Prisoners of War

by C. Alexander London

  The dog landed with a yelp, followed by the thud of the body, and I thought maybe the one had crushed the other, but as I peered over, I immediately saw the dog start jumping and yipping, full of strength and power, still trying to get me.

  “Give it up, you yutz,” I told the dog, using Goldsmith’s word for fool. “Don’t you know when you’re beat?”

  But the dog didn’t know. The dog kept at it. I was the enemy.

  “Sorry, vato,” I told it. “It’s time for me to go.”

  I turned to walk away, then I heard the dog whimper. I peeked back and he had begun circling his master again, nudging him with his nose, whining and licking, trying to wake a man who would never wake again. But what could I do about it?

  I shook my head and started off, following a row of boot prints in the snow. I hoped they were American boot prints. It would be a lucky break if I found the Americans before I ran into Germans. I hadn’t been lucky so far, but I had to try. I still had my medical kit, so at least that was something. I was chilled to the bone and I wanted to lie down and sleep.

  Even in the cold, my shame burned inside me. When the battle had started, I panicked. I couldn’t get out of the foxhole, and then, when I did, I got stuck. I failed to do my duty and I lost my unit. I’d come to be a hero and to defeat the Germans and I failed to do either.

  But it wasn’t my fault, was it? The tree had trapped me. The tree had knocked me out.

  Why, then, did I feel like such a coward?

  I stumbled along, berating myself like that for a while. On the one hand, I was a coward; on the other hand, it wasn’t my fault. On the one hand, I had done my best; on the other hand, I knew that I had not done my best.

  I hadn’t made it far when I skittered down a steep embankment and landed in a puff of snow by the side of an icy road. I stood and brushed myself off and then I heard shouts, loud angry shouting … in German.

  “Schnell! Schnell! Jetzt, los geht!” someone was yelling.

  I ducked down behind the hedge and peered out at the road.

  Heavy boots marched double time in my direction. Through the night fog, I saw shapes emerge, the shapes of men. First I saw German officers in their long coats and peaked caps, holding machine guns and trotting at the head of a column of soldiers. The soldiers were American. They were unarmed — some of them wounded, limping; others carrying the wounded. Germans flanked them on either side, yelling and shoving them. One of the Germans held a dog on a leash, a big German shepherd, even bigger and broader than the Doberman I’d left behind in the foxhole. The dog barked and snarled at the men.

  They were prisoners, dozens of prisoners. I couldn’t make out any faces, but I recognized the checkerboard shoulder patch some wore, just like my own. If Goldsmith was alive, this was where he’d be. They were being marched away from the front lines, toward Germany.

  I listened as they passed, trying to stay silent. After a while, the sound of their marching faded. I stood. I didn’t know what to do. I had to find the army, had to tell someone that the Germans had taken most of my unit prisoner. Maybe I could even tell them which way the prisoners were going. I could still redeem myself.

  I pushed through the hedge onto the road, staying close to the ground where the fog was thickest, and I looked off in the direction they’d marched. It was too hazy to see anything. My heart sank. I didn’t even know where I was, how could I tell anyone where they were going?

  I sighed, disappointed in myself again. I’d panicked during the battle and lost my unit when it was taken prisoner, and now I’d been unable to help them even when I found them again. No wonder I had been assigned to be a medic. As a soldier, I was useless.

  I turned and made my way back through the hedge, up the icy slope and through the snowy forest to the foxholes. I hoped perhaps I could find some other survivors, maybe an officer who could tell me what to do. As I trudged along, a light snow began to fall.

  “Great,” I muttered. “Just great.” How was I supposed to find my way now? The fresh snow would cover up any existing footprints.

  At least the snow would also cover all the blood.

  When I reached my old foxhole, I didn’t hear the dog anymore. I crept up carefully, on my hands and knees, freezing my fingers. I wasn’t dressed for this kind of cold. I didn’t even have gloves.

  I looked into the hole and I saw the dog sound asleep beside his master, snoring. His legs twitched a little, like he was dreaming of the chase. Maybe he was dreaming about chasing American prisoners.

  “Good riddance,” I whispered, and turned to crawl around the hole, when my hand brushed something metal just at the edge of my foxhole. A chain.

  I lifted it up from the snow. Dog tags. At the end of the chain were the two thin plates of an American soldier’s dog tags. I held them close to my eyes and saw whose they were:

  Goldsmith, Albert. And there was his serial number and at the end of each tag, the letter H for Hebrew. My heart sped up in my chest. What did it mean that he’d left his dog tags here by the foxhole?

  The chain was intact. These hadn’t been torn off of him. He must have dropped the dog tags when the Germans overran the position, when he knew he’d be taken prisoner. Maybe he was afraid of what they’d do to him if they saw that he was Jewish.

  We’d all heard the stories about Hitler and the Jews, about the terrible things he did. What would his army do to a Jewish soldier? The thought was too terrible to imagine. Maybe, if I had been there with him, I could have helped. Maybe we could have gotten away or hidden together.

  Why should I have escaped when he didn’t? He had saved my life. He had gotten me out of the foxhole to do my job. He was a better soldier than I was — braver too. And I had seen him march past, a prisoner, and all I had done was watch. I didn’t even know which way they had gone. I had failed him. He was lost.

  I sat down in the snow and stared at the sleeping dog and his master. Not that long ago, that dog had been with his unit, happy to serve, eager to tear apart any American he found. And then, the battle. And then, his master was killed. And still, he didn’t give up. He tried to tear my throat out. And now, he just lay there, loyal to the end. He’d freeze to death or starve out here, probably, but he wouldn’t give up. That dog was twice the soldier I was.

  I stared at Goldsmith’s dog tags. An idea came to me.

  If that dog was twice the soldier I was, maybe I could use him! Maybe I could use him to track down the prisoners. He was a dog without a master. He’d want to go someplace familiar, like back to the Germans. If I could get him on that road, maybe he’d lead me after the prisoners, and then, maybe I could make up for my failure in the battle. Maybe I could find the prisoners and … well … I didn’t know after that.

  Rescue them? Or at least rescue Goldsmith. I had to save him before something terrible happened. I owed him my life, after all.

  I nodded, feeling good about my decision. I stood up and stepped to the edge of the foxhole. I looked down on the dog and cleared my throat. He looked up at me, his devilish ears perked. I guess he was too tired to start barking again, which was a relief. But then he growled. Boy, did he growl.

  “Don’t growl at me, you yutz,” I told him. “We need each other.”

  The first thing I needed to do was get the dog to obey me. Or at least get him to stop trying to take my head off.

  “What’s your name?” I asked him even though I knew he couldn’t answer me. I guess it just felt good to hear a voice, even if it was my own. All around the woods, it was dark, and I knew too well what lay beneath the thin layer of snow that had fallen. I did my best to focus on the dog in the foxhole, not the eerie lumps on the ground.

  The dog cocked his head. His ears twitched and I saw his paws flex.

  “Don’t even think about jumping at me,” I told the dog.

  He growled at me again.

  “Listen.” I squatted down above the hole and looked down at the dog. “I’ll take you back to the Germans, but you gotta cut me some
slack, okay?”

  The dog barked. It was not a friendly bark. It was not an “okay, I understand and I’ll help you find your friend” kind of bark. It was an intruder alert kind of bark, a “you are my enemy” kind of bark, the kind of bark that rang out through the forest, across the trees, and echoed off the silence of the snow. That kind of bark would call the Germans right to us.

  “You’re a real yutz, you know that?” I snapped at him. “I’m trying to help you.”

  If the dog wouldn’t cooperate, I’d never get him out of that hole, and without him, I’d never find the prisoners. I’d have to retreat, try to avoid getting captured, and get back to the Americans, the only coward of the Ninety-Ninth to escape the battle. I wondered if they’d ask me questions, how I came to survive, why I was the only one. I didn’t think I could bear to admit it.

  But what was my other choice? To prove my courage by chasing down an entire SS unit to set their prisoners free … on my own? That wasn’t bravery. It was madness. I was a brand-new army medic with one day of battle experience, not some sort of elite commando, trained to operate behind enemy lines. Retreat would not be cowardice. It was the only intelligent choice.

  I looked at the tracks the German tanks had left, the deep gouges in the earth that were already filling with snow. If I followed them, they’d probably lead me right to the front lines. I’d be on the wrong side of the front, but maybe once I got there I could slip across unnoticed. The word skulk popped into my head, like a thief’s skulk. I would skulk through the front and slink back to the army, my cowardice obvious to all.

  I sighed and started walking.

  “Erwww,” I heard from behind me. The dog whining. I took another step away, my boots crunching the snow. “Erwww,” again.

  I looked back and the dog stood in the foxhole, his ears down, his stubby tail tucked. He lowered his head.

  Maybe I would not have to skulk away after all.

  “So now you want to play nice, eh?” I squatted above the foxhole. The dog whimpered.

  I couldn’t believe what I was about to do, but courage had to start somewhere. Why not with this dog?

  I put my hand out.

  The dog sniffed.

  “Be a good boy,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and gentle. I needed the dog to stay relaxed.

  I felt his cold, wet nose against my knuckles as he sniffed at me. I closed my eyes. I let him sniff. He didn’t bite me, so I opened my eyes and eased myself forward.

  “I’m coming down,” I told him as I slid down into the foxhole. The dog backed away to the other side, but he didn’t snap at me. “All right,” I told him. “All right, now we’re getting somewhere.”

  He watched me, his black eyes fixed on my every move as I bent down to look at his master. The man lay facedown now, one arm stretched in front of him and the other, the one where he held the leash, pinned beneath him against the hard earth. I’d have to roll him over to get the leash.

  I really did not want to roll him over. I did not want to touch the body at all.

  Okay, I thought. You can do this. Just reach out and flip him over. It’ll be fine.

  I squatted down and reached over the SS man. The dog growled.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m not going to hurt him.”

  I grabbed the man’s coat. It was crusted with ice and snow, but the fabric felt warm. I decided to take it from him. He wouldn’t need it anymore and, well, I was so cold.

  I started to pull it off him and the dog barked and lunged toward me. I held my arm up to protect my face, but the dog stopped before biting me.

  “All right, all right,” I said. “Let him keep the coat. It wouldn’t have fit me anyway.”

  The German was a good six inches taller than me, and his shoulders were a lot broader. I grimaced as I reached down below him and found his ice-cold hand. As gently as I could, I pried the leash from his grip. When I pulled the leather strap out and held it in my palm, the dog sat. I guess he knew his job. I wished I knew how to speak a little German so I could give him commands, but we’d just have to learn to understand each other some other way.

  I yanked the leash a little and the dog cocked his head at me again. He didn’t move.

  “We can’t just stay here,” I told him. “We’ve got a job to do. You see this guy?” I pointed at his master. “Where are the others? You’re going to lead me to them, got it? ¿Comprende?” I rolled my eyes; I couldn’t believe I was talking to this dog. “Let’s go. Out! Up!”

  The dog didn’t move. I stepped forward to grab him by the leather collar, but he growled a warning at me.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll keep my distance.”

  I didn’t mind. He was a mean-looking dog, and keeping him a leash’s length away suited me just fine. I didn’t need him to be my best friend. I just needed him to lead me to the Germans and their prisoners without tearing my throat out. He stopped growling when I stepped back.

  “We’re going to have to leave your … uh … friend here,” I said. “I’ll go first.”

  I decided to climb out of the foxhole without looking away from the dog. I wasn’t about to turn my back on him. He was still a Nazi dog and I was still an American soldier. But getting out while facing backward would take some shuffling and scrambling. At one point, I lost my grip and slipped back down into the hole again. The dog made a noise that I swear sounded like laughter. I tried again and managed to heave myself onto the ground, where I lay on my back for a moment, then stood and brushed myself off.

  The snow fell harder now. The battlefield was covered in a white sheet and it looked almost serene. Nature had simply erased the horror of the battle that had occurred a few hours ago. The broken trees were the only evidence that anything unusual had happened here.

  Of course, the snow meant that the footprints from the prisoners’ march along the road would be gone too. I had to hope that the dog’s instinct to find his masters would be strong enough to lead us. Part of me hoped that he couldn’t. I silenced that voice inside my head, the coward’s voice. I would not let it win.

  I looked down at the dog and realized that, in my scrambling, I had dropped the leash.

  “Great,” I grumbled as I considered climbing back into the hole again. At least all this exercise kept me from freezing, or at least from feeling like I was freezing. “I don’t suppose you know come, do you?” The dog scratched behind his ear with one of his powerful paws. I snapped my fingers. “Come! You yutz, I know you know what I want! Come!”

  The dog gave a long look at the snow-covered German on the ground. He sniffed at him, and then he licked the dead man’s face one more time, leaving a pale streak clear of snow along his cheek. Then, with a single thrust of his legs, he jumped from the foxhole and stood beside me.

  I guess he understood that I was his new master now. Or at least he understood that he needed me until someone better came along. I felt the same about him. I picked up the leash.

  “Come on.” I yanked the leash in the direction of the road where I’d seen the prisoners, and the dog pulled me off my feet in the opposite direction. He basically dragged me over to one of the mounds in the snow and, to my horror, started digging.

  “No! No!” I shouted at him. “Not there, you gigantic yutz!” The dog stopped digging and cocked his head at me. “I guess that’s what I’ll call you, huh? Yutz. Unless you can tell me a better name?”

  The dog barked once, and pawed at the ground.

  “Yutz, it is,” I said. “What have you got there?”

  I bent down and brushed the snow away from where the dog had been digging. I found what he was after: an open C-Ration, one of those disgusting cans of combat food that all US soldiers carried. The German attack must have come when some poor sap was trying to eat breakfast. He’d had just enough time to get the can open. It didn’t look like he’d even taken a bite.

  Yutz didn’t wait for me to pull the can out of the snow. He lunged at it and shoved his face in, his whole snout, and he de
voured the pasty meat substance. He was done in seconds and pulled his face out, licking his lips.

  “Your first taste of American food?” I grunted.

  I looked down at the lump in the snow. The dog wouldn’t let me steal his dead master’s coat, but he was happy to eat a dead American’s food. He didn’t even share. Dogs were supposed to be man’s best friend.

  This one was a jerk.

  I decided that before going off after the prisoners the Germans had taken, I had better prepare myself for the mission. Yutz had sharp teeth and powerful jaws to fight with. I still just had my medic’s bag filled with bandages and morphine and stuff. I bent down and dug into the snow pile for myself.

  It was horrible, but I was looking for the fallen soldier’s weapon.

  I dug and I dug, but I didn’t find it. I cleared more snow than I had wanted and I saw the dead soldier’s face, looking up at me. It was an officer, another lieutenant.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I said, and brushed his eyes closed. Then I kept searching his body for a gun.

  The Germans must have taken it when they overran our position. As much as I didn’t want to, I went to the next mound of snow and dug again. Again, no gun. The Germans must have taken them all. It seemed that this war did not want me to be armed with anything other than medicine.

  It wasn’t fair. I was all alone in a horrible wilderness, stuck with a Nazi dog who hated me and the corpses of a lot of men I never got the chance to know, while my only friend in the war, a guy who’d saved my life, had been hauled off into the night.

  I’m not proud to admit it, but I cried. Right there, in the snow in the Ardennes forest, the Nazi dog watching me. I cried for a gun like a child cries for a lost toy, and my tears froze on the snow.

  I wanted to go home. I wanted to run the other way, back toward the Americans, and never fight another day in my life.

  But Goldsmith couldn’t run away. None of the prisoners could. They were in danger, and I was the only one who knew which way they’d gone. I was the only one who had a dog that would follow them. I was the only one who could help. I was a medic, and it was my job to help.