Fear Mountain

by Mike Dellosso

  Again, my breath froze in my throat, and I could have sworn my heart stopped beating, reneged on its promise to keep blood flowing throughout my body. It wasn’t Henry at all. The man receiving the brutal beating was not my brother.

  It was Peter.

  33

  Another minute of beatings passed when, whether out of fatigue or simply because there were no more ribs to fracture, the big Nazi stopped and dropped the stick. It fell silently to the ground and rested beside his right foot. He stood still, drooped shoulders rising and falling in forced respiration, feet slightly parted, staring at the disfigured torso of what used to be Peter. The other three Germans stood their ground as well. Coyote watched Peter as if amazed at what torture the human body could endure and utterly intrigued by the slow passage to “freedom.” The other two, the burly brothers, glanced at their leader then looked at each other and shrugged.

  Peter dangled from the branch like a piñata from hell. His body swayed lazily from the end of the rope as if a gentle breeze were pushing it back and forth. Head lolled backward so he was facing skyward, he looked like he was praying. But I knew he wasn’t. He was either dead from internal bleeding or a punctured lung or as near death as one can be while still residing in the land of the living. His body was misshapen and discolored. I did not want to dwell on the details of his wounds.

  Above, past the canopy of leaves, past the ceiling of smoky clouds, the unseen sun was on its journey toward the horizon. Dusk was arriving and soon after that, night would fall like a curtain.

  I turned so I could lean my weight against the tree and slid my back down the rough bark until I was sitting on my rear, hands dangling over my bent knees. I hadn’t seen Dad or Pop or Henry, but then again, I hadn’t looked for them. All my attention was tuned toward the brutality playing out in front of me.

  Pushing myself to my feet, I once again peered around the sycamore and surveyed the clearing. The Germans were talking quietly now, huddled like a quartet of vultures. To their right, maybe twenty feet away, three dark lumps occupied a space on the ground. I couldn’t get a clear look from my vantage point but it had to be my family members. The lumps were still and quiet. I wondered if they were dead but then quickly deduced that they had to be alive or the Germans would not have brought them this far. They must be keeping them for hostages or prisoners or maybe using them as navigators. Nobody knew these woods like Pop and my dad. Maybe they were hoping to gain something by bringing three American prisoners back to Germany. Three trophies of their expedition into enemy territory. Or maybe they were simply keeping them around in case they were found, keeping them as negotiating tools. If that was the case, once they were assured a safe return to Germany, they would have no further use for my loved ones and properly dispose of them.

  Either way, and for whatever reason the Nazis endured the hassle of hauling three severely burdensome prisoners over rough terrain, I knew Dad and Henry wouldn’t last much longer. And who knew where Pop was physically or mentally. This was it, the end of the road. I couldn’t allow this to go on any longer. It was either rescue them tonight or die trying.

  If I did nothing and trailed the Germans as they worked their way northeasterly, no doubt toward the Maine coast, and any or all of my kinsmen died, I would hold myself responsible. Though I would not be the direct cause of their death, my inaction would be seen as an accomplice. At least by me it would. But if I attempted a rescue and we all died in the valiant endeavor we would be no worse off—Dad and Henry were already sleeping on death’s doorstep, Pop was in his final chapter of life, and I had no desire to be the only survivor to climb off this mountain. And besides, there was no part of me that thought for one moment that the Nazis would allow any of us to live the remainder of our lives in happiness, either here or in the land of bratwurst and schnitzel.

  So with nothing to lose, I purposed in my heart to play the hero and concoct a rescue plan. And it scared me nearly to death.

  I’m no hero.

  Reaching into my pocket, I retrieved the pillbox and looked at its lid. Gott mit uns looked back at me. God with us. God with me. I remembered the conversation I had with Peter around the fire, the one he’d ignited with his bare hands.

  What about that box in your pocket?

  This? Seems hypocritical doesn’t it?

  Let me have the box.

  It’s yours, isn’t it?

  Yes. I left it in the woods so you would find it.

  Later, he’d asked me if I was capable of trusting, then he’d stressed my need to trust. Trust God no matter what happened.

  This was my time to trust.

  Okay, Lord, I prayed. I trust you. But you’re gonna have to do something here. I’m no hero, everybody knows that. But I’m tired of being a coward.

  For years I’d been reading the Bible, stuffing my head with stories of love and vengeance and wars and victories. I knew the heroes of the Old and New Testaments; I could recount the stories of the patriarchs; I’d memorized countless verses; I knew the covenants and commandments. But all the knowledge in the world, all the facts and figures, victors and villains, dos and don’ts, all the hours of reading and studying, meant nothing if I didn’t put it to practice here. This was my defining moment. If there was one thing I learned from Peter, from his otherworldly abilities and cryptic messages, it was to live out my faith. The just shall live by faith.

  I looked at the pillbox again and caressed its lid with my thumb.

  A gruff German voice broke my concentration. “Ich komme wieder.” I’ll be right back.

  I stole a quick glance around the tree and saw one of the burly brothers headed my way.

  Quickly, I positioned the sycamore between him and myself and watched as he entered the woods from the clearing not twenty feet from me. He walked another forty or fifty feet, looked around, plucked several handfuls of leaves from the branch of a sapling, then unfastened his trousers.

  I glanced back at the other three Nazis in the clearing. They had their backs to us, still talking in hushed tones, preoccupied with something between them, maybe a map. The three lumps on the ground, my loved ones, remained motionless.

  When I looked back, I could only partially see the German in the woods with me and noticed he was squatting. Even Nazis have to respond when nature calls.

  I had the strong sense that this was a time when I should act. I had no weapon, only the pillbox. It was strong metal, brass, and I could utilize it as a battering weapon. But that would require getting close enough to the Nazi to use it. It seemed so personal and intimate.

  There are many activities I have imagined myself engaged in: bull riding, deep see diving, battleship piloting, even poodle grooming. But hand-to-hand combat was not one of them. The thought of assaulting a well-trained killing machine with a brass pillbox stirred up butterflies in my stomach and stuffed my mouth and throat with cotton. My heart felt like horses hooves beating a path away from the situation.

  But my spiritual heart, my trusting, told me what I needed to do.

  Stealthily, like a cat stalking its prey, I tip-toed through the woods toward my squatting quarry. The wet leaves and ground muted my motion like a ghost floating just above the ground, silently, noiselessly.

  When I was ten feet from the big German, he discarded the last of his leaves and stood to pull up his pants. I took two steps toward him, the pillbox gripped firmly by my right hand, sweat beading on my forehead, my heart stuck in my throat. I had to swing quickly and deftly. One blow had to knock him out. If he made any noise or if we tussled in the leaves, the sound would surely snatch the attention of the other Germans, and I would be discovered and summarily terminated.

  I said a silent one-word prayer—trust—and raised the pillbox above my head. My plan was to bring it down sharply against the back of the German’s head, preferably just above the ear where the skull was thinner and offered less protection for the brain.

  That was my plan.

  Taking one step closer to gain some mo
mentum, my foot landed on a thin branch and it snapped under my weight. The muted crack of wet wood sounded like a gunshot in the silence of the woods.

  The German spun around, eyes wide, mouth forming a perfect O beneath his beard.

  34

  With my one word prayer still on my mind’s lips, I swung hard aiming for the big Nazi’s head. Contact was made before the German had a chance to react. Pillbox connected with skull, brass on bone. It sounded like the crack of a baseball bat encountering a walnut. The follow-through almost knocked me off balance. The German crumpled to the ground, lights out.

  For a few seconds I stood over my victim, breathing hard, heart knocking against my ribs like a prisoner sliding his tin cup along the bars of his cell. The German lay on his back, arms splayed, eyes closed. If I’d stumbled upon him while taking a stroll in the woods, and if not for the bleeding swastika impressed on his forehead, I would have thought he’d taken his own stroll, grew tired, and lay down for a quick nap.

  Fearful that my blow hadn’t done the job and that he would awaken and shout for help, I dropped on him, straddled his waist, and brought the pillbox down on his head again, this time along the left temple. It landed with a solid thump and the German’s head rocked to the right so he faced the clearing.

  I raised my arm overhead to deliver another blow but stopped myself at the apex of the wind-up. Lowering my arm, I dropped the pillbox and stared at my hand, amazed at how easily I had allowed anger and hatred to control me. I wanted to deliver judgment on the Nazis, but didn’t want to be controlled by the demons of vengeance.

  For a few long seconds, I straddled the German, letting the steam bleed from my veins.

  When the adrenaline being injected into my bloodstream slowed to a trickle, I began to shake uncontrollably. Violence and I do not mix well. I looked at the German and wondered if I’d killed him. Maybe my first swing was harder than I’d thought and the strength of the brass had turned off his brain. Or maybe my second swing had succeeded where the first one had failed.

  Adjusting myself so I knelt beside him, I felt for his carotid pulse and found it quickly. It was thin and thready but there. His heart was still working which meant his brain was still working, or at least still sending interpretable messages to the heart’s pacemaker.

  My next concern was that our tussle had been overheard by the other Germans. Either they’d heard the crack of impact or the soft thump of the Nazi’s substantial mass hitting the ground or the thud of the second blow. I crouched low and peered through the undergrowth, searching for the clearing and the other Germans. Finding them, I saw that they still had their backs turned toward us and were still engaged in their conversation. They were clueless concerning the fate of their freund.

  A wave of relief blew over me like a stiff wind, grating across the raw endings of my nerves. Then came the tears.

  Through blurred eyes I looked at the German again, his head turned to his right as if looking to the clearing for help, a trickle of blood weaving through the coarse hair of his temple, and saw not a Nazi animal, not even an enemy worthy of death or whatever violent act I had imposed upon him that brought him so near death, but a person, a man, a brother, a son, maybe a husband and father. I clenched my jaw, bit my lip, and wrestled back the sobs that wanted to escape my lungs.

  I’d injured a man, maybe mortally, maybe permanently. And that brought a tightness to my stomach that felt like I’d swallowed a vice. Laying a hand on his chest, as if my touch alone would bond us in a single moment, identify us as partners in this crazy turn of events, and somehow exculpate me of my violent act, I whispered, “Sorry.”

  A bitter taste flooded my mouth then because I knew there were three more Germans to defeat if Dad, Pop, Henry, and now Peter were to be rescued. Three more acts of violence in which I would have to engage. And I didn’t know if I had the stomach for it.

  Swallowing hard, I quickly collected my thoughts and searched the unconscious German’s clothes for any weapons. Finding nothing in the pockets of his trousers I moved to his jacket. Nothing but a few loose matches, a short length of rope, a half-used cigarette, and a well-used handkerchief. At last, I slid my hand under his back and felt for his belt. There, slipped between his belt and the small of his back, was his trench knife. I pulled it out and looked at it. On the black, textured handle, was a small red circle with a white swastika in the center of it. I slid the blade from its metal sheath, the sound reminding me of Mom’s knife-sharpening steel. The blade was scratched and tarnished, but sharp. At the base of the blade, where it met the hilt, were dark brown stains, blood stains. The knife had been used either on animals or humans, had shed blood and taken life.

  Balancing the knife in my hand I wondered if I would have the mettle to use it when the time came. Stabbing someone seemed so intimate, so personal. The idea of standing face to face, nose to nose, eye to eye with your victim while you introduced a foreign object to his bowels, tearing tissue and severing arteries, taking his life like you had a right to it, chilled my blood and made my mouth go dry. I didn’t want to dwell on it any longer and, returning the blade to its sheath, slid the knife under my belt along my left flank.

  I had to plan. The other three Germans, while still engrossed in conversation would soon wonder why their freund had not returned. Then they would send a scout to search for him. Quickly and quietly, I grabbed my victim by his wrists and dragged him deeper into the woods, then made a turn left and dragged him even farther from the clearing. After settling him in behind a large oak, I gathered several armfuls of leaves and buried him, leaving a small opening for his nose and mouth.

  Hopefully, the search would take longer than expected and nightfall would cut short the recovery mission.

  I looked at my watch: seven-ten.

  Dusk crept in like a silent thief. And the sky was darkening.

  35

  The clouds overhead roiled like an angry sea. In the past ten minutes they’d turned five shades of gray and almost totally blocked out what little daylight was left. The atmospheric pressure had increased as well until if felt like I was standing on the ocean floor looking up at the waves heaving on the surface. In the distance, a gentle rumble of thunder broke the evening’s silence. Another storm was brewing, moving over the mountain like a tsunami.

  I knelt beside the German, found his carotid artery with two fingers, and confirmed the life-sustaining surge of blood. Again, I felt an odd bond between us, as if violence was an adhesive that connected our souls, though I knew I was nothing like this Nazi, this barbarian who thrived on killing and thirsted for brutality. Or was I? Peter’s words floated back to me on a gentle breeze that climbed down the mountainside: Do you believe that Jesus died for them too, just as he died for you? That you’re no better than they are?

  Maybe that’s what the bond was: the bond of sin, of carnality, of flesh and blood. Maybe it was the bond of the fallen, of those living under the curse and doomed to resort to violence and evil. We’re all capable of letting the beast out of the cage and committing hideous acts against our fellow men.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, then quietly picked my way through the woods to the clearing.

  The Nazi trio was still huddled. Peter’s body hung still and silent. The scene reminded me of a field-dressed deer, hung by its hind legs to allow the blood to drain. I figured Peter was either dead or holding on to life by no more than the rope by which he hung. The picture was gruesome, and I was thankful for the darkness stealing the last particles of light.

  Suddenly, Coyote turned and headed straight for me. Certain they had not seen me, I assumed he was coming to look for his buddy.

  He reached the first tree, stopped and squinted into the darkness. “Helmut! Was statt Sie so lange?” What’s taking you so long?

  So the brute’s name was Helmut.

  With his hands propped on his hips, Coyote stood still for a few seconds then, “Helmut! Brachen Sie Hilfe?” Do you need help?

  That brought a round
of laughter from the other two Germans.

  When Helmut didn’t answer because he was sleeping soundly a good fifty yards from the clearing, Coyote kicked at the ground and clapped his hands. “Helmut! Helmut!”

  When there was still no answer, the burly leader approached and stood beside his smaller subordinate. Both men peered into the woods.

  “Mueller!” the leader snapped. The larger German still standing sentry near Peter’s body hustled over to the where the others were gathered at the edge of the woods.

  The leader pointed into the darkness, right past where I was hiding behind a gnarled oak. “Gehen nach ihm suchen,” he said, slapping Mueller on the back. Go look for him.

  Mueller grunted something, turned and fetched a lantern flashlight from the other side of the clearing. Switching it on, he headed straight into the woods.

  Like a sword piercing the darkness, the beam cut a swath of light ten feet wide. Pressing my back against the oak, my heart bounced in my chest, and I could only hope I was well out of the illuminated eye’s roving field of view.

  Mueller passed me no more than twenty feet to my right, his footsteps heavy and determined, the edge of the light just kissing the base of my oak.

  “Mach weiter.” I heard the leader say. Keep going. “Er so ging.” He went that way.

  Mueller grunted again and pressed on, calling Helmut’s name and waving the light back and forth like he was trying to ward off a horde of dark spirits. But the only dark spirits in those woods were the ones wearing swastikas.

  I knew what I had to do, though I fought against the very idea even before it materialized in my mind. Here was another German isolated, alone in the dark, a wolf separated from the protection of his pack and the truth hit me again: If I was going to rescue Dad, Pop, Henry, and Peter, I was going to have to eliminate the Germans one by one. It was the only way. To engage the remaining three at once would be sure suicide. To wait until daylight would negate the element of surprise, my only hope. I had to act quickly, intercept Mueller before he reached Helmut, and ambush him.