by Jeff Shaara
The tank began to slow, then stopped, the cloud of exhaust giving way to a soft breeze that cleared away the smoke. The tank’s engine was idling and Benson peered up, saw the hatch coming open right in front of him, avoided a broken nose by ducking to one side.
The Sherman’s commander appeared, said, “Everybody off! There’s a village up ahead, Waltherhausen, or something like that. Our orders are to fan out, hold a line to the south. The brass wants you guys right here.”
The infantrymen slid off, groans of relief, clouds of dust rolling off each man, some slapping at their pants and jackets, some coughing, one man, a sergeant, saluting the tank commander.
“Thank you, sir. We appreciate the ride.”
“Don’t call me sir, sergeant. I’m not an officer. But there’s supposed to be a command post moving up here behind us. You’ll find all the officers you need.”
The tank commander spoke into a radio, something Benson couldn’t hear, then gave a command to his driver, the tank spewing out a hard belch of smoke, the treads throwing clods of dirt back toward the foot soldiers.
Mitchell was close to him, said, “Cocky son of a bitch not to be an officer.”
Benson spit dirt from his mouth, checked his rifle, said, “You’d be too if you had a cannon and half a dozen machine guns to play with.”
“Not me. I ever run up on a Tiger tank, I’d whole lot rather hide in some hole than in some tin can. I’m not so keen on fighting a duel with somebody bigger than me. Done too much of that already.”
Benson looked at the sergeant, another of the new men, who had probably earned his stripes in some stateside training camp. The sergeant watched the tanks pull away with what seemed like sadness, and Benson said, “Hey, Sarge. What you want us to do now?”
The sergeant shrugged, clearly had no idea, turned and watched as the others gathered, a full platoon of men. There were more coming up the road behind them, more passengers from the armored column that had already disappeared across flat fields and two-rut roads that ran to the south. Back along the columns of foot soldiers, Benson heard a voice, an order.
“Two abreast! We need to make sure there’re no straggler Krauts out here. Move into the houses, check ’em out. No screwing around!”
It was the first time Benson had heard an order from the officer in charge, a lieutenant who seemed angry at the world, more angry at the men he now commanded.
Mitchell said quietly, “What’s his problem? Wonder if he’s ever done this before.”
“Maybe that’s his problem. He probably hasn’t. But I bet he’s heard all about the life span of lieutenants.”
The officer moved past them, shouldered a carbine, a map in his hand, said nothing else, the others falling in behind him. Benson and Mitchell fell into line, marched through an intersection, heavy churned ruts where some of the tanks had turned off, but the infantrymen were moving straight ahead. They climbed a slight rise, the lieutenant leading them forward with seemingly no concern for what might be on the other side of the hill. No, Benson thought, I don’t think he’s done this before. Benson crested the hill at a much slower pace than the men in front of him, Mitchell slipping more toward the edge of the road, close to cover. Benson could see the village, wondered if anyone else had been there first, if the place had been secured. The lieutenant hadn’t said a word about it. Benson could see more of the rooftops, a small village, mostly intact, and from every house something white was hanging from a window, makeshift flags of sheets and tablecloths.
Beside him, Mitchell said, “Wonderful. Either we’re about to be smothered in kisses and sauerkraut, or it’s the perfect ambush. Watch yourself, kiddo.”
The lieutenant led them past the first of the buildings, a small house, and the officer pointed that way, two men responding by moving to the door. Benson stared at the windows, mostly open, curtains flapping, and now, across the street, other doors began to open, people emerging. Benson raised the rifle, nervous instinct, watched one old man moving toward the lieutenant, speaking in a rush of German, gesturing down the street. More people appeared, civilians from every building, moving out in small groups, some staying close to their homes, others approaching the soldiers. Benson focused on the women, clean dresses.
Mitchell said, “They’ve dressed up in their Sunday best. No accident there. See all that face paint? A whole new kind of ambush.”
The army had issued orders against fraternization, was levying fines, though few were sure just how anyone would enforce that. Benson had endured the usual lectures at the replacement depot about all the dangers they might find in the women they encountered, German or otherwise. After one particularly graphic and unpleasant film, Benson had no interest in testing if what the army was telling them about German women was just propaganda. Already rumors were flying, tales from other advanced units that the women were as likely to be carrying a knife as a venereal disease, and Benson had already given himself a lecture about his own behavior. Mitchell never seemed to care one way or the other about civilians, except the ones who wanted you dead. It was a lesson in priorities Benson had taken to heart.
The lieutenant held up the column, moved back toward them, said, “Anybody speak Kraut? This old guy’s trying to tell me something, and he’s pretty damn excited about it.”
Mitchell said, “Why don’t we just let him show us the way, sir? He’s obviously got something he wants us to see. He might be out to pull some crap, but he can count rifles, and I bet he heard those damn tanks. Just keep him right in front of us, in case there’s a sniper. If the old guy starts to backtrack or act squirrelly, shoot him and take cover.”
The lieutenant stared at Mitchell, then nodded slowly.
“Yeah, good idea. All right, let’s see what he’s up to. Why don’t you and your buddy take the point.”
Mitchell moved closer to the old man, pointed his rifle into the German’s stomach, the old man’s enthusiasm turning to uncertainty, then anger. He began to speak again, pointing farther into the village.
Mitchell glanced at Benson, then said to the old man, “Okay, okay, I’m not going to shoot you yet. Go on! Let’s solve this big mystery.” He looked back toward the lieutenant. “Sir, you best stay back behind the first dozen guys, where it’s safe.”
The lieutenant said nothing, was fumbling with the radio, didn’t seem to catch the sarcasm in Mitchell’s voice. Benson moved up close to the old man, who was still waving them on furiously, a cascade of words. Mitchell motioned down the street, and the old man glanced nervously again at the muzzle of Mitchell’s rifle, began to move in short quick steps.
Benson kept pace, searched the windows, nervous now, some of the larger homes and buildings with second stories. Behind them, the others had moved up, still two abreast, the only talk coming from the German civilians who continued to gather in small groups along the side of the street. Benson scanned them, focused on their hands, searched for some hint of a weapon. Most were waving, calling out, smiles, but there were others, grim silent stares, the message unmistakable. Benson said, “Not everybody’s happy to see us. These ain’t Belgians.”
He heard a woman’s voice above, one loud word, and behind him a hard grunt. Benson turned, saw the man go down, his helmet lopsided, a brick tumbling to the street beside him. Benson caught the movement in the window above, saw an old woman, her raised fist, more cursing, another brick in her hand, and now a shot, the muzzle blast just behind him, deafening, the woman punched back into the house. Benson put a hand over his ear, turned, saw Mitchell aiming, a wisp of smoke from his rifle. Other soldiers were kneeling around the fallen man, the lieutenant scampering up.
“What happened? Sniper?”
The injured man was up quickly, one hand nursing his shoulder.
“The bitch hit me with a brick!” The medic was there quickly, but the soldier shrugged him off. “I’m okay. Sore as hell. Bruised up, that’s all. Damn, I never saw her, until … he shot her.”
They were looking at Mitchell now,
the lieutenant’s eyes shifting from his rifle to the window above.
“Somebody needs to go check her out. Medic, take two men, see if she’s dead.” The officer paused, said to Mitchell, “Hey, soldier. Don’t you check something out before you blast away?”
Mitchell didn’t respond, stared up at the window, obviously prepared to shoot again.
Benson said, “No, sir. Not a good idea to take chances. All we knew is a German threw a weapon at us. If that’d been a grenade, we wouldn’t be talking about it.”
The lieutenant seemed unsure how to respond, kept his stare on Mitchell.
“Fine. Good job, I guess.”
Benson saw faces in the window above, the medic.
“She’s dead, sir. No one else here. There’s a photograph on the wall of a Kraut soldier.”
The lieutenant waved them down.
“Let’s go. Where’s that old man?”
Benson saw the man, staring up at the window, horror on his face, sadness, words coming again, angry, aimed at the woman’s house. Benson thought, he’s cursing her. Yep, pretty damn stupid, no matter how much you love Nazis. Unless you’ve got something better than a brick. The old man seemed to gather himself, the talk coming again, waving them forward. Benson scanned the windows, his hands shaking, the old annoyance, a sick stirring in his stomach. Across the street, the faces of the people had changed, wide-eyed shock, no more smiles. Mitchell didn’t wait for the lieutenant, began to move again, prodding the old man forward. The civilians were hesitant, but slowly, they began to respond, some talking to the old man, sounds of encouragement, some moving with the soldiers. Benson kept his eyes on them, saw some raising their hands, palms out, a clear sign that they had no fight to make, that they were no threat. Yeah, he thought, this isn’t a damn parade.
The old man was hurrying now, and Mitchell kept pace, Benson hustling to keep up. The old man turned a corner, and Mitchell hugged the wall, eased around, motioned to the others to follow. Benson saw a beer hall, more shops, the doors wide open, faces behind glass, more waving.
Mitchell said, “Word’s passed pretty quick. Now they all wanna be our pals.”
The old man stopped now, pointed to a large house.
Mitchell pulled him back by the shoulder. “Okay, far enough. What do you think, kiddo? Guess we oughta take a look.”
Benson moved up toward the door, and the lieutenant was there now, said, “You want to do it? Well, okay then.” He looked at Benson. “Maybe grab a grenade. Anybody tries anything funny, toss it in. No screwing around! The rest of you, watch the crowd, watch the windows!”
Benson saw the look from Mitchell, a hint of annoyance with the lieutenant who had no idea. Mitchell’s rifle came up, aiming at the door, and Benson eased forward, his heart pounding, stared at the door’s handle, thought, don’t be locked … and the door suddenly opened. Benson jumped back, startled, Mitchell’s rifle pointing past him, and Benson saw a woman, her hands moving out to the side, a look of sad resignation.
Benson said, “No! Don’t shoot.”
Mitchell moved up to the door, a small laugh.
“Don’t worry, kiddo. I’m not trigger-happy.”
The woman motioned with her hand, no fear in her eyes, stepped back, an invitation.
The lieutenant said, “Follow her. But be careful.”
Mitchell moved past Benson, the rifle pointed at the woman, and Benson saw now that there were bloodstains on her dress, her hands crusted with dull red. Benson pushed in close behind Mitchell, saw her gesture silently toward the basement door. It was open, and Mitchell led the way with the rifle, started down the steps, and now the voices.
“Thank God!”
“Don’t shoot! Americans!”
Benson saw now, the floor of the basement was lined with half a dozen men, lying flat, all with bloody uniforms, bandaged legs and chests and heads. Benson called out, “Medic! It’s okay, it’s our guys!”
He scrambled down the steps, knelt low, talk coming from several of the men, grateful relief. The lieutenant came down quickly, said, “What happened here? Who are you?”
Benson saw sergeant’s stripes, the man with a heavy bandage around his chest.
“We were ambushed, sir. Our patrol … they got a bunch of us. The ones who could walk … the Krauts took with them. Pretty rough, sir.”
Mitchell said, “Where? The town? We’ll level the damn place.”
“No, no. The road to the east. We were the advance for the artillery, following behind the armor, a tank platoon from the Fourteenth. We did something stupid, wandered out through an orchard, ran slap into a Kraut armored column. They were pulling out of here, and we stumbled right into their path. We didn’t have a chance. The townsfolk … helped us. The woman here, she’s something of a nurse, I think. We’re lucky to be alive. The Krauts were in a hell of a hurry to leave, or they’d have finished us off, I’m pretty sure of that.”
The medic was moving from man to man, checking the bandages, and now the woman was down beside him, a flurry of German, pointing to the bandages, her own handiwork.
Beside Benson, the lieutenant said, “Well, it’s good to see you boys. We’ll get you out of here, get you to an aid station.”
“Sir, we heard a shot. You find a sniper? The nurse acted like the bad guys had all gone away.”
The lieutenant glanced at Mitchell, who moved away, began to climb the steps.
“We had some trouble. Took care of it. Where’s my radio?”
“Here, sir.”
Benson watched the lieutenant fumble with the radio, reporting what they’d found, giving an all-clear to a place that might still have an enemy close by. Benson followed Mitchell up, back out into the daylight, saw the old man there still, all smiles, nodding, more fast words, obviously pleased with himself.
Mitchell moved past him, and Benson said, “Yeah, thank you. Thank you for your help. I guess you’re not all butchers.”
More soldiers were fanning out through the town, some in jeeps, and Benson followed Mitchell back out to the main street. Trucks were coming in, officers, the command post, men with radios, a kitchen truck. The civilians were still there, watching it all, watching the Americans occupy their town, a few starting to cheer, others just staring, cold silence.
Mitchell seemed to move aimlessly, nothing to do, and Benson stayed close to him, said, “Good work, Kenny. You mighta saved our asses back there. That old lady coulda had a grenade.”
Mitchell looked at him, shrugged, watched the officers spitting out their commands, radios carried into one tall building, one truck moving up close, then another, an ambulance. Medics scrambled out, moved past them toward the house where the woman had made her own hospital.
Benson said, “I guess the lieutenant got these guys on the radio. Those GIs are damn lucky.”
Mitchell shouldered his rifle.
“Yeah. But that sergeant said there were more who didn’t make it. This ain’t a picnic, kiddo, not yet.”
“You! Soldier!”
Benson turned, saw an older man, the unmistakable aura of brass. “Where’s your lieutenant?”
Benson pointed back toward the woman’s house, said, “There, sir. We found some wounded—”
“Forget that. Get him, get your unit in gear. You’re moving out. We’ve picked up some displaced persons, a bunch of Armenians, said there’s a prison camp down this road. The enemy is hightailing it, and the prisoners are wandering all over hell.”
Benson heard the lieutenant coming out from the side street.
“Sir! We’ve found—”
“Never mind, Lieutenant. Put your men on these trucks. Take this road, a few miles south, see what the hell’s going on. Reports are sketchy, but it’s not hot. The enemy is pulling back, and we’ve got armor chasing them. But the lead tanks say that things are a real mess down there. Get going! We’ll have some people right behind you. I’m sending Charlie Company on a parallel road.”
“What’s our objective, sir?�
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Benson cringed, the question straight from a training manual. The older officer turned away. “All I know is what the map says. And what those Armenians said. Place is called Ohrdruf.”
OHRDRUF, GERMANY
APRIL4, 1945
They climbed down from the truck, rifles ready, the field along the road suddenly erupting with men moving toward them in a mad scramble. Behind Benson, a jeep rolled up close, one man high on the fifty-caliber, an officer in the front standing as well. The officer shouted out, “Hold your fire! They’re not armed!”
Benson moved out across the road, stood on the edge of the field, more GIs coming up beside him, some dropping to one knee, rifles ready. In the field, the wave of men drew closer, some stumbling. Beside him, Mitchell said, “They’re all wearing uniforms. Looks liked striped pajamas.”
The men began to reach the soldiers, and Benson saw the faces, realized the men were bone-thin, emaciated, hollow eyes and cheeks. They were speaking, not German, but some language Benson had never heard. One man dropped to his knees in front of Benson, crying, heavy sobs, the sounds growing, desperate and pleading.
Behind Benson, the officer said, “Get these men some rations. Anything you’ve got.”
The officer returned to the jeep, began to talk into a radio, and Benson felt one man’s hands on his leg, bones for fingers, the man choking, out of breath. Now another man spoke, pieces of English.
“Go! Go! This road! Many more! Please!”
Behind Benson, the officer called out, “On foot! Move out on this road.”
Benson was still in the grip of the man, stared down at the man’s strange clothes, filthy pajamas, and he caught the smell now, sour and sickening. Others were moving close, some pointing the way, the way the officer had ordered them to march. Benson stepped back, the man’s fingers giving way, and he wanted to say something, felt overwhelmed, too many questions. Who are these people?