“Here we go then,” Mulholland replied, pulling away crisply from the hotel.
The museum was just a few minutes away. When they arrived, Cole was amazed to see soldiers, Jeeps, and a couple of German Kübelwagen pulled up on the lawn. Pup tents dotted the grass. Some of the troops wore vintage WWII GI uniforms, some had on the sheepskin coats favored by aviators, but most had on Wehrmacht uniforms.
“Who the hell are they?” Cole asked. “Actors?”
“They’re WWII reenactors,” Mulholland said. “You know, like Civil War reenactors back home? Over here, reenacting WWII is becoming a popular hobby. Of course, you’re going to see mainly German reenactors. Nobody wants to be the bad guys.”
“Bad guys?”
“Us,” Mulholland said. “Americans.”
“That’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen,” Cole said.
“They go out on the weekend to shoot blanks at each other, and maybe camp out,” Mulholland said. “It’s also an excuse to drink, pee in the woods, and get away from their wives. They were more than happy to come out for this event.”
Cole shook his head, not sure what to say. Who wanted to play at being a soldier? He’d had enough of the real thing.
They continued to the parking lot, only to discover that more of these reenactors stood along the sidewalk leading to the entrance.
“Looks like we have an honor guard,” Mulholland said.
“You do see that these are Germans? Should I put my hands up to let them know we surrendered?”
Mulholland laughed. “I think we’ll be OK.”
Inside, there was quite a crowd already. Almost everyone looked to be older, and well-dressed. Drinks flowed from an open bar and servers offered trays of fancy hors d'oeuvres. Cole didn’t know what some of the things were, so he stuck with the miniature sausages on toothpicks. The delicious smells of food and tangy champagne filled the air, mixing with wafting cologne and perfume.
One thing for sure, Cole thought, was that tonight was all a long way from the mud, the stink of open latrines and death, the shivering in the chill air or sweating in the heat, that all soldiers had known back then.
Cole heard a lot of English being spoken, sometimes in British accents, with only a smattering of German. It made sense that most of those in attendance seemed to be American or English because from what he had seen during the preview, this museum celebrated the Allied contribution to winning the war. Most of the pictures of Germans showed them with their hands up. Most of the photos of Germany showed the devastation wrought by the Allied bombing.
To his relief, he spotted Hans strolling around the exhibit hall. His pretty grand-niece accompanied him. The old German smiled when he spotted Cole. The girl wore a big smile as well, but it wasn’t for Cole.
“Hello,” she said to Danny.
“Hi!”
The two young people drifted away, leaving Cole and Hans to explore the exhibits together. Cole had seen some of them before, but it was all somewhat overwhelming. Everywhere he looked, there were life-size images of soldiers. Many had been black-and-white photographs originally, but were now colorized. Physical artifacts that ranged from rifles to grenades to helmets were on display.
“It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? Back then, who would have thought that all this would be in a museum. I mean, they’ve got ration cans and old packs of cigarettes on display. Stuff we threw away. Hell, we were mostly just trying not to get shot.”
Hans smiled sadly. “Difficult memories,” he agreed.
They came to the exhibit focused on sniper warfare, and the reason for Cole having come all the way from the United States for the museum opening. The exhibit briefly explained tactics, and a battered rifle with a telescopic sight was on display in a glass case. The worn wooden stock had several notches carved into it, and while just about everything else in the museum was explained in detail, no explanation was needed for what those notches meant. This was not Cole’s actual rifle from the war, but there was no doubt that this sniper rifle had seen use during the war.
A large photograph featured an American GI hunched over a rifle with a telescopic sight. The young man’s face looked gaunt, the single eye that was visible looked startlingly intense.
“You,” Hans said.
“Yep,” Cole said. “That’s me when I was a whole hell of a lot younger.”
“Ha, we were all younger then, my friend,” Hans said, then grew serious. “You must have been an accomplished sniper to be featured here.”
“The truth is, I made the mistake of letting them write a story about me way back then. A famous reporter named Ernie Pyle wrote it. They even took my picture.” Cole pointed to a copy of the news clip, which had been reproduced here.
“He would not have written a story about just anyone,” Hans said. “You must have been a very good sniper to be noticed.”
“I’m not proud of it,” Cole said, although he knew he wasn’t entirely telling the truth. He was proud of what he had done. Hell, he was proud of what every last soldier had done to win the war. “I was just doing what I was supposed to do. Doing my duty.”
“Then you should take pride in that,” Hans said. He straightened. “We all should.”
For a split second, Cole felt an old warning vibrate within him. It was that sixth sense that had kept him alive, warning him of danger. He had not felt that in a long, long time.
Behind them, a deep voice spoke, heavily accented, “I wonder, did you have the father or grandfather of someone here tonight in your crosshairs when that photograph was taken?”
Cole realized that it was a good question.
He turned to find himself staring into the face of someone he had not seen in decades. It didn’t matter how many years had passed—he could still recognize those features and those cold eyes. Back then, the face had been magnified some distance away in his telescopic sight. It was not a face that he had ever wanted to see again, that was for damn sure.
Cole stared. The man smiled back at him, but there was no warmth in his expression. Neither man spoke, both of them tense, waiting to see what the other would do next. It was as if two old rival wolves had suddenly crossed paths in the forest.
Standing in front of Cole was Gefreiter Hauer, the German sniper that Cole had known as Das Schlachter.
The Butcher.
Part II
Chapter Six
January 1945, Vosges Mountains
Gefreiter Hauer scowled at a man who had stepped on a brittle branch buried under the snow, the sharp crack sounding like a gunshot in the stillness.
“Dummkopf,” he muttered. “Do that again and I will cut your throat.”
“Never mind him, Hauer,” whispered the Oberleutnant nearby. The officer had grown more anxious as they approached their objective, a mountain village that they were to capture. “Do we have a clear way forward?”
Acting as the spearpoint of the German advance, Hauer turned his attention to the forest ahead, rifle at the ready.
Nothing moved, so he glanced at the Oberleutnant, who signaled for the company to advance.
Behind Hauer, a great mass of troops moved through the wintry hills, their passage muffled by the freezing mist and snow-laden boughs of the conifer forest. Orders passed quietly from man to man in order to avoid any shouting. Their goal was to advance as far as possible under the very noses of the enemy. Success depended upon surprise.
The road proved to be narrow and winding, forcing the lead Panzers and the convoy of trucks to move slowly. Crowded out of the road, many of the men had taken to the forest, where the footing was better than on the icy, snow-packed road.
Hauer was among those leading the troops through the forest.
He stopped to study the landscape ahead through binoculars.
“What do you see, Hauer?” asked the Oberleutnant, who had come to depend on the sniper as his eyes and ears in the forest. Where other men let their attention wander, distracted by the cold, Hauer was also sharply attuned to their surroundings.
“The village is just ahead,” Hauer said, lowering the binoculars. He pointed. “Do you see the smoke through the trees?”
The Oberleutnant squinted. When he looked closely, he could see smoke gently rising against the patches of sky visible through the trees.
“There it is. Good work, Hauer.”
Hauer nodded and moved out, keeping ahead of the rest of the troops, his rifle with its telescopic sight slung across his back. Across his front, he carried a submachine gun on a leather sling, just in case they ran across any unexpected enemy troops. But from the clear road they had experienced so far, it seemed that the Americans suspected nothing.
As the shadows lengthened and nightfall approached, there was new urgency to the movement of the troops. Soon, the officers would have to call a halt.
These hills were challenging enough to navigate by daylight for advancing troops because it was difficult to maintain communication. The peaks and valleys limited radio signals. Maintaining any kind of sight contact remained impossible, meaning that individual units like the one to which Hauer was attached moved at their own pace through the hills.
While the terrain was not ideal, it also meant that the Americans did not expect an attack from this direction. All of their attention was to the north, where what the Allies called the Battle of the Bulge still raged in the Ardennes Forest. The second prong of the German advance was now coming a
t the southern end of the American position. Not so much as a single enemy plane had appeared in the winter sky, thanks to the dismal weather. Their luck was holding.
More than anything else, the Germans feared the planes that could appear out of nowhere to strafe and bomb their ground forces. Even a Tiger Tank didn’t stand a chance against the American planes. As far as the Germans were concerned, bad weather was their friend because it kept the enemy planes grounded or, at the very least, helped to screen their movements from the air.
It was January 3, 1945. Winter fog had moved in, but the new year had begun with clear, crystalline skies and bitter cold, although those had not lasted. Celebrations of the new year had been few and far between because no one wanted to dwell too much on what this seventh year of the war might bring. Circumstances had changed a great deal since those exciting, heady days when the war began in September 1939 with the crushing invasion of Poland, when the war machine of Hitler’s Third Reich had seemed invincible.
Hauer recalled those early days of the war fondly. He had been working as a butcher when the war began. He had resisted becoming a soldier at first, but the demand for troops made keeping out of the war impossible before long. Any able-bodied young man was expected to fight. He had soon found that he had many talents and a natural ability as a soldier.
Hauer heard footsteps behind him, crunching with too much noise across the snowy forest floor, and a moment later, Krauss was walking beside him.
“The Leader has thought of everything!” Krauss announced, panting heavily from the effort of catching up to Hauer. “We will take the Americans by surprise and smash them!”