Broken Blades

by Aleksandr Voinov

  “So where are the Germans?”

  “Disarmed and locked away.”

  The American staff sergeant looked around again, and his mouth set in a grim line. He pulled a pistol and offered it to Chandler. “If you want to take care of the bastards, take them out and shoot them. Nobody’s going to look.”

  Mark’s heart lodged itself firmly in his throat.

  Chandler glanced at the pistol in the staff sergeant’s hand, and Mark prayed and prayed that he made good on his promise to Armin. They hadn’t liked each other—Chandler had probably been hoping for this opportunity for his entire stay at Ahlenstieg.

  Millington-Smythe watched Chandler, but said nothing.

  The staff sergeant pushed the pistol closer. “Major?”

  Chandler shook his head. “No.” He glanced at Millington-Smythe, who gave him a slight nod. “The SS men are prisoners and were so before the Kommandant surrendered the camp. The … the Kommandant and his garrison have been cooperative.” He paused, shifting his weight. “And kind.”

  “Kind?” The staff sergeant laughed. “With all due respect, sir, we’ve just come from one of their forced labor camps.” He shuddered. “I’ve seen what the Germans consider ‘kindness.’”

  Chandler shook his head. “It wasn’t like that here.”

  “You’re all half-starved.” The staff sergeant still held his pistol out to Chandler. “How can you—”

  “The garrison’s in no better shape than we are.” Chandler squared his shoulders and lifted his chin slightly, narrowing his eyes at the man. “The Kommandant and his men are to be shown the same consideration as cooperative, helpful civilians.”

  The staff sergeant lowered his pistol, but his eyebrows jumped so high they almost dislodged his helmet. “Sir, with all due—”

  “I believe I was clear, staff sergeant.”

  The man stared at him. Then he holstered his pistol. “We’ll … we’ve got food.” He gestured over his shoulder. “Where should we put it?”

  “I’ll show you,” Millington-Smythe jumped in. “Gentlemen, this way.” He gestured for a pair of the new arrivals to follow him.

  As they walked away, Chandler turned to Mark. “I’m placing you in charge of making sure the Germans are properly rationed.”

  The staff sergeant’s lips parted. “Sir, we have rations, but they’re limited. We can’t—”

  “You can,” Chandler snapped. “And you will.” He gestured sharply at Mark. “He’ll tell you how much is needed.”

  “But … I …”

  “You are aware of the Geneva Conventions, aren’t you, Staff Sergeant?”

  Anger and defiance pulled the man’s lips tight. “I am. I’m also aware of the complete disregard for—”

  “Duly noted,” Chandler growled back. “But as I said, none of that has happened here. In fact, the Kommandant himself saved us, at risk to his own life, from being force-marched into the middle of nowhere. Now show him”—he gestured at Mark again—“to the rations so he can make sure that the men who kept us all alive are fed. Am I clear?”

  The staff sergeant hesitated. Swallowed. Then nodded. “Y-yes, sir.”

  And, oh the bounty to be had. Once orders had been given, the Americans did their best to fill up the castle with all manner of foodstuffs, and for the moment they used the—now empty—stores where the Red Cross parcels had been kept to store rations. The Germans—now all disarmed—huddled together, with Schäfer their somewhat uneasy leader. Mark noticed that the tall German did nothing to rock the boat and looked after his men first, but seemed worried.

  “Hauptmann Schäfer.”

  Schäfer turned around and regarded him warily. “Captain Driscoll.”

  “They do understand that the Kommandant has been cooperative.”

  “The guards are just men who want to go home.” Schäfer straightened. “It’s their commanding officers who’ll take the responsibility.”

  And as the chief of the ferrets, and the man who’d personally foiled escape attempts, it wasn’t unreasonable to assume that Schäfer was one of the most hated men in Ahlenstieg. Not brutal, but uncompromising, and yet, regardless of how he’d been baited, he’d never lost his temper or had shown much in ways of emotion. He’d been the iron first in Armin’s velvet glove.

  “You did your duty, Schäfer.”

  “A man can’t do more.”

  “I guess he can’t.” Mark couldn’t quite get himself to like the man, but he didn’t loathe or fear him. He’d been the closest thing to a confidante Armin had had on his side. Had he suspected anything about Armin? Surely not. If anything, Schäfer seemed anxious to ensure that the Kommandant was looked after, but maybe couldn’t bring himself to ask. “Your superior saved a lot of lives today.”

  Schäfer nodded, lips tight. He didn’t agree, or hadn’t agreed with Armin’s choice, but as a well-drilled soldier, he kept that to himself.

  “When they transport us and separate us from the Kommandant, I would request you to give him a message.”

  “Written or in person?”

  “If it’s possible, in person.”

  Mark nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Schäfer glanced around, pausing on the group of new arrivals smoking not far away, and then his own men. After a moment, he stood, and gestured for Mark to step away with him.

  They didn’t go far—just a few paces for some semblance of privacy.

  Schäfer’s eyes flicked up toward the tower where Armin was being held like some hapless character in a fairy tale. “The commanding officers promised to negotiate for mercy for the Kommandant. Is …” His raised eyebrows finished the question.

  It was Mark’s turn to steal a glance at the tower, and then scan their surroundings. They were indeed as alone as could be in a yard full of men, so he could be candid without being overheard. He turned to Schäfer again. “They’ve both pushed for every man in the garrison to be treated as we’d treat civilians who’d given us aid.”

  Schäfer studied him. “But does that mean …”

  “I don’t know.” Mark lowered his voice a little more. “I hope so.”

  A hint of surprise registered across the German’s face before he schooled his expression to that customary rigidity. He gave a slight nod. “The Kommandant deserves better than a noose.”

  Mark shuddered at the thought of either side hanging Armin. “Yes, he does.”

  “What of the other men?” The slight snarl told Mark exactly who he was referring to.

  “That’s up to them.” Mark nodded toward the newcomers. “None of them has resisted since Holzknecht went down, though. So I’m … I’m really not sure.”

  Schäfer scowled. Then he shrugged. “The Party disgusts me.”

  That was weird, hearing a German disparaging the men he was fighting for. Mark didn’t understand all the inner workings of German politics.

  Schäfer sighed, shaking his head, and Mark realized the man’s gaze had shifted toward his own men, who were huddled over their rations and cigarettes like stray dogs guarding meager scraps. “Perhaps von Kardenberg was right to spare them. The SS soldiers.” He faced Mark again. “Have you seen them? They’re … they are boys. And these men …” He gestured at the guards. “Old men. What world is it where young boys and old men find themselves in a place like this?” Unspoken that they could have been their sons or grandsons.

  “Trust me, I never planned to end up anywhere near here, or between the SS and your Army.” But then I wouldn’t have met Armin again. “Anything else?”

  “Just one thing—if it helps. I should talk to the COs directly, but they aren’t friends of mine.” Schäfer’s scowl deepened. “Too much familiarity, too much contempt.”

  “I can try to convey the message.”

  “The Kommandant. He is … what is the word in English … he’s ill.”

  Mark started, expected the worst—a fatal creeping disease that would get Armin maybe released on humanitarian grounds. “Ill? How bad i
s it?”

  “He’s not dying. He’s ill in his nerves. In his heart. He’s had episodes. In my view he’s not been fit for duty, even light duty.”

  Mark swallowed. “I see.”

  “Talk to the doctor for details, but many men who’ve come back from Russia are sick like that. I’ve seen it.” Schäfer’s stony face betrayed a great deal more than experience. Suddenly, Mark could see him and Armin freezing together somewhere far, far east. “So what orders he’s given that might get him hanged, I issued them. He was in no state to, and I pretended he was healthy. Tell them that. They won’t know who’s responsible for what.”

  Mark suppressed the urge to pat the big man’s arm, but his heart clenched at Schäfer’s readiness to take on whatever blame somebody would heap on Armin’s head. “Do you have family?”

  “I don’t.” Schäfer paused, holding Mark’s gaze, then quickly added, “Not many men here do. Not anymore.”

  Mark nodded. He wasn’t sure what to say to that. I’ll make sure every measure is taken to get you and your men back to what little homes you have left?

  He finally managed, “I’ll talk to the officers. See what I can do for all of you.”

  “Including Herr von Kardenberg?”

  Especially him. “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  Chapter 31

  Every time boots came up the stairwell toward Armin’s cell, his emotions may as well have gone in two opposing directions. At the same time he was ready to fight and be dragged down to whatever fate awaited him, he was glad the time had finally come. At peace with it in a strange kind of way. Ready for it to be over so he could stop dreading it.

  This time was no different. Armin put aside the book he’d been sort of reading, and stood, straightening his uniform as if that made any difference.

  The key turned. The door clicked.

  And just before it opened, he caught the scent of coffee. Real coffee. And was that … meat?

  His mouth was already watering when the door opened, and Mark came in, carrying a tray of food and yes, a cup of steaming coffee. He wasn’t sure what surprised him more—the man or the rations—but his lips parted and his eyes widened. “This … what?” He caught a glimpse of one of the guards just before the man shut the door, and recovered what little military bearing he could muster. “Captain Driscoll. This is … unexpected.”

  Mark gave a quiet laugh and held the food out to him.

  Armin hesitated. “The men. Have they been—?”

  “They’ve nearly eaten themselves sick. Even the men in the hole.”

  Armin’s eyes flicked toward the food, and then he reached for the tray. It was heavy and cumbersome to balance with one hand, but he managed to set it on the cot without dropping it. He sat beside it, still staring disbelieving at so … much … food.

  “Eat.” Mark sat on the other end of the cot, the tray keeping them safely apart.

  “Well.” Armin managed a half-hearted smile. “I suppose a man’s last meal should be had in good company.”

  “It isn’t your last meal.”

  Armin raised an eyebrow.

  Mark shifted slightly, the cot creaking beneath him. “Chandler and I, we’re negotiating. Well, him more than me, but …” He waved a hand. “Nothing is going to happen right away. We’re waiting to hear from …”

  “From those with the authority to decide when I do eat my last meal.” Armin sipped the hot coffee, and even the bitterness of his situation couldn’t sour the taste. It had been too long. Much too long.

  They were quiet for a while, Mark’s presence a pleasant addition to the meal that Armin struggled not to swallow in one go. He might as well enjoy it, so his grumbling stomach would just have to be patient while he savored each bite.

  Eventually, he asked, “How did you manage to get this particular duty?”

  Mark sat straighter. “I requested it.”

  Armin was tempted to remind him it was dangerous for them to be together, but Mark wasn’t stupid. Surely he’d made his case in a way that didn’t turn heads.

  Mark cleared his throat. “Schäfer and I spoke. At length, actually.”

  “About?”

  “You.” Mark paused. “He … told me you have, um … nerves.”

  Armin winced. Schäfer had undoubtedly meant well, but Armin hated anyone—least of all Mark—knowing about that loathsome condition. “Show me a man who’s come back from the East without ‘nerves,’ and I’ll show you a liar.”

  Mark folded his hands in his lap. “I understand and so does he. But he also believes it’s left you unfit for duty.”

  Armin eyed him. “Do you agree with him?”

  “I’m not sure. Every time we’ve spoken, you’ve appeared to have all your faculties. But Schäfer believes otherwise. In fact, he …” Mark hesitated. “He’s insisting on taking responsibility for the orders you’ve given since—”

  “What?” Armin flew to his feet, nearly sending the tray and its remaining scraps flying. “No. He will not.”

  Mark rose. “Armin, he—”

  “I made my decisions, and I gave my orders.” Armin stabbed his finger at Mark, nearly hitting his chest, and Mark—instinctively, no doubt—batted his hand away like it was an opponent’s foil. They both froze, staring at each other.

  The door opened. “Everything all right in—”

  “It’s fine,” Mark snapped, eyes locked on Armin. “Out.”

  The guard hesitated, but only for a second. When the door closed again, Armin took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Mark, if I can only ask one thing of you in this lifetime, do not let Schäfer take a bullet that’s meant for me. My nerves are brittle, and yes, I have … I’ve had these cursed episodes.” He shook his head. “But every order I’ve given, I’ve known exactly what it meant. He’s done everything he can to protect me. But swear on your life that you won’t allow him to go this far.”

  “How close exactly were you?” Mark’s tone was oddly laced with suspicion.

  “Not like that. He’s my subordinate, and besides I don’t think he’s—” Armin frowned, then stared off into the distance, thinking back on his interactions with Schäfer. “I’ll be damned.” He shook his head. “Maybe he is. No family, never requested leave, lives for his duty. Was always … just there. Like this damn castle. Just as solid.” He blinked and faced Mark. “It never occurred to me.”

  “And you recognized me before I knew it myself.”

  “I was a different man then. I sometimes just tried to see if I got anywhere. These days it’s … more a matter of the heart.” Armin drew a deep breath. “If possible, protect him too. I wouldn’t call him a friend—I just don’t know him well enough—but he’s been an ally. I don’t know how I’d have coped without him. He doesn’t deserve to be shot, either.”

  “I’ll do what I can. Once the front has moved on enough, they’ll move the Germans to their own POW camps. Repatriate our side too.”

  “You’ll go home.”

  “I don’t have much of a home to return to.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not returning to anything or anybody. My wife … left me. It didn’t work out.”

  “I can’t say I’m sorry for that. I am sorry for the heartache.” Armin gave a small smile. “Mostly, I hope it won’t be another eight years before we see each other again.”

  “I’d prefer to wait another eight years than face the alternative.”

  Armin didn’t shudder—he’d made enough peace with his own imminent death that it simply existed, just like the cold and the hunger he’d grown accustomed to up until a few minutes ago. “I’m afraid that’s in the hands of men much higher than either of us. Just … do what you can to protect Schäfer. If there’s punishment coming to me, then so be it. But it’s mine to bear, not his.”

  Mark nodded. “As I said—”

  “I know. Do what you can. It’s all I can ask of you.”

  “I will.” Mark paused. “And
… after this war, one way or another, I’ll find you.”

  “You’re assuming they’ll mark my grave.”

  “I’m hoping you’ll be alive.”

  “So am I, but—”

  “I’ll find you. We wouldn’t have wound up in the same place like this if there wasn’t a reason for it.”

  Mark’s brow pinched slightly and Armin’s stomach lurched. He could see his own rebuttal in Mark’s eyes: “That reason may have been to say goodbye.”

  But Mark didn’t say it. Neither did Armin.

  He was prepared for a lot of things.

  But not goodbye.

  Not yet.

  Chapter 32

  Mark pleaded Armin’s case as well as Schäfer’s to his commanding officers. Chandler listened, though he didn’t tip his hand one way or the other. A couple of days went by, and no one said a word to him about it. When Mark took rations to Armin, there was no indication Armin had heard anything either. Schäfer, the same. Each passing day unsettled him even more. No order had come down to execute either man—or anyone, for that matter, including the SS soldiers—but no word had come to give them a reprieve either.

  And then the trucks showed up.

  Mark had fully expected that when he finally boarded a truck or a tank or a goddamned mule to leave this place, he’d be ecstatic, but as the truck grumbled and bounced its way down the winding mountain road, Mark wanted to go back. Even if he couldn’t save Armin, he at least wanted to know. Would he live? Would he die? Would he go to prison? Would he go home? It was out of Mark’s hands, but the uncertainty would haunt him even more than Armin’s memory had haunted him after the Olympics.

  The truck carried them through the same hills and villages that Mark and his men had marched through after the crash. Back when Rubble had still been alive and Armin had still been in the past. None of it looked any more familiar today than it had that day—just miles and miles of a country that wasn’t his heading toward a destination he’d never seen. England, they said. For leave. Rest.