by Gary Moore
When the game was ready to begin, Colonel Arbeiter walked onto the field and introduced the umpire for the game. The “ump” explained the unusual rules—the same rules of engagement Heinrich Mueller had outlined months before. Gene got a kick out of watching the expressions of the people in the crowd when they realized how unfavorable they were to the American team. None of them seemed to realize that many of the Navy sailors were getting ready for a career in the big leagues.
When the umpire was done explaining the game to the fans, Arbeiter signaled to a young sailor standing near third base. He walked slowly onto the field carrying a trumpet under his arm and stopped between the pitching rubber and second base, where he lifted the shiny instrument to his lips and began playing the National Anthem.
While the anthem was being played, Gene looked down the line of his teammates. Each was standing proudly with his cap held over his heart, lined up along the third base line. Gene thought for a moment about Buck and hoped that wherever he was, he was safe. “If only he could see us now,” Gene dreamed wistfully. His mind drifted to Ward, and then to his mom and dad, other siblings, and finally to Ron Callais. He wished they could all be here to see this.
As the anthem was nearing the end, Gene shot a look across the field to Mueller and his German teammates lined up along the first base line. It was hard to read their mostly stoic expressions, although one or two looked angry—or at least that is what it seemed like to Gene. Maybe it was just sadness at how everything had ended.
As the final notes blew, Gene could not help but think how much he had grown to like some of the Germans. Together, they had made life in Louisiana not just bearable, but fun. He knew them well enough now to know that if they had grown up in the same town, they would have been good friends.
“PLAY BALL!” yelled the umpire. The crowd erupted in cheers.
As the teams trotted back to their respective benches, an electric pulse seemed to be heavy in the air—everyone was excited and ready to play ball. Although energized, the Germans were also a bit intimidated by the crowd; several were visibly nervous.
Gene made a beeline for Mueller and the pair shook hands firmly. “It’s been my honor to get to know you, Heinrich. Have fun and we’ll celebrate after the game.”
The German nodded his appreciation for the kind words. Gene trotted back to his bench and heard him shout back, “Thank you, Gene Moore. It is my honor, also!”
As the visiting team, the Germans were up to bat first. After Ray Laws threw his last warm-up pitch, Gene lifted his mask and trotted to the mound. “Ray? I have an idea. Let’s let them get a few hits. Let ‘em play with us a bit. You know, make a game out of it for them and the crowd.”
Ray shrugged and replied, “Sure thing, boss.” He took off his glove and began rubbing the shine off the ball.
Martin Ackermann was the first batter. Ackermann played second base for the German team, and was by far the shortest man on the team. Under the rules of this game, this was especially significant because a German could take his base on only two balls. Ackermann’s diminutive stature decreased the size of the strike zone.
Gene called for the first pitch and Ray sent it off, slower and higher than normal. Martin swung hard and missed. “Strike one!” shouted the umpire.
“Wait for your pitch, Martin,” Gene coached. “Release and don’t take whatever he gives you. Be patient. Patient batters tend to get on base.” Gene laughed as he threw the ball back to Ray. Ackermann didn’t understand a word of English, and so had no idea what the catcher had just told him. The German shot Gene a strange look, but politely acknowledged his comments with a nod of the head.
The second pitch came in high for a ball. This time Martin didn’t swing. “Ball!” shouted the umpire. The batter turned to Gene and smiled.
“Way to go, Martin. Wait for your pitch.”
Ray stepped off the mound and looked over at Mac. “Whose side do you think Gene’s on?” he asked with a grin. The entire infield broke out in laughter. Ray stepped back onto the mound, took the sign from Gene, and sent the ball hard and low over the plate.
“Ball two!” the ump yelled. “German rules of engagement—batter takes his base!”
As Ackermann trotted to first, he thumbed his nose at Ray and looked back at Gene for approval. The catcher burst out laughing.
Ray glared at the German and turned toward home plate. “Hey, ump,” he yelled. “I think our catcher’s on the wrong side! Kick him in the backside to remind him he’s with the Stars and Stripes, would ya?”
The ump pretended he didn’t hear Ray, but he did lean in and ask quietly, “Whose side are you on today, Gene?”
“I’m on baseball’s side today, ump,” answered the catcher. “You know these guys can’t beat us. What’s wrong with putting on a show for the folks, and letting these Germans earn some of their dignity back?”
The ump just shook his head at the thought and yelled, “Let’s keep the game going. Next batter!”
The second batter was Rudolf Steinhart, the German third baseman. When he connected with the ball, it usually sailed deep into the outfield. Steinhart was one of the Germans who really enjoyed the game, and he was a natural athlete with a tremendous swing. But he also liked to pretend he hated everything about American baseball.
“Okay, Steinhart,” Gene said. “Show us what you’ve got.” Gene liked to use the opposing players’ first names, but Steinhart seemed a better fit for the third baseman.
As usual, Steinhart completely ignored Gene, glared at Ray, and stepped into the batter’s box. Gene set his glove for a low and outside pitch.
Steinhart swung so hard he missed and fell down. The crowd roared with laughter as the umpire called out the strike and the German jumped to his feet, angry and embarrassed.
“Nice swing, Steiny,” Gene joked as he threw the ball back to Ray, “but that ball was about two feet outside the strike zone. Wait for it.” Steinhart understood some English, but there was no way he was going to acknowledge the catcher’s remarks. He shot another look at Ray and stepped into the batter’s box.
Gene set his glove in the same spot, and the German swung hard a second time. “Strike two!” shouted the umpire. This time Gene didn’t say anything. Instead, he called time and trotted to the mound.
“Ray, let’s let this guy get a hit or walk him. It would do them good to score a run. Give ‘em some confidence and maybe make a game of it.”
“You know, Gene,” Ray replied, “it’s hard for me to purposely allow a hit or walk some guy. Would you purposely strike out?”
Gene thought for a moment before answering, “No, I suppose not. Can you at least take some of the edge off the ball? We won’t let them win—they can’t win and you know it. If they get too far ahead, send in the heat. Let’s just give them the opportunity to stay with us and put on a good show.”
Ray sighed. “Okay, Gene. You got it.”
The outfielders were playing tight because few Germans hit the ball deep. If Steinhart could make good contact, he might send the ball over their heads. Gene set himself behind the plate, dropped his mask, and called for a change-up. Ray delivered perfectly.
The crack of the bat could be heard by everyone as Steinhart sent the ball straight over the center-fielder’s head. He ran hard to first base and headed for second, where he stopped and smiled as he watched Ackermann score easily.
Gene smiled, too. The German bench came to life. The prisoners had started the game nervous and intimidated. After only their first two at bat they led—under their rules—2-0!
Next up was the German third baseman, Norman Hoffeditz, or “Stormin Norman” as the Americans called him. Hoffeditz was one of the best German athletes. He took to hitting as though he had been doing it all his life, and he was coming to the plate with no outs, a man on second, and a 2-0 lead. He walked to the plate, staring down Ray with every step. Gene loved his confidence; Ray always found it offensive.
“Alright, ‘Stormin Norman,’ let�
��s see what you’ve got!” Gene said, beating his fist into his mitt as Hoffeditz took his place in the batter’s box. “Wait for your pitch. Be patient.”
“Ya, ya, no need for Moore you to tell me what I do,” Hoffeditz uttered through clenched teeth. Ray had been working with Hoffeditz on his English. He still needed a lot of work.
Ray stepped off the mound and turned his back to the plate. Gene knew what that meant. He would turn back in a moment, his face ice cold, and be all business. Ray was turning back around when Gene yelled “Time!” and trotted back out to the mound.
Ray rolled his eyes and scowled. “What in the hell is it now, Gene?” he asked in frustration. “I’m trying to concentrate and get a rhythm going. You keep acting like this is little league.”
“Come on Ray. I know what you’re thinking. Don’t knock this guy down. Give him your best stuff if you want, but I know that look. For the first time, they’re really into this game, Ray. They won’t win—they can’t win and you know it. But don’t throw at them.”
Ray stared at Gene for several moments before loosening up a bit. “Okay, boss. But I am not gonna let this guy hit. If he gets on, he’s gonna have to earn it. And there is no way he can earn it.”
Gene nodded. “Fair enough. Just promise me you won’t throw at any of them. You could really hurt these guys. They don’t really have a clue how to avoid a fast pitch.”
“Okay, okay, I get it! Get back to the plate and stay there, would ya? I don’t want you back on this mound the rest of the inning!” Gene chuckled and trotted back to home plate.
Ray’s next pitch was so fast Hoffeditz barely saw it. He had never seen anyone throw that fast. By the time his eyes picked up the ball and he wanted to swing, it was snapping into Gene’s mitt. He swung anyway.
“Strike one!” shouted the umpire, dancing one step to the right as he pumped his fist out to the side. The pitch electrified the fans, who jumped to their feet and cheered. They had never seen a pitch like that, either.
The next three blew past Hoffeditz for the first out. He smacked his bat in the dirt, muttered something in German, and stomped back to the bench. The next batter was their catcher—Heinrich Mueller.
“We are winning, no?” Mueller said as he smiled at the American and took a practice swing.
“You are winning, yes,” Gene responded with a smile. “Can you knock your man in from second base?”
“I believe I am up to that challenge.”
“Then let’s see what you can do. Ray’s not happy, so you’ll have to earn your hit.”
“I want it no other way,” replied the German as he swung his bat a second time and stepped into the box. “It is more fun when Ray is not happy.”
Gene gave Ray the sign, Ray nodded, went into his stretch, and delivered his forkball in hard and low. Mueller swung and missed. He was not even close.
“Strike one!”
Gene threw the ball back to Ray and turned to Mueller. “Do what I always tell you,” he reminded him. “Be patient and wait for your pitch. Patient batters tend to get on base more. He’s not going to make it easy for you.”
Mueller nodded, having now played enough American baseball to know that Gene’s advice was sound. “And it is my wish not to make it easy for him.”
He stepped back into the batter’s box and focused his eyes on the pitcher. Ray wound up and sent a fastball in at the letters. He did not have as much on it this time. Mueller swung and connected, sending the ball high to right field, where the American player easily made the catch. The base runner on second tagged up and ran for third.
There were now two outs and a man on third. According to the German rules of engagement, they still had two outs left. The next batter up grounded out to the second baseman, but the man on third scored. The score was now 4-0, with one more out to go.
Ray was still visibly angry. He motioned for time and waved Gene to the mound. The catcher lifted his mask and laughed. “Me? You want me at the mound? I thought you said you didn’t want to see me again for the rest of the inning? Or was it the rest of the game?” The look on Ray’s face convinced Gene it was wiser to pay a visit to the pitcher, so he stood up and trotted out to the mound.
Ray had a new ball and was doing his best to rub the shine off it, together with its coating. “This is no fun, and it’s damn embarrassing!” he complained, working his hands as hard as he could over the ball.
Gene shook his head and replied, “Ray, this is just a silly game, for crying out loud. Loosen up and have fun! Let’s get this last guy out and we’ll catch up next inning.”
“Try again, buddy. The score is 4-0, but under Mueller’s stupid rules, we can only score three runs an inning. We can’t catch them until the second inning.”
Gene shrugged. “Second inning, third—who cares? They can’t win! Let’s get this last guy out. We’ll limit them to only two runs an inning, and we’ll score our three. We’ll talk it over around the seventh inning, and see what needs to be done then. Deal?”
“I’m tired of your deals, Gene. No offense, but I’m not holding back any more. Frank Boudreau is here. I don’t want him to think I have lost anything, you know? I’m gonna pitch to the best of my ability or as our unofficial manager, you can put someone else in. How’s that deal?”
Gene put his hand on Ray’s shoulder, and answered, “Fine, Ray, but loosen up and have a little fun. This is a game you can tell your grandchildren about, buddy. I think you will remember more about it if you actually enjoy it!”
Gene looked over at the German bench as he trotted back to the plate. They knew they had gotten to Ray and they loved every minute of his discomfort. They had lost the war, but the prospects of returning home after winning this last little battle—regardless of how long the odds against them were—was exhilarating.
Ray retired the next batter on four pitches and four swings of the bat. The Americans batted in their two runs easily. The Germans scored again in the top of the second. And so it went as the innings flew past.
When the Germans stepped up to bat in the top of the ninth inning, the score was a surprising 13-12, with the Americans barely in the lead. Gene had done his best to keep the score close, dropping catches, letting a few pitches slide past, making an occasional bad throw to second, and even striking out twice. The Germans managed to score once in the ninth—which meant they ticked up two runs under their rules—to take a 14-13 lead.
The first Navy batter up in the bottom of the ninth was center-fielder Tim Milner, who was hitless for the day. As he picked up his bat Gene hollered over, “Tim, what do you think about a pinch-hitter?”
“Not much!” he yelled back, taking a practice swing. “Who got the first hit this team ever had?”
“You did!” Gene responded with a smile.
“Then let me get one of the last. I can get on, Gene.” He winked and stepped toward the plate.
It was a little tricky hitting the German pitcher because none of them had ever played cricket. The throwing style was a bit unnerving and it was sometimes difficult to pick up the ball. Tim took the first pitch for a strike.
“Come on, Milner! You only get two strikes!” Mac yelled from the bench. Mac shot a look at Gene, and added, “Damn it, Gene. You should have pulled him.”
The next pitch came in fast and high and Tim tagged a high line shot over the shortstop’s head. The man who got the first hit—a double—in North Africa repeated his performance with another two-base hit. The crowd erupted in cheers.
“Okay, guys, we only need two runs and this one’s in the history books!” Gene yelled, clapping his hands as he paced in front of the bench.
Chuck Ellens was up next. He took two pitches and fouled both. According to Mueller’s terms, he was out. Ellens gnashed his teeth and sighed heavily. The last chance for the Americans was Gene. He picked up his bat, grinned at his teammates, and headed for the plate. One man was on second. There was no margin for error. At the very least he had to get on base, but a home run
would end the game.
Gene took the first two pitches. Both were high and wide. He fouled away the third. Under the rules, another strike or even a foul ball, and he would be called out.
Gene stepped out of the box, took a practice swing, and stepped back up to the plate. He locked his eyes on the pitcher as every spectator stood to watch. Gene felt his heart racing and felt his skin tingling. This sort of moment was exactly what he lived for.
The German pitcher took a few steps toward the plate and then let it fly. The ball came in waist high right across the plate. Gene swung hard and sent the ball sharply between the left and center fielders. The Navy bench went wild as Gene rounded second and Milner scored the tying run at home. The third base coach motioned for Gene to keep running. Gene glanced back and smiled when he saw the center-fielder fumbling for the ball. Gene rounded third and headed for home as the ball reached the shortstop. The winning run or final out of the ninth inning would be decided at the plate.
As soon as he left third, Gene began doubting the wisdom of trying to score. The third base coach waved him on, but the throw to the shortstop had been perfect. The ball and Gene would arrive at about the same time at home plate, where Mueller was waiting for them both. The German caught the ball as Gene began his slide. Mueller turned to make the tag—just as Gene had taught him to do. As he dropped his arm for the tag, however, the ball popped out of his mitt. Gene’s cleats caught the lip of the plate, but his forward momentum carried his body hard against it. The umpire was already signaling safe when a loud and sickening “snap” was heard by everyone within 100 feet.
Most of the crowd was now on its feet, cheering the Navy team for winning in dramatic fashion 15-14. But those closest to the plate, including the umpire and Mueller, knew something bad had just happened. The German popped up on his knees and looked at Gene. His body was twisted funny around home. Mueller’s eyes traveled down Gene’s left leg. He gasped when he saw Gene’s ankle. It looked as though it was on a hinge, bent completely back and to one side. Part of his bone was sticking through his bloody sock.