A Bitter Rain

by James D. Shipman

  Erik called his group over and gave quick commands. He knew what he wanted to try to do, he just didn’t know what he was dealing with out there. The machine gun was a big problem, but he had no idea what else was waiting for them. Messer and two others moved into position near the corner of the farmhouse. He would lead the other five men with him on the main assault. He slung his machine pistol over his shoulder and removed an M24 Stielhandgranate grenade, a “potato masher,” gesturing for others to do the same. He waited a few more moments, arming the grenade as he did. Messer aimed around the corner from a standing position while the other two men leaned around in a crouch. They all fired simultaneously, and at the same instance Erik sprinted out from behind the farmhouse and into the field.

  The sky was bright now, and the land in front of him jarred up and down. He could hear the bullets chipping stones around him. He strained to see the gun emplacement ahead of him, no more than thirty meters in the distance: a mound of sandbags arranged in a semicircle abutting a burned-out car. The nest rested at the edge of the outlying buildings of a small town. As Erik sprinted on, he hurled the grenade with all his strength and watched the great metal mace spin through the air over and over in a high arch that faded away and sliced downward toward the car. The grenade bounced off the dirt and skipped up, blowing apart a few meters short of the target.

  More grenades flew in from behind him, but none seemed to be hitting the mark. Erik sprinted toward the nest, running a little to the right to provide a more difficult target and because he wanted desperately to look over the area and see what other potential threats awaited him. He knew he could be hit any moment, and everything had to be focused on the gun position. He could see the barrel flaring and the crew’s eyes intent behind the shroud of smoke, tilting the weapon slowly to the left and ever closer to him and his hard-charging group. He could hear screams echo behind him. He threw a glance over his shoulder and watched as first one of his men, then another toppled over as the bullets found their mark. He turned his head forward again and rushed onward, slinging his weapon around. The barrel edged ever closer to him now, but he was closing the distance fast. Twenty meters, then fifteen. The screams behind him filled his ears. The barrel was almost on top of him. He wasn’t going to make it. He raised his machine pistol and fired wildly into the gun nest, unable to aim. Figures in the position jumbled in and out of his vision as he poured fire toward them, continuing to charge.

  He leaped over the sandbags and in among the enemy. He smashed the butt of his weapon into the nose of one of the soldiers. A metallic flash ripped across his face, and he felt the burning tear of his cheek. A scarlet fountain erupted from the wound. He turned his weapon and fired in the direction of his attacker. The enemy jerked and then slumped onto the ground. He stood panting, turning his weapon back and forth, but all the men in the machine gun position were wounded or dead.

  He waited for a counterattack. Death surrounded him. One moment passed, then another, but nothing happened. He raised his hand tentatively to his cheek. The cut was long. He reached into his tunic and ripped out a handkerchief, pressing the white cloth against his wound. Harsh hands grabbed him from behind, jerking him down to the ground. He flinched, waiting for a blow, but he was staring into the face of a corporal in his platoon, his expression a shroud of grave concern. His lips moved, but Erik could hear no sounds. He didn’t know what the man was trying to say to him.

  The soldier reached out again, pulling Erik to his feet. He looked down; there were five bodies in the nest with him. None of them moved. They were Belgians. Erik steadied himself, reaching out to remove the corporal’s hand from his back. He was a little better and could stand on his own. He was shocked by the close-quarter carnage. He’d killed all five of these men in the attack.

  He kept the cloth pressed tightly on his cheek and took deep breaths, trying to compose himself and obtain his bearings. He looked around for his men. Two of his group mates were coming up through the smoke of the field, but he saw with horror seven figures twisted and silent on the ground. He’d lost almost his entire group.

  Before he could deal with his emotions, Captain Vogel was there clasping his shoulder, speaking warm words of congratulations. Sauer was there, too, scowling fiercely.

  Vogel looked him over, pulling the cloth from his face to stare in concern at the wound.

  “Get that attended to, Mueller,” he said. “That was a brave piece of work out there. Maybe the most courageous I’ve ever seen.” He turned to Sauer. “He’s making lieutenant this time, and I don’t want to hear a word about it.” Sauer didn’t respond, but stared at Mueller for a moment and turned to walk away. Vogel clapped Erik on the shoulder again, and then turned to attend to other matters. Messer came forward and congratulated him, all smiles. The corporal escorted his commander, his friend, back toward the original line, in search of the company medic.

  As the days of May passed, Lieutenant Mueller grew used to his new rank and command responsibilities. He oversaw a platoon now, a much larger group, although their company was devastated by combat, and significantly understrength. He had barely twenty men, but the battalion promised reinforcements soon.

  As combat continued day after day, Erik still expected death at any time. Miraculously, he never seemed to be hit. Again and again, a man would fall right next to him. Sometimes they were wounded, sometimes dead. The enemy somehow missed him, as if he carried a charm or wore a cloak of protection.

  He was reporting directly to Vogel now and was on an equal basis with Sauer. His fellow lieutenant and former commander seemed none too pleased with the promotion or the equal footing. He avoided Erik, turning away during company command sessions or gazing coldly and arrogantly at Erik, a haughty snake ready to strike.

  The war continued with miraculous fortunes for the Germans. The German panzer armies crashed through the enemy lines and into the open countryside. The Belgians, Dutch, British, and French reeled back in retreat, their defenses sundered.

  As May faded away, the worst seemed already over. Erik’s unit rumbled north, riding on the backs of panzers in a moving battle with the British. The unit drove east and then north into France, ripping through the feeble defenses and driving the British closer and closer to their ports on the channel coast. Erik knew the Germans had achieved nothing like this in the last war. Nobody had expected this, perhaps least of all the Germans. Erik had expected to live on the western front for years perhaps, away from his family, if he wasn’t killed outright. Now it seemed that in weeks, perhaps even days, the war might be over. The men they captured were dejected and had no fight left in them. They came in droves, their arms up, wanting only safety, food, and protection.

  That morning Erik and Messer traveled to the company headquarters for a briefing on their plans for the day. During the discussion, he learned there was a British unit in front of them, entrenched in a nearby village with possible armored support. The Royal Air Force, so vaunted, failed to materialize in the skies over Belgium or France. Anytime Erik heard the roar of a piston engine overhead, he saw only German Stukas with Messerschmitt Bf 109s arcing across the sky in escort. How could the British compete in this war without armor and air support? he wondered. They were hardly any better than the Poles.

  He returned to his command station in the shadow of a Panzer II tank. Sergeant Messer was there, his trusted friend also newly promoted to lead one of Erik’s groups. He was Mueller’s right-hand man, and he depended on his straitlaced friend.

  “Good morning, sir,” said the sergeant. Erik saw the NCO was reading the Bible. He smiled to himself. The SS might frown on the Christian religion, but as far as he was concerned, they could use the Lord’s help. Just because they were winning didn’t mean they were invincible. He knew his whole platoon could be killed within a few seconds under the wrong circumstances. A whisper and you were in heaven.

  “How are the men?” asked Erik.

  “They’re well enough. What’s up ahead?” Sergeant Messer asked
.

  “Trouble for sure. But I’m not sure how much.”

  “Any idea what type?”

  Erik nodded. “Brits. Lots of them. Perhaps a tank or two.”

  “Hurricanes or Spitfires?” asked the sergeant, referring to British airplanes.

  “I doubt it. They’ve made themselves scarce.”

  The sergeant grunted. “I’ll prepare the men. Is it just us or the whole company?”

  “It’s all of us, but we’re in the lead.”

  Messer chuckled. “As always. Tanks coming up with us?”

  Erik shook his head. “They want us to flush the armor out first.”

  “Lovely. I enjoy being the bait.”

  Erik laughed in return. “Agreed, but what can we do? Might as well get it over with. You take the first group up. I’ll be behind you on both sides, moving a bit slower and firing in the village.”

  The sergeant nodded. “Sounds about right. We have any air cover ourselves?”

  “Could be. Captain is checking into it.”

  Erik watched as Messer spread the word, bellowing not only to his group but throughout the platoon. Erik checked his weapon, the same machine pistol he’d carried all the way from Poland. He had a full clip and three reserves in a pouch connected to his belt. Vogel had told him to lose the machine pistol; he should be concentrating on tactics and leading the men. But Erik never felt comfortable with the idea. He would do his own fighting. He didn’t want other people to die for his mistakes. Of course, he knew this had already happened many times. But that was part of war.

  The time to move was fast approaching. Sergeant Messer had his group at the ready. They were tucked behind the Panzer II tank just inside a line of trees and out of sight.

  Erik caught Messer’s attention and gave him the signal. The sergeant sprinted from behind the tank and was followed quickly by his group, spreading out rapidly in a wide arc, with the men several meters apart from each other so that when they hit the clearing they would make no single target for anyone. The other two groups moved quickly out of the trees, following behind the lead group. Erik expected to see the telltale flash of rifle fire and hear the whistle of incoming artillery, but there was nothing. Perhaps the intelligence was wrong.

  Mueller shouted an order, and the two reserve groups picked up their pace, struggling to catch up to the assault group that was outdistancing them.

  As they ran, Erik kept straining at the horizon, looking for any sign of the enemy. Perhaps the British had waited, holding back, knowing more men would advance, giving any tanks that were waiting fat, rich targets to lay their shells on. Heartbeat after heartbeat passed, and still there was no fire. He searched for targets in the village. He realized he could make out the forms of men among the rubble of the building, but they were not shooting, not aiming.

  Then he knew why. The British in the village were standing among the rocks and the crumbling houses, arms to the heavens, surrendering without a fight. He’d never seen this before, not like this. Some units had given up without too much of a fight, but always in the past they’d encountered at least some resistance and often fierce fighting before anyone waved the white flag.

  They crossed the remaining distance quickly and soon were a bare ten meters from the British. Dozens of them stood at the edge of the village, hands up. As the men reached the first buildings, Erik ordered his men to move forward carefully and take the enemy soldiers into custody, keeping an eye out for any possible counterattack.

  Minutes passed and soon the whole company was up. Vogel arrived, congratulating Erik on his courageous advance and the capture of the British. “Mueller,” he said, “take your platoon through town and look for any tanks or stragglers.”

  Erik moved his men into the cluster of buildings, immediately spreading out among the houses of the village, moving from wall to wall, looking for the enemy and the tanks. Eventually they reached the other end of the small collection of houses, but there were no more enemies.

  Finally, he breathed a sigh of relief and brought his men back together. He congratulated them on a fine assault. “Let’s head back. We will get something to drink and grab some rations.” The town was quiet. Erik couldn’t hear any explosions in the distance or the drone of airplanes overhead. He couldn’t remember a moment in the past month more tranquil this.

  The peace was torn suddenly by the ripping thunder of machine gun fire. Erik jerked in response and threw himself against the wall, his men scrambling for cover. Erik thought the sound was coming from behind them. He couldn’t tell for sure. In the enclosed space the rattle of fire cracked from every direction.

  There was a counterattack coming from somewhere, that was for sure. They needed to get back to the company. He quickly assembled his platoon, giving rapid orders. They spread out into groups and moved back cautiously house to house, returning to the front of the village. In the distance Erik was surprised to see Germans standing casually. Why weren’t they taking cover? His platoon moved closer. Some of the men were clumped as if in a crowd. Others were facing away, toward the village, wearing strange expressions.

  Then Erik knew. He sprinted forward the last few meters and into the assemblage, shoving his way through until he saw the nightmare in front of him. At the base of a small rise right before the village the bodies of dozens of British soldiers lay. An MG 42 rested no more than ten meters away. Smoke still billowed out of the barrels. Sauer stood directly behind the gun, hands on his hips, examining the dead. He pointed with his pistol at a still-moving form in the mass, and a soldier fired a few more rounds into the moaning figure. The British soldier’s body leaped into the air, jerking for a few moments before it was still.

  “What the hell are you doing!” demanded Erik, screaming across the distance between the two lieutenants.

  Sauer looked up, unfazed, and stared coldly at Mueller for a moment, his mouth curling in a slight grin. “I’m doing the Führer’s work,” he responded unabashedly.

  “These are innocent, unarmed men! They surrendered peacefully!”

  “They are enemies of the Fatherland,” retorted Sauer.

  “This is murder!”

  “No, Mueller, it is merely war.”

  “Sauer, what the hell have you done?” A new voice snapped sharply in the morning air. Erik looked over. Captain Vogel stared with wide eyes at the carnage in front of them. “Answer me!”

  Sauer turned to his commander with the same impassive face, his lip twitching in disdain. “This is nothing, Captain, just disposing of a little vermin.”

  “Lieutenant Sauer, you are under arrest,” shouted Vogel. He pointed to one of his own men. “Take the lieutenant into custody. I have to report back to battalion headquarters. I’ll return within the hour.” He approached Erik, pale. “I’m putting you in charge of the company for the time being, Mueller. I’m going to take this monster back to headquarters. They will deal with him there. Spread the men out in the village in a defensive position. Do not advance until I return.”

  Erik acknowledged Vogel and gave the orders. The men started to spread out, and Erik detailed a duty group to inspect the prisoners. “If any of them are alive, get them medical attention as soon as possible.”

  Messer nodded. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant Mueller; we’re not all like that. We are Germans. We have honor. That coward will soon be forgotten.”

  Vogel got in his command car. Two guards moved into the back with Lieutenant Sauer between them. The vehicle rolled into motion, headed down the road toward the woods.

  Everything was quiet again, but only for a moment. Erik heard a sputtering rotary engine above. A fighter must be returning home. He craned his neck for a glance but was shocked to see the brown outline of a British RAF Hurricane racing ever lower. He saw the flash of the wings followed by the machine gun shells as they thudded down the road in parallel paths, ripping through the command car in the distance. The vehicle lurched this way and that before disintegrating in a belch of fire and smoke. The awful sounds
echoed in his ears as he watched the fighter rise above the tree line, arch to the left, and disappear, leaving the billowing wreck behind.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Königsberg

  May 1940

  Trude stood in the kitchen, listening to the war news on an old radio she’d found in a back closet. She washed the dishes as she kept one ear on the news. She opened her cupboards, placing porcelain plates next to pots and pans she’d purchased at a used furniture store. The commentator claimed glorious victory for German arms against the French and British. She hoped the arrogant voice was lying and the British and the French were stopping the Germans cold, or better yet pushing them back into Germany as they’d done in the last war. She did not delude herself, however. Nothing could stop these people. It was as if the rest of the world had aged somehow, grown weak and complacent, whereas the Germans had grown stronger on a diet of retribution and hatred. Or perhaps it was that these Germans had devolved to a state of barbarianism—had grown primitive and warlike while aged, cultivated Europe decayed around them.

  She finished the dishes and made her way into the sitting room where Johannes and Britta played. She watched them for a moment as he sat on the hardwood floor, rolling a ball back and forth to Britta, too intent on the game to look up. He had come so far back to her she realized. Each month more himself. Not the same as before, but much more like the man she had fallen in love with and who had loved her in return. He didn’t leave the house, except to take Britta to the park. He couldn’t. They had their false papers, but Johannes was not exactly unknown. He always ran the risk of being discovered.

  Trude was the one who left the house as frequently as she could risk. She traveled to the grocery store. Then there were the more terrifying journeys. Visits to old friends of Johannes’s father, all gentiles. Any one of whom could pick up the phone, denounce her, and change their lives forever. Or they could be turned in by any of their neighbors simply for being Jewish. Danger filled their every moment.