by Tom Young
As Wilhelm had hoped, the woods stretched for a good distance. The men walked for an hour with no sign of a break in the trees. Gentle wooded hills gave way to a flat forest floor. The change in terrain suggested a river valley, Wilhelm thought. Perhaps they had not strayed too far east.
The cloud cover remained low, so at least search planes posed no threat for the moment. The only sound came from rhythmic thumps as the American’s walking stick struck the ground with each stride. A short distance ahead of Wilhelm, the pilot looked like an Alpine trekker on a weekend jaunt.
As the morning wore on, Wilhelm considered the obstacles between him and escape. The river presented the first challenge. Could they take a chance on stealing a boat? Could they risk crossing a bridge? Where were the bridges, anyway? Would he and the Yank have to swim? Did this flyboy even know how to swim? If the days turned colder, would wet clothes mean death by hypothermia?
Even if they crossed the river safely, plenty of other dangers remained. Not just from the SS hunting deserters, but from retreating German troops. Then came the problem of approaching a British or American unit. Some of the soldiers would have fought all the way from the beaches of Normandy and might be quick to line up their sights on strangers.
Twice during the day, the Yank found narrow brooks where he refilled his water flasks. At both stops, the men drank until they’d quenched their thirst, then filled the flasks again.
At midafternoon, the horizon became visible through breaks in the timber; Wilhelm and the American had reached the edge of the forest. The Yank pilot pointed ahead, then placed his index finger across his lips to gesture for silence. Wilhelm nodded and the two slowed their pace. Before each step, Wilhelm checked the ground for twigs and other debris lest a snap give them away. The effort seemed natural. Silent running came instinctively to a submariner.
Near the forest border, but still within the cover of trees, the flier dropped to one knee and leaned with one hand on his walking stick. Except for his coveralls, he could have been a wanderer from almost any century of human history. Wilhelm kneeled beside him and surveyed the terrain beyond the woods.
The landscape sloped downward from where the spruces ended. Hectares of fields extended across a valley several kilometers wide. Stone walls, less than a meter high, divided the fields. Just as Wilhelm had suspected, a river wound through the valley. To the south, barely visible in the distance, Wilhelm discerned the edge of a town nestled on the riverbank. He tried to get his bearings, though any sailor would find that difficult without proper charts. Mentally he traced the route he and the American had taken for the past two days.
“What’s that town?” the Yank asked.
“I was just wondering that,” Wilhelm said.
“Whatever it is, we’ll just cross the Weser down there and keep heading southwest.”
“Ja, but the problem is I don’t think that’s the Weser,” Wilhelm said.
“What is it, then?”
“I think that town is Verden, and if it is, you are looking at the River Aller.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“It means we have come farther south than we realized, and we now have two rivers to cross if we mean to join up with your compatriots. The Aller flows into the Weser near here.”
“So once we cross that river,” the Yank said, pointing with his staff, “we’ll come to the Weser again pretty soon.”
“Yes. Too bad you cannot part waters with that stick like Moses.”
“Yeah, I’m all out of miracles.”
The fugitives watched the valley for an hour. Not a single person appeared. The Yank sat down, took out his folding knife, and whittled at his staff, apparently trying to make it smoother to the hand. Curls of wooden shavings accumulated in his lap. Wilhelm stared across the fields and into the town.
“If I recall my history,” Wilhelm said, “Verden is where Charlemagne ordered a massacre of thousands of Saxons.”
The American looked up from his carving. “This part of the world has a bloody history, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, and becoming more so by the day.”
“Guess we won’t be traipsing into Verden and reading the historical markers, will we?”
Yes, of course, Wilhelm thought. Here you go with your silly remarks again. The silence was too good to last.
But to Wilhelm’s surprise, the Yank did not yammer on. He put away the knife, laid the staff across his lap, and sat quietly. Dug his thumbnail into the soft wood he had exposed by whittling. When he finally spoke again, he did not make a foolish joke.
“Speaking of historical markers,” the American said, “there won’t be any for our battles.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it. You can go visit the spot where Charlemagne did this or Napoleon did that. You can go see Waterloo, or back home, I can go to Yorktown or Gettysburg. But nobody will ever visit the sites where we fought. No markers up at twenty thousand feet.”
True enough, Wilhelm considered. “Or down at two hundred meters,” he added.
“Just a bunch of contrails that are gone in fifteen minutes.”
“Or oil slicks that vanish in a day.”
Only wind and water, Wilhelm thought, currents of air and sea, and a thousand memories.
As the sun began to set, the American pointed to a small stone structure built at the end of one of the rock walls down in the valley, a few hundred meters away. The little building stood about one meter high and not more than two meters wide.
“I’m guessing the farmers here use those things to store tools next to their fields,” the flier said.
Wilhelm shrugged. “Perhaps. I am not a farmer.”
“Back home, we have big toolsheds in our barn lots, but you do things different here. Maybe you leave tools in the field for the night if you don’t want to carry a hoe all the way back to your village.”
“So?”
“So, big shed or little shed, I wonder if there’s something we can use in there.”
What nonsense is this? Wilhelm wondered. “What are you going to do with a hoe or a shovel?” he asked.
“Nothing. But maybe I’ll find something else.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No,” the Yank said in English. “Stay up here in the woods. If I get caught, just skedaddle.” He left his walking stick in the woods beside Wilhelm and waded into a fallow field overgrown with weeds.
Wilhelm watched the pilot’s progress. No other person appeared, and no cars or tractors rolled onto the farm paths between the fields. When the Yank came to a cornfield, he disappeared into the stalks. Alongside the cornfield, a rock wall extended to the stone shed.
After several minutes, Wilhelm saw movement at the shed; the Yank had reached his goal. The American pilot examined several items he found inside. Some he kept; others he rejected. He bound up the things that he kept in what looked like a bundle of cloth.
To Wilhelm, this all seemed a waste of time and an unnecessary risk. He began to wonder if traveling with the Yank was a good idea, after all. He wished he could have commanded this crazy aviator to forget the silly idea of scrounging for something useful. To Wilhelm’s military mind, every situation demanded a chain of command, a clear idea of who was in charge. But the two men were of roughly equal rank and experience, and neither would accept a subordinate role.
Dusk deepened as the Yank made his way back to the woods. Wilhelm waited in the trees, feeling the weight of the Luger under his belt. From his trouser pocket, he extracted the brick fragment from his grandparents’ home. Held it in his fist, felt its sharp corners. Pressed his fist to his lips and wondered if he’d ever see any of his family again.
The first stars became visible, and Wilhelm took a vague comfort from the sight. This was nautical twilight, when the brightest stars appeared and mariners used them to take bearings. At this time of year, the constellation Aquarius would soon make itself visible in a section of the sky known for its associat
ion with water. Near Aquarius, one would find Pisces the fish and Cetus the whale.
The heavens themselves were arranged to help sailors find their way, Wilhelm thought. Yet here I am adrift without ship and crew.
More stars took form in the night sky, and the evening became so quiet Wilhelm heard only the tick of his watch. He began to worry: Had the pilot lost his way? Had he decided he was safer alone? But then, the shuffling of footsteps sounded from the fields below, and a figure took form in the darkness, carrying a bundle in his arms.
Wilhelm put the brick fragment back into his pocket and said, “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming back.”
“Just being careful,” the Yank said. “I took my time and low-crawled so nobody would see me.”
“It worked. I did not see you until just now. What did you find?”
The bomber pilot dumped his bundle onto the ground. “Can you shed some light on the subject?” he said.
After puzzling for a moment, Wilhelm realized this was the American’s idiotic way of asking him to turn on his flashlight. He shielded the lens with his fingers, clicked on the light, and let a tiny beam illuminate the things the Yank had stolen from the shed.
Coils of hemp rope secured a folded canvas tarpaulin. The pilot unwrapped the rope and opened the tarp. The tarp contained nothing but a metal bucket.
“What on earth will you do with that?” Wilhelm asked.
“Cook. But first I want to make a knapsack.”
“A what?”
“Just hold the light for me, will you?”
With his folding knife, the Yank cut a four-foot square from the tarp. At each corner of the square, he made a small incision that looked much like a buttonhole. Then he cut a length of hemp and threaded it through the holes. Held up the ends of the rope for Wilhelm.
“You’re the knot expert,” the Yank said.
Wilhelm handed the flashlight to Hagan and secured the makeshift backpack with a reef knot. With the excess, he improvised a carrying strap by tying a bowline on a bight.
“All right,” the Yank said, “I’m impressed.”
Then you’re easily impressed, Wilhelm thought. A five-year-old fisherman’s son could have tied these knots. It is a wonder landlubbers can even tie their shoes.
The Yank passed the flashlight back to Wilhelm and picked up what was left of the tarp. He spread the canvas on the ground; the tarp looked large enough to cover the back of a small truck. The aviator kneeled on the tarp, and with his folding knife, he cut the canvas into two equal portions.
“Now we got blankets,” the Yank said. “Or maybe a couple pup tents.”
The pilot closed his knife, placed it in his pocket. Folded his half of the tarp, then got back down on his knees and began to dig with his hands.
“Another fire hole?” Wilhelm asked.
“Yep.”
The American constructed a fire pit just as he’d done the night before. As he dug, he compared the diameter of the hole with that of the bucket’s base. Evidently, he wanted to make sure the hole was smaller than the bucket, so the bucket could sit on the ground over the flames. Wilhelm gathered fuel, and the pilot fumbled for his matches and lit the fire. When the blaze began to crackle and spread, the Yank emptied a flask of water into the bucket and placed the bucket on the fire pit.
“Gimme your potatoes,” the Yank said in English.
Wilhelm handed over his two potatoes. Using the folding knife, the flier cut each potato into halves, quarters, eighths. Left the skin on. Dropped the diced potatoes into the water, which was beginning to steam. The Yank also cut up the potatoes he’d carried in his own pockets.
From his handfuls of survival gear, the American selected a small screw-top tin. In the orange flicker of firelight, he opened the tin to reveal several bouillon cubes wrapped in foil. The pilot unwrapped two cubes and dropped them into the bucket, which now served as a soup kettle. He found a fallen branch, broke off a stick, stripped the stick of twigs and evergreen needles, and used it to stir the soup.
“Since we don’t have bowls,” the Yank said, “once the potatoes cook, we’ll just have to let the bucket cool enough to pick it up and drink straight out of it.”
Wilhelm nodded. This meal would be no more difficult to eat than many he’d had aboard the U-351: In a pitching, rolling boat, it was easier to drink cold soup from a can than to handle a bowl and spoon.
After a few minutes, the bouillon dissolved and Wilhelm detected the aroma of chicken. The pilot stirred the soup from time to time, leaning over and sniffing the vapor that rose from his makeshift kettle. The Yank seemed inordinately pleased with himself that he’d found a way to cook, but then Wilhelm decided he was judging the man too harshly. Better to accomplish something and derive a morale boost from it than to give in to despair. Wilhelm had seen proof enough of that on patrol. On a submarine in the middle of the Atlantic, one could improvise solutions for almost anything except a bad disposition.
Wilhelm sat with his back against a tree and tried to purge his mind of all thoughts, to sense nothing but the smell of food and the quiet of the night. His eyelids fluttered, and he might have dozed off if the Yank hadn’t announced, “Soup’s ready. Now we just have to let it cool a little.”
Using a handkerchief to protect his fingers from hot metal, the Yank slid the bucket off the fire. A few seconds later, he tapped the bucket’s rim to test its temperature. Shook his hand, placed his finger in his mouth. Of course, it’s still hot, you dummkopf, Wilhelm thought.
The Yank continued to stir, and every few minutes, he tapped the rim again. Eventually he placed his palm against the side of the bucket for a few seconds. When he could keep his hand on the bucket without getting burned, he said, “Dinner’s served. You go first.”
The bucket had no handle, so the Yank used both hands to lift it by the rim. Passed it carefully to Wilhelm, who placed one hand on the bottom and one hand on the side. The metal remained hot, but not painfully so. Wilhelm felt the soup’s vapor rising into his face.
“Danke,” Wilhelm said. He raised the rim to his lips, tipped the bucket. Some of the soup splashed into his lap, but he managed to take in a mouthful. It tasted surprisingly good, just a little salty. Wilhelm swallowed, chewed the potato chunks that remained in his mouth, swallowed again. Took another sip and passed the bucket back to the Yank.
While he waited for his turn to drink more soup, Wilhelm reminded himself to take what solace he could from the quiet, the stars, the hot food. And from the comradeship, even if his comrade was a blathering American. Value each moment, he told himself.
Because tomorrow I may feel a rope around my neck.
21
The Geometry of Dying
Karl woke up in the early dawn, cold and groggy. Rays of sunlight slanted through the timber and highlighted wisps of fog. The air smelled of charcoal—hints of the campfire from last night. Frost coated his tarp, which he’d used as a blanket. The white crust reminded him that sleeping outside would soon become very uncomfortable. He raised himself on his elbows and looked around.
The German was gone.
From somewhere deeper in the forest, Karl heard rustling. Footsteps. More rustling.
Son of a bitch lit out on me, Karl thought, and that could be the SS on the way. He sat up, tossed away the blanket. Reached into his coveralls for the .45, still tied to a lanyard on his wrist. Flicked off the thumb safety. The rustling grew louder.
No use running now, Karl realized. They’re too close. Shoot it out or let ’em take me?
That depended on who they were and how many. Karl held the Colt with both hands, ready to make quick decisions.
He lowered the weapon when he saw the source of the noise: the Kraut sailor, alone, dragging a log.
The sailor pulled the log next to the fire pit and dropped it. Eyed Karl’s pistol.
“What the hell are you doing?” Karl asked. “I don’t plan to be here long enough to build a log cabin.”
“Neither do
I.”
“I don’t think building a great big bonfire is a good idea, either, if that’s what you have in mind.” Karl placed his weapon on safe and put it back in his pocket.
“Neither do I.”
“Well, are you just going to keep me in suspense?”
“You were very resourceful yesterday with your improvised cooking. Today I will try to follow your example. I will get us across that river.”
Without another word, the Kraut marched back into the woods. He returned a few minutes later with another log. This one was smaller, only a little bigger around than the end of a baseball bat. He dropped it next to the first log.
“I get it,” Karl said. “A raft. But how do we get it to the river?”
“We carry it.”
Karl frowned.
“Do not worry,” the U-boat man continued. “I will make it small. We wait for darkness, and then we move. Our little raft does not need to carry us across the Atlantic. It only needs to get us over the Aller.”
Karl folded his blanket and packed it in the knapsack he’d made. After his night’s sleep, he had a cottony taste in his mouth and a pang in his stomach. He wanted nothing more than breakfast; the powdered eggs and weak coffee back at the 94th would be a banquet to him now.
It was all a matter of circumstance. So many days he’d sat in that chow hall longing for home. Now he longed for the chow hall, which seemed like home. With his crew around him, each man healthy and young, their whole lives ahead of them.
He forced his mind off that track, as if punching off an autopilot that steered the wrong heading. On that course lay nothing but despair and guilt, neither of which he could afford right now. Karl turned his attention back to the U-boat man, who was dragging yet another tree limb.
That little construction project, Karl thought, will at least give us something to think about other than where we’d rather be.
The German rubbed his hand; apparently, his injuries still pained him. But he made no complaint as he looked down at the logs and limbs he’d gathered so far.
“This will be a rough version of a raft because we don’t have an ax,” the U-boat man said. “Otherwise, I would cut everything to an even length and make notches to fit the logs together.”