by David Healey
Hauer glanced at the young Soldat’s ruddy cheeks and saw that he was serious. “Keep your voice down, or you will let the Americans know that we are coming,” Hauer said. “You could lose the war for us. Wouldn’t that disappoint The Leader?”
Looking mortified, Krauss fell silent, much to Hauer’s relief. At first, when Krauss had begun following him around like a puppy, Hauer had been annoyed. Krauss had seemed to be awed by Hauer’s reputation as a sniper, and couldn’t take his eyes off Hauer’s rifle. But then, Hauer had found it useful to have someone willing to fetch things for him or carry messages. Krauss might think that he was currying favor, but there was only one man that Hauer looked out for. Himself.
Hauer shook his head at the Soldat’s praise of Hitler’s strategy. Soldiers did what they were told, of course, but even a private in the ranks had his own ideas about military strategy. Some thought that it would have been better to man a defense at the fortifications that made up the Siegfried line, which had been built at enormous expense, while others believed that the war was already hopeless. But if they were smart, they didn’t say so.
“What do you think?” Krauss asked.
“About what?”
“The war, of course! Do you think that we can finally win it now?”
“What do I think?” Hauer shook his head. “I think that we are soldiers, Krauss. Let the generals determine the strategy. For us, we need to survive one day at a time.”
He quickened his pace to leave Krauss behind. He was done talking for now.
Surely, the Americans knew about the massive Operation Nordwind counter-attack by now, but with their forces spread thin and hampered by the intense cold, they had been slow to send reinforcements or to bolster the defenses of the small towns that they currently held and occupied in Alsace-Lorraine.
As darkness fell, the officers called a halt. There was no point continuing along the treacherous road in the dark. For the troops spread out through the trees, moving through the forest at night was equally as pointless due to the logs, boulders, and other natural obstacles. Some slumped against trees and fell asleep instantly. They had been on the move constantly since first light, with little or no sleep the night before.
Each soldier received half a loaf of bread, and jars of jam were passed around. The jam began to freeze as soon as it was spread across the bread, but no man complained.
Hauer would have like some coffee, but no fires were allowed because that might cost them the element of surprise, or worse yet, make the entire battalion a target for an artillery barrage.
“This is it,” the Oberleutnant announced. “This is the last food you will receive. If you want to eat tomorrow, you must capture enemy supplies.”
Hauer picked a few pieces of sawdust from his ration of bread, wondering if this was truly all of the food, or if this was simply another tactic to get them to fight even harder. Then again, it was no secret that food was in short supply, even in the Fatherland itself, as the enemy pressed from all sides. What food could be found was being sent to the front, leaving the civilian population to survive as best it could.
“I hear the Americans have chocolate,” Krauss said. The young soldier had settled into the snowy forest floor near Hauer. Like Hauer, he gnawed at the rapidly freezing bread.
“If we capture any chocolate, you can have mine,” Hauer said. Krauss was hardly more than a boy; it wasn’t surprising that he dreamed of chocolate. Hauer did not care for sweets. As a former butcher, what he longed for was red meat. Steaks, roasts, ham. That was proper food for a soldier. When was the last time they had eaten any meat other than sausage? He grunted, shaking his head. “Now better eat your bread and get some sleep, or you won’t be good to anyone.”
The Germans weren’t the only ones on the move through the frozen hills and mountains near the border with Germany. Caje Cole and his squad rode in the back of a truck, enduring yet another bone-jarring jolt as the truck moved along the snow-covered road. The truck was open, lacking even a canvas covering to block the wind.
“Happy New Year, boys,” somebody said.
Those who bothered to reply told him to go to hell.
“At least we ain’t hungover,” the soldier pointed out.
They should have been enjoying some R&R, hot food, and booze. Instead, New Year’s Eve had come and gone in the back of this truck, with nothing more potent to drink than canteen water.
By now, the truck ride felt endless. It was slow going. The road wandered and the convoy had to slow at every curve to keep the vehicles from sliding off the road. Every couple of miles, one of the trucks in the convoy found itself spinning its tires helplessly, trying to climb a hill. The soldiers had to get out and push.
Just when it seemed like victory in the Ardennes Forest was going to signal a good start to this new year of war, the Germans had done the impossible and launched a fresh attack to the south. Once again, the Germans had shown that they were not necessarily defeated and in retreat. The soldiers in the truck were among those who had been rushed to reinforce the gaps in the thinly spread American lines. There were supposed to be some French soldiers joining the fight, but so far, nobody had seen any. There were even rumors that the Germans intended to re-capture Strasbourg, the largest city in the region.
Cole sat right up against the cab, glad for whatever shelter it offered from the wind. He sagged on the bench seat and bent over in a coughing fit.
“Hillbilly, you look like hell,” said Vaccaro. “You ought to be in the infirmary.”
“Do you see an infirmary around here?”
Vaccaro looked around the bouncing interior of the truck as if he might find one hiding in the corner. “Nope.”
Cole grunted.
“Then let me at least get you another blanket.” Vaccaro looked around the truck again, his gaze settling on one of the new soldiers who had been sent to fill their ranks after the decimating fighting since before Christmas. “Hey, Tawes. That’s your name, isn’t it? Give me your blanket a minute.”
Private Tawes did as requested. Vaccaro tucked the blanket around Cole’s shoulders. When he caught Cole’s raised eyebrows, Vaccaro said, “What, you didn’t think I was going to give you my blanket, did you?”
A few seats away, Tawes started to protest. “Hey, that’s my blanket. Give it back!”
“Aw, stuff a sock in it, greenbean. You got to earn this blanket. Anyhow, they say shivering is good for you. It keeps you warm.”
Sullenly, Tawes dipped his head lower between his shoulders, looking like a cold turtle trying to stay warm.
Cole tugged the blanket tighter around his shoulders, shivering uncontrollably. He had started feeling poorly a couple of days ago and now had a fever and chills. His body ached all over. Truth be told, all that he wanted to do was crawl into a hole somewhere and sleep. Sick and weak as he felt, the truck ride was pure agony.
“Do you think we’ll get to fight the Germans?” Tawes asked, running his hands up and down his upper arms to keep them warm.
“I’ll tell you what, Tawes. If you’re so anxious to see the Germans, we’ll let you have first crack at them.”
The men rode on gloomy silence, each bounce of the truck threatening to shake loose something important and mechanical—like maybe the motor. The troops in the back of the lurching truck had no choice but to grin and bear it.
Finally, the convoy stopped while a fallen log was cleared from the road. The driver of the lead truck explained that there had been a sharp crack sound, and then the upper third of the tree had come crashing down from the hilltop. He had slewed the truck to the left, bracing himself for incoming artillery, but there was no attack. It was deduced that the sap within the tree had frozen and chosen that moment to suddenly burst the trunk. The driver still felt spooked.
“Everybody stay on the trucks,” Mulholland ordered. “If you’ve got to take a leak, do it out the back.”
Vaccaro spoke up. “Lieutenant, we need a medic over here, sir.”
&nb
sp; “What’s going on?”
“It’s Cole, sir. He’s sick as a dog.”
The lieutenant looked annoyed at the mention of Cole’s name. Cole seemed to have a talent for ticking off officers. “All right,” Lieutenant Mulholland said. He looked around, spotted a medic riding in the next truck, and shouted in his direction. “Doc, get over here and take a look at Cole, will you? And hurry it up.”
Medics were not actual doctors, but “Doc” was their almost universal nickname. This one wore a large red cross on his helmet and another on his arm, the hope being that this might keep him from being shot at on the battlefield. It didn’t help much. The Germans didn’t target medics—that wasn’t it at all. It was just that in the confusion of the battlefield, the red cross offered little protection.
The medic came over, his rubber-soled boots slipping and sliding on the icy road. If he had taken the time to notice, he might have seen that some of the tracks he passed in the snow had been made by German soldiers, who had passed this way not so long ago. The enemy footprints were easy to distinguish because the Germans still wore leather-soled boots with hobnails. The boots were old-fashioned and not nearly as waterproof as the Americans’ pac boots, which had a rubber sole and leather upper, but the hobnails offered more effective traction in the ice and snow.
The medic climbed up in the truck and gave Cole a quick examination.
“It’s the flu, all right. It’s been going around. You’ve got a fever of one hundred and two. We need to move you into the cab of one of the trucks, where you’ll be out of the wind, at least.”
“Hell no,” Cole said, his teeth chattering. “Just throw another blanket over me.”
“I figured you’d say that,” the medic sighed. Of course, the unheated cab of a Studebaker truck didn’t offer much in the way of comfort. He handed Cole some pills. “See if those help any. Meanwhile, stay as warm as you can. You’re pretty sick, so this is nothing to mess with. Next thing you know, you’ll have pneumonia if you’re not careful. I’ll check back on you the next time that we stop.”
“Thank you kindly, Doc.”
The truck motor turned over, signaling that the column was getting ready to move out. The medic patted Cole on the shoulder, then moved toward the tailgate, the men making way for him without complaint. Medics had universal respect among the men not only for their dedication, but also for their courage under fire.
As the truck got rolling again, every bone in Cole’s body seemed to ache and he felt awful. He swallowed the pills, hoping that they would help him sleep, if nothing else.
He closed his eyes, which felt like they had sand in them, opening them only when, to his surprise, he discovered Vaccaro tucking another blanket around him.
“Sleep tight, Hillbilly,” Vaccaro said. “You heard the medic. We’ve got to keep you healthy so the Germans can kill you later.”
“Thanks a hell of a lot,” Cole mumbled, then dozed as the truck kept rolling through the mountains.
Chapter Seven
For two days now, the soldiers of the 179th Infantry stationed in Wingen sur Moder had been hearing machine-gun fire in the distant hills, always creeping closer. Ratatatat. At night, they sometimes saw the flashes from artillery and mortar fire. Something big was happening, that was for sure.
It was no longer any secret that the Germans were on the move, headed in the direction of the town. The only question that seemed to remain was how long before the Germans got there.
And yet, their officers had not insisted on digging in or otherwise preparing for an attack.
“There aren’t any Germans in this sector,” their lieutenant had said nonchalantly. “Besides, what would they want with this place? No, the Krauts will be looking for bigger fish to fry.”
But no matter what the officers said, it was hard to ignore the shooting growing ever louder in the mountains beyond the town.
“I don’t like the sounds of that one bit,” muttered Tony Serra, looking off into the hills. It was impossible to see anything happening in the tree-covered hilltops, but the two headquarters company clerks walking down the village street could hear the fighting taking place in the distance. “All that shooting makes me nervous. Did you hear the lieutenant this morning? He tried to say it was nothing but hunters. Since when do hunters use machine guns?”
“Maybe the Krauts won’t come in this direction,” Joey Reed replied. “They might go around us. That’s what the lieutenant says, anyway.”
“Yeah, and Betty Grable might show up for lunch.”
“The whole unit is supposed to be relieved in a couple of days. It’s going to be someone else’s problem.”
“Just who is going to relieve us now? Joey, use your head. With these hills crawling with Krauts, they’re going to need every soldier. And that means us.”
Reluctantly, Joey had to admit that he secretly agreed with Tony. He couldn’t quite relax. No matter what their officers said, there was the distant chatter of gunfire. German forces were definitely in those hills.
It was true that they were supposed to be relieved, but that looked unlikely now. What they were coming to understand was that everyone was a front-line soldier. Currently, there were nearly four hundred troops and several officers scattered throughout the town.
The two clerks were part of the headquarters company. Joey had spent more time with a typewriter than with his carbine, which he hadn’t cleaned since arriving in France. That was all right by him; he wasn’t eager to mix it up with the Germans.
Like many of the units currently serving in Europe, the 179th had its roots as a National Guard unit. Most of the soldiers hailed from Oklahoma, which designated the buffalo as its state symbol. Considering that most of the young men in the unit had never been out of sight of the sweeping plains and red-dirt fields back home before the war began, the snow-covered mountains just didn’t look right.
New Year’s morning had dawned crystal clear and bitterly cold, a crisp start to 1945 and what everyone hoped would be the last year of the war. What they hadn’t counted on was starting the new year with a fight on their hands.
The quiet of the new year had been shattered by a Luftwaffe attack on the railroad bridge just beyond town. Bombs had fallen and wiped out the bridge, but thankfully, the German planes had spared the village.
When it was clear that the Luftwaffe was targeting the bridge, Billy and most of the other soldiers in Wingen had come out to watch the show. Huge columns of smoke and debris spiraled upward with each bomb detonation.
“Happy New Year!” Serra shouted. “This is better than fireworks.”
“Stuff a sock in it, Serra,” the lieutenant said. “Anyhow, I thought the Germans weren’t supposed to have any planes left to speak of. I guess somebody was wrong about that.”
Finally, American planes appeared overhead to chase off the enemy, but by then, the Luftwaffe aircraft were long gone.
If it hadn’t been for the war, it would have been easy to get lost in the picture-postcard beauty of the remote village. There were two churches, one Protestant and one Catholic, both modest and not in any danger of being described as cathedrals.
Along with the usual shops, the town had two hotels, which before the war had catered to hikers and other tourists, but now served the officers stationed in town. While other towns in France had been devastated by the fighting and even reduced to rubble, the local economy was thriving through commerce with the Americans.
All in all, it was pretty soft living for the soldiers stationed here compared to the front-line troops fighting to the north in the Ardennes Forest. Even enlisted men enjoyed comfortable quarters staying in homes throughout the town. Nobody was sleeping in a tent or foxhole.
Until a couple of days ago, the war had been going on to the north, leaving this region out of it.
However, the German’s launch of Operation Nordwind was waking up the sleepy villages and hills. The offensive had failed to the north, but now, the Germans were trying again.
The two soldiers walked up the winding main street, both lost in their thoughts. They were interrupted by the appearance of Sister Anne Marie, carrying a basket of food.
“Happy New Year, Sister,” said Corporal Serra, acknowledging the nun with a nod. He was Catholic himself.
“Happy New Year,” she said, smiling pleasantly.
Both men brightened. “Happy New Year to you!” Joey heard himself singing out, pleasantly surprised that the nun spoke English. Like many of the people in the village so close to the border, she was also fluent in French and German.
Although Sister Anne Marie wore a nun’s tunic, and also a shawl on this cold morning, her pretty face was plain to see. Even the tunic did not manage to completely disguise her shapely figure. Nun or not, there was no doubt that Sister Anne Marie was a looker. More than one young soldier had remarked that it was a damn shame that she’d gone and become a nun. The Lord worked in mysterious ways, that was for sure.
“I hope the new year brings us good things,” she said. “Speaking of which, please help yourselves. I have some baked goods here headed for the priest’s kitchen, but he won’t be the wiser if there’s a bun or two missing.”
The two soldiers didn’t need to be told twice. They both eagerly reached for a bun when the young nun pulled back the cloth covering the basket.
“Thank you, Sister,” Joey said gratefully, nodding his thanks.
As the nun went about her errand, Serra gave her an appreciative look over his shoulder. “Now, that’s a shame right there. A pretty girl like that deserves better.”
“Better than what? She’s a nun.”
“My point exactly,” Serra said, then sighed with delight as he bit into the warm bun. His next words were said around a mouthful of fresh-baked bread. “Why settle for being a nun? I’m telling you, that girl ought to be a saint.”
It snowed during the night, just a light dusting that the men guarding the perimeter of Wingen sur Moder could feel against their exposed cheeks and necks. The chill sent shivers down their spines.