by Walt Gragg
“Hold on just a little more, Christopher,” she whispered to her sleeping child. “They’ll be here to get us real soon.”
• • •
Once again, mankind was rising to the occasion.
A spoiled sixteen-year-old girl who’d berated her parents a day earlier for some minor transgression worked around the clock with a fury born of understanding beyond her years.
A teenage boy who only cared about his video games and his music struggled against the fates with a steadfast determination that defied explanation.
A woman who felt deprived because the single American television channel had out-of-date programming battled the elements with unbelievable power.
All over the defeated base, small groups toiled against impossible odds to aid their fellow man.
The human spirit fought on.
CHAPTER 41
January 30—2:47 a.m. (Eastern Standard Time)
World News Network Studios
Boston
Bonnie Lloyd was handed a piece of paper from off camera. She glanced down and began reading.
“We’ve just received this breaking news from Berlin. The Russians have hanged Manfred Fromisch. I repeat, after a trial conducted by the Russian high command, Manfred Fromisch, leader of the German neo-Nazi party, has been hanged. For the latest on this story, we take you to Berlin and our correspondent Stewart Turner.”
The picture switched to the handsome face with which in the past twenty-four hours all of America had become quite familiar. Turner was standing in his usual broadcast position on the blustery roof of the Berlin Sheraton.
“Thank you, Bonnie. As you can see behind me, sunrise has taken hold here in Berlin. This historic city is awakening to its second morning under Russian rule. A half hour ago, an officer of the Russian Information Ministry came to my room here in the Sheraton. He handed me a note and the video our audience is about to see. I’d first like to warn our viewers that some of the scenes depicted in the video are rather graphic. They might wish to consider whether children should be allowed to view them. The note stated that what you’re about to see happened at approximately four o’clock this morning Berlin time. That would be a little less than five hours ago. Stan,” Turner said to his cameraman, “go ahead and roll it.”
An inferior-quality video clip started running. The voice of the narrator was accented, but not heavily so. The scene was some sort of dingy courtroom. A panel of three stern-looking judges in Russian military uniforms could be seen. The picture slowly panned the courtroom. It stopped to show the face of a badly beaten figure. Manfred Fromisch, stooped and handcuffed, stood in front of the judges. There was no mistaking the fear on Fromisch’s face.
“To the American and German people. In a trial before the Berlin Military Tribunal, the German provocateur, Manfred Fromisch, was tried for his crimes against humanity. In the same spirit as the Nuremberg trials held after World War II, the criminal was found guilty and sentenced to pay for his crimes by the immediate forfeiture of his life.”
The video switched to a predawn scene of the Brandenburg Gate. Two dozen powerful spotlights illuminated the German monument. A silent gathering of what appeared to be ordinary Germans stood at the foot of a newly constructed gallows. Many of those in the crowd had been part of the forced labor involved in its construction. It would have been far easier to hang Fromisch from the nearest lamppost at the moment of his capture, but Cheninko wouldn’t hear of it. He wanted a grand spectacle. He wanted the world to understand in no uncertain terms what would happen to those who dared to challenge him.
With great ceremony, Fromisch was led up the gallows’ unpainted steps. A Russian officer stood the neo-Nazi leader in front of the waiting noose. A black hood was placed over Fromisch’s head. The noose was positioned around his neck. The rope was tightened. The officer moved to the front of the platform and read a short statement in German and again in Russian.
A drumroll began. The officer grasped a wooden lever. He paused for dramatic effect. The lever was wrenched backward. A trapdoor beneath Fromisch’s feet flew open. For an instant, the neo-Nazi leader’s diminutive body jerked and twisted in the night air. Then he moved no more.
The crowd could be seen flinching and looking away. On cue, they gave a meager cheer. The picture remained focused on the grisly gallows as the voice returned.
“People of Germany and America. Manfred Fromisch is dead. This is the justice all tyrants will receive from the peace-loving peoples of the world. Soon, all who chose to follow his twisted path will receive their just rewards. There is no longer any reason to fear the reviled neo-Nazi spewers of hatred and poison. Germany is free! Stop the senseless slaughter of the German people. We beseech you to throw down your arms and send the Americans, oppressors of your country for over eighty years, home. Tell your leaders you will no longer tolerate the war and misery they and their imperialistic American and British conspirators have brought upon your homeland.”
The video ended. The screen went blank.
Lloyd’s face reappeared. Somberly she said, “We’ll be right back after these messages.”
The picture of the clashing American and Russian flags with the words THE BATTLE FOR GERMANY beneath them appeared on the screen. The theme music for the war blared.
The image on the screen changed to a woman wooing her love with the latest expensive perfume.
CHAPTER 42
January 30—10:02 a.m.
Sixth Floor, East Surgical Wing
Wurzburg Army Hospital
In a misty, dream-shrouded ballroom, Robert danced with Linda. He was in his dress blues. She wore a flowing white wedding gown with a lengthy train. From the edges of the dance floor, an indistinguishable group of family and friends looked on with approval. It was a traditional wedding waltz. But Robert Jensen had no idea how to perform the simple box steps of the ritual dance. So he moved his feet to the music, hoping not to be too obvious in his ineptitude. More than anything, he attempted to allow his lovely bride of thirty minutes her time in the spotlight. Linda had talked of little else during the three months of their engagement. While they danced, he looked into her loving eyes.
“Linda . . . Linda . . .”
“Sarge . . . Sarge . . . Sergeant Jensen,” Ramirez said. In the austere hospital bed next to his platoon sergeant’s, Ramirez propped himself up with his good arm. “Are you awake? Sarge? Lieutenant Morse! Lieutenant Morse, down here!”
A woman in floral scrubs came running down the gray hall.
“What? Who’s there? Where am I?” Jensen said. His voice was hoarse and distorted.
“Sarge, it’s me, Ramirez. We’re in the hospital in Wurzburg.”
“Why can’t I see?” He struggled to sit up and nearly tumbled over the hospital bed’s railing.
Elizabeth Morse reached out her hand and grasped his shoulder. She eased him back onto his pillow. “Easy there, Sergeant. You’re going to tear out your stitches and IV if you’re not careful.”
“Who are you?”
“First Lieutenant Elizabeth Morse. I’m the charge nurse for this wing.” Her throaty voice was full of power and sexuality.
“Why can’t I see?”
“Your eyes are covered with bandages from your operation.”
“Operation? What operation?”
“Try not to talk too much, Sergeant. Your condition’s quite serious. You were operated on a little over twenty-four hours ago for a bullet wound to the foot, another in the leg, and a severe head wound. I need you to lie there quietly for me. Will you do that?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” His confused mind wasn’t sure if any of this was real or just part of his dream.
“Is there anything more I can do for you, Sergeant?” There was true concern in her voice.
“My leg and foot really hurt.” That was unquestionably real.
“O
kay. I’ll find the doctor and have a stronger painkiller prescribed. If he has the time, I’ll try to get him to stop by and talk with you for a moment. Watch him for me, Ramirez.”
“Yes, ma’am, you can count on me.”
The enticing smell of a light, sweet perfume and a strong antiseptic disappeared.
“Ramirez, where’s everybody else?”
“Everybody else?”
“The rest of the guys.”
“I don’t know, Sarge. I guess they’re all dead.”
“The entire platoon?”
“I think so. But I really don’t know for sure. Except for you and me, though, I’m pretty certain everyone’s dead.”
“What happened?”
“What do you mean, what happened? How can you not remember what happened? Don’t you remember the apple orchard?”
“The apple orchard?” Jensen said.
“Yeah, the apple orchard. The Russian tanks and all that snow. Don’t you remember?”
Oh, God, the apple orchard! Every moment of yesterday’s horror came flooding back to the bandaged man. Each haunting face of the defeated platoon leaped into his battered brain. The taunting images dangled before him in his sightless world.
“How’d I get here?” Jensen asked, trying to shake the faces.
“That’s also a long story. Let’s just say Steele saved your life. I guess I had something to do with it, too.”
Footsteps echoed through the open room of beds filled with the wounded. Jensen could hear the sounds of suffering all around. The smell of death was everywhere. It was an overpowering sensation he recognized all too well.
“Sergeant Jensen, I’m Dr. Wehner. How are you feeling?”
Jensen could smell the same oddly alluring combination of perfume and antiseptic. The sweet-sounding nurse had to be standing with the doctor.
“I’ve been better.”
“Well, you’re lucky to be alive. From what I’ve heard, if it weren’t for the actions of Private Ramirez, you wouldn’t be. As it was, when the medevac brought you in, we didn’t know if we were going to be able to save you. It was touch-and-go there for quite a while. You’re obviously a difficult man to kill, Sergeant.”
“I guess that’s true, sir.”
“Lieutenant Morse tells me you’re experiencing some discomfort.”
“Yes, sir. My leg’s hurting me a lot.”
“Well, after the trauma you’ve suffered, that’s quite understandable. I’ll prescribe some morphine for the next couple of days. After that, we should be able to switch you to a codeine painkiller. Lieutenant Morse will be back to administer it in a couple of minutes. I’ll have her set up a morphine drip after she gives you the shot so you can control the dosage yourself whenever you feel you need something for the pain. Until she gets back, you do the best you can to rest.”
“Yes, sir.”
The doctor turned to Ramirez. “How’s your shoulder? Those bandages too tight?”
“No, sir. I’m doing okay. Inside a warm building, getting three hot meals a day, and not having to make my own bed—what more can a guy ask?”
“Private Ramirez seems to be doing just fine, Doctor,” Lieutenant Morse said. “In fact, I sometimes think he might be doing just a little too fine if you know what I mean.”
Ramirez grinned in response to her comments.
Dr. Wehner looked at Jensen once again. “Sergeant, if you need anything, tell Lieutenant Morse or Private Ramirez,” he said. “He’s already pretty much taken over running this ward anyway. I’ll check in on you later if I get a chance.”
“Doctor, one more thing,” Jensen said.
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“When will these bandages come off so I can see again?”
“The bandages will come off in a few days.” The doctor hesitated. It was clear he was struggling to formulate the proper response. “Until then, we won’t know if you’ll ever see again. The shrapnel hit you just above the temple. The damage to that area of your head was quite extensive. Until the bandages are removed, we won’t be able to tell what long-term damage your eyes might have suffered. For now, you just try to rest.”
While his mind struggled to cope with what he’d been told, Jensen listened to the doctor’s footsteps disappearing down the hallway.
“I’ll be right back to give you the painkiller, Sergeant,” Morse said. “Just take it easy while I’m gone.”
A second set of footsteps disappeared down the hall. The enticing smell went with them.
“Hey, Sarge! You know what?”
“What’s that Ramirez?”
“I know you can’t see them, but there’s a purple heart and a silver star pinned to your pillow.”
“What?” He’d only half heard what Ramirez had said.
“Yeah! This three-star general was here yesterday afternoon. After I told him how you figured out how to wipe out all those Russian tanks and kept the platoon alive for as long as you did, he gave you a silver star right on the spot.”
“That’s great, Ramirez.” There wasn’t the slightest hint of enthusiasm in Jensen’s voice.
“You know what else that general told me?”
“No. What?”
“He said when all this is over and done with, they’re going to put you in for the Medal of Honor. He told me that normally the act of heroism has to be witnessed by two people, and they only had me. But in your case, my story matched with reports they’d received about what was happening up at the border. So he had this captain take my statement. The captain said he’s pretty sure you’re going to get it.”
“That’s nice, Ramirez.” But it didn’t really matter one way or another to the wounded platoon sergeant. At this moment, he would have eagerly traded all the medals in the world for any of the men of his platoon.
Accompanied by her footsteps, the sweet smell returned.
“Okay, Sergeant, I’m going to give you a shot of morphine. This is going to sting a little.”
He could feel her cold hands on his hip. A pinprick rushed to his brain. It was nothing more than a minor annoyance compared to the pain he was in.
“That should do it,” Morse said. “In a few minutes, the morphine will take hold. It’ll relieve your pain and put you back to sleep. I’ll be around in a while to set up your morphine drip and show you how to use it.”
The footsteps headed down the hallway once again.
When the footsteps were gone, Ramirez said, “Sarge, guess what.”
“What is it now, Ramirez?”
“I’m in love.”
“Again?”
“I mean it this time, Sarge.”
“A real looker, huh, Ramirez?”
“Face like an angel, Sarge. Face like an angel. Long dark hair and big brown eyes. And, Sarge, I don’t care how much she tries to hide it, there’s a body under that nurse’s uniform that just won’t quit.”
“Well, she sure smells nice. Maybe someday if I’m real lucky, I’ll get to see the face that matches the sweet smell. By the way, Ramirez, why the hell are you in here?”
“Well, Sarge, let’s just say I took a bullet for a friend and leave it at that for now.”
As he returned to the land where his pain was relegated to his dreams, Jensen wondered what Ramirez had meant by his odd response. It wasn’t long before the powerful drug took hold. Jensen drifted deep into the world within his mind. Once again, he was dancing with his beautiful bride. Her flowing dress swirled behind her. Linda’s captivating smile radiated throughout the corners of the glistening room.
This time, however, the faces of the people standing on the edges of the dance floor were no longer indistinguishable.
The faces of the onlookers were those of the dead soldiers of 2nd Platoon.
CHAPTER 43
January 30—10:13 a.m.
/> On the Eastern Fence
Ramstein Air Base
As darkness had fallen upon Ramstein on the previous evening, the immediate response to the dire threat created by the deadly parachutists was to hammer them with an immense strike by B-2 bombers or a relentless assault by napalm-loaded fighter aircraft. Either approach was one that would have destroyed the vast majority of the fanatical killers within the foreboding woods’ sheltering branches. Within minutes, however, it became clear that neither action was one the Americans would want to undertake.
The risk from both was far too great.
With the base’s fences so near the masking trees, even the slightest miscalculation by a single B-2 during the nighttime assault and rather than dropping its massive load of essence-devouring bombs on the Russians, it would strike Ramstein instead. Such an error was one with the potential to severely damage the critical runways. With the huge bomb craters the errant strike would create, it would take incalculable hours, possibly days, to repair the extensive damage. The B-2’s mistake would have accomplished the parachutists’ mission for them. Ramstein would be out of the war for an indefinite period by the Americans’ own hands.
Burning down every tree in the profuse forest with napalm strikes was certainly tempting. But creating a raging forest fire on the eastern and southern edges of the air base, especially with the prevailing winds, was a far greater peril than anyone wished to face. Watching the endlessly cascading embers sailing toward the base’s structures was something none of them wanted to see. And the horror of being unable to stop the torrent of falling flames tumbling into the base ammunition-storage dump was beyond reason. They needed to find another far-less-hazardous way.
This was an action requiring a surgeon’s scalpel, not a butcher’s cleaver. And there were numerous alternative methods available to the defenders to eliminate the perilous menace to the base’s continuing existence without accidentally destroying Ramstein in the process.
Precision, not brutality, was what was required.
The circumstances called for helicopters, drones, mortars, and Bradleys.