Call to Duty

by Richard Herman

  Manifred grinned. “Others have been hurt worse and they are still here.”

  “Crazy,” the major said, “you are all crazy.” He shook his head. “The bombing at Düsseldorf was bad, ja?”

  “Why do they bomb civilians?” another soldier asked.

  “It is the way the English and Americans make war,” the major answered. “Not our way.” Then he saw the three English prisoners sitting at the table next to Zack’s. The major walked across to the English and the four guards jumped to their feet. “May I sit down?”

  “Of course, Major,” one of the guards said and held a chair for him.

  The major stared at the three prisoners. “RAF?” he asked.

  “What do the bloody uniforms bloody well look like?” the sergeant with the cockney accent answered.

  “Do you fly bombers?” the major asked, his English heavily accented.

  “That’s enough, Jimmy,” the flight lieutenant ordered.

  “Perhaps you were on the Düsseldorf raid and shot down?” the major asked. “I was there when your bombs fell. It is a nice way to fight a war when you never have to see your enemy and confront him man to man.” His voice was polite but hard. “Tell me, how does it feel to look your enemy in the eye now?” The three Englishmen said nothing and looked away. “Please have the courage to look at me,” the major continued. All three did as he ordered. “No doubt you choose not to answer because I am armed, with my men and you are prisoners. That is wise.”

  The hostility in the room was a hard presence and Zack could see the hate-filled glares of the civilians. The Englishmen in their midst were the men who had destroyed their homes and killed their loved ones with seeming impunity.

  “Me mum,” the cockney sergeant said, “granddad and sisters were all killed in the blitz when Hermann ‘Look the Blighters in the eye’ Goering leveled the East End of London.”

  Hushed words went around the room as the conversation was translated into German and tension crackled like a high-voltage power line with the passing. Now the room was absolutely silent.

  “Sergeant Groscurth,” the major said casually, “order the men not to interfere.” The wounded man whom the major had earlier addressed as Manifred barked an acknowledgment and Zack saw that every soldier had his gun at the ready. A clicking of safety catches and slapping of leather were the only sounds in the room.

  Slowly and deliberately, the major drew his pistol and pulled the slide back to charge the chamber with a round. The snap of the slide closing and ramming the nine-millimeter shell home was a thunderclap. Then he laid the automatic on the table exactly halfway between him and the cockney sergeant. “I assure you, all is equal now.” He nudged the pistol a little closer to the Englishman. The two men stared at each other.

  The loudspeaker came alive and announced the train for Mannheim as the stationmaster hurried across the room. He gasped at the scenario in front of him. “Frau Doktor, the train…. I have a compartment for you.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the pistol lying on the table between the two men.

  “Thank you,” Chantal said and stood up. She pushed Zack out of the silent room, leaving the two men frozen in time.

  Zack’s fever was raging and he shivered in the cold train compartment they shared with three men. “We’re almost to Mannheim,” the oldest of the men said. “You should be taken to a hospital.” Zack shook his head and mumbled that he would be fine. His slurred German words did not arouse suspicion.

  “I was hoping we could make it to Baden-Baden,” Chantal said. “It has been arranged for him to enter a hospital there.”

  Another man in a black leather trench coat stared at them with the coldest blue eyes Zack had ever seen. “Perhaps I can be of service,” he began, his voice carrying a warmth totally lost in his eyes. “The trains are very irregular and Baden-Baden is not that far, perhaps a hundred and twenty kilometers. I can arrange for a car.” Zack tried to work through the fog in his brain and convert 120 kilometers to miles, but couldn’t do it. Chantal thanked the man for his kindness and it was soon arranged.

  A man in a sheepskin coat was waiting with a car outside the Bahnhof at Mannheim and ran up to take their suitcases when he saw the man in the leather trench coat. Zack was settled in the rear seat and they drove off without a word. It seemed strange to Zack that the driver was not given directions but he kept spinning off into the fever-induced fog that was claiming him. He was vaguely aware when they turned into the courtyard of a large manston and stopped.

  The man in the black leather coat jumped out of the car and barked a command at two men waiting inside the entrance. Then he turned to Chantal. “Gestapo headquarters,” he announced, opening the rear door and motioning to the entrance.

  Don’t sleep or pass out, Zack kept telling himself. He willed himself to fight the drowsiness that kept flooding back. He dug his fingernails into his palm, anything to keep awake. You’ll talk in your sleep, he warned himself. He forced his mind to note the details of the room he was locked in, to listen for any sound. A woman’s muffled scream reached down the busy corridor outside the heavy door and then was abruptly cut off. Where was Chantal? What had they done with her? Footsteps passed, not the heavy tread the movies delighted in stereotyping the Gestapo with, but the measured, purposeful walk of people going about their business. The activity outside the door indicated he was in the main part of the building.

  A bolt in the door slid back and Zack closed his eyes, feigning sleep. Someone entered the room and he was aware of a presence leaning over him. A sharp slap stung his face and his eyes blinked open. A man in a dark suit and carefully knotted tie was looking at him. “Mueller,” he announced, introducing himself as his expert fingers probed the bandage on his head and examined the marks on his face. “Yes,” the man said to someone behind him, “he has received a head injury. But that does not account for such a high fever.”

  “Then what is causing it, Doktor,” an unseen voice said. Zack recognized the owner—the trench coated man from the train—a Gestapo agent. Instinctively, Zack realized that truth was his best defense and pointed to his right leg. The doctor produced a pair of scissors from his case and cut up the seam of Zack’s pant leg, laying open the bandage.

  “Ah,” the doctor said, much more interested now.

  “His papers say he has a head wound,” the Gestapo agent said. “There is no mention of his leg being hurt.”

  The terror that gripped Zack drove away the last of the fog. Falling into the hands of the Gestapo was his worst fear. Again, the woman’s scream reached down the corridor, much louder now that the door was open. Was it Chantal? What had she told them? “Düsseldorf,” he muttered, thinking of the only logical reason for him to have another injury. Would the fresh bandage convince them? What about the old bandage in his coat pocket? “An air raid, I was wounded on the train.” He let his mouth go slack and his gaze drift away.

  “His accent is not German,” the doctor said.

  “Yes, I know,” the Gestapo agent said, “that’s what made me suspicious. His papers identify him as being Dutch.” He turned and walked out of the room.

  The doctor clucked his tongue and cut the bandage away. “Ah yes, sepsis. You are fortunate, my young Dutch friend, that the Gestapo provides its doctors with the best in medical supplies.” He cleansed the wound and examined it. “You need surgery, there are serious complications here.” He gave Zack a box of pills. “Sulfa” was all he said.

  The Gestapo agent was back. “Bring him. The Frenchwoman confirms he was wounded during the bombing and the stationmaster at Cologne reported that she treated many of our injured.” There was the sound of disappointment in his voice. The doctor hastily bandaged Zack’s leg and helped him to his feet. Another man was waiting in the corridor and helped support Zack as he hobbled to another room.

  Chantal was sitting in the room and looked up with relief when she saw Zack. Then he glared at the Gestapo agent. “Do you know who my father is?” she demanded.

&nb
sp; “Yes, mademoiselle,” the agent said, “I know who you say you are. We are checking on that now.” He stomped out of the room, leaving them alone. Chantal gave a slight shake of her head, warning him to be quiet. It wasn’t necessary as every warning bell Zack possessed was in full alarm. The agent came back and dropped their passports, IDs, and travel papers on the floor. “All is in order,” he snapped.

  “Since we have missed our train,” Chantal said, ice in every word as she picked them up, “perhaps you will provide the car you promised.”

  “But of course, mademoiselle,” he said, giving her a withering look and holding the door open.

  A few minutes later, the car dropped them back at the train station. Zack’s wheelchair was still where they had left it on the platform. Chantal helped him into it. “No one would touch it after seeing the Gestapo take us away,” she said.

  “They’re first-class bastards,” Zack said. He saw her shudder.

  “I saw a woman they were questioning,” she said. “You must have heard her scream. They made sure I saw her when they dragged her outside. She was naked and covered with burn spots…. She had piano wire tied around her neck.” She stopped, unable to talk. Then she forced herself to continue. “I think they were going to hang her.” There were tears in her eyes.

  For a moment, Zack could see Chantal twisting naked, strangling at the end of a piano wire noose. The thought cut through him like a knife. “And they wonder why we bomb them.”

  They waited in silence as another train drew into the station and stopped. Fresh-faced young soldiers clamored down, full of life and humor. Zack recalled the major and his veteran soldiers they had seen at Cologne. “They are not all the same,” he said.

  “No, they are not,” Chantal said and wheeled him toward the train.

  Chantal was kneeling on the floor of the train compartment in front of Zack stitching the leg of his pants that the doctor had cut open. An elderly woman traveling in the same compartment had lent her a needle and thread and watched in approval as Chantal finished the job, not waking the sleeping Zack. Chantal checked his temperature and was worried that it had not gone down. The sulfa drugs the doctor at the Gestapo headquarters had given Zack hadn’t taken effect yet. “His fever is worse,” she said.

  “You are a good seamstress,” the old woman clucked, “as well as a good doctor. But this delay is not good. He needs to be in hospital.” Now there was stern disapproval in her voice. The train had been sitting on a siding for over four hours and the conductor would not let anyone off. “Surely, we can’t be too far from Baden-Baden,” the old woman said. She dropped her knitting into her traveling bag and stood up, determined to do something for the injured man. “Your trouble is you are too polite,” she told Chantal. “Your parents raised you correctly. I will find the conductor and resolve this.” The old woman marched purposefully out of the compartment.

  “Where are we?” Zack said. He had been drifting in and out of sleep for a few minutes.

  “I’m not sure,” Chantal said. “Somewhere near Baden-Baden.”

  The name of their destination jolted Zack fully awake. His inner alarms were clanging furiously. “I don’t think we should go to Baden-Baden,” he said.

  “I had never intended to,” she said. “My contacts are in France and it would be very difficult to get you out of the clinic once admitted.”

  The elderly woman came back with the conductor in tow. “It is necessary to take proper care of this man,” she told the conductor. “You have delayed us too long.”

  “I assure you,” the conductor said, “I have nothing to do with this delay.”

  Chantal sensed that the conductor was wilting under the old woman’s onslaughts. “Where are we?” she asked.

  “At Rastatt, ten kilometers from Baden-Baden. We will be moving soon. Please be patient.” He dug a map out of the small black notebook he carried jammed with schedules and tickets. “Here.” He pointed to a small town north of Baden-Baden that Chantal estimated was less than seven kilometers from the Rhine River and the French border. She made her decision.

  “Herr von Duren’s fever is returning,” she announced, changing his cover name to “von” and implying that he was a member of the old German aristocracy. “I must get him to a surgery immediately.”

  The conductor looked at Zack. “Surely he can wait until we reach Baden-Baden?” He had taken the bait and worry was in his voice.

  The old woman turned into a fury and blitzed the conductor with a torrent of German that made Zack want to smile. The conductor beat a hasty retreat out of the compartment. He returned in less than fifteen minutes. “It is arranged,” he said, “for you to leave the train. You will be taken to a small clinic in Rastatt.” He helped Zack down the corridor and off the train where a small enclosed one-horse carriage was waiting for them. The old woman watched Zack settle in and when she was certain all was correct, she shook hands with Chantal in the formal German manner and wished them well. She gave the conductor a sharp look of reproof and climbed back on board, her work done.

  The horse pulling the carriage was as old and as decrepit as the driver and the sour smell of beer and dried sweat surrounded them both like a fog. The old man demanded they pay an outrageous fare before he would move. “It’s not far,” he said, leering at her. “The clinic is in a doctor’s house on the edge of town.” Without a word, Chantal paid him half, saying she would pay the rest when they reached their destination. She decided not to squeeze into the small cab and be subject to the driver’s foul odor. Instead, she walked beside the carriage as the old man headed the horse through the small town.

  She shuddered from the cold and drew her cape around her, shutting out a sharp wind that blew harder as the evening darkened. “How much farther?”

  “French,” he spat, not liking her accent. He tugged a flask out of his pocket and took a long pull at it. The horse plodded on and the old man emptied the small bottle. “Scheisse,” he muttered, cursing the French. “Too damn cold tonight to be hauling Froggies around.” He stopped in front of a Gasthaus, covered the old horse with a smelly blanket, and disappeared inside without a word. When he didn’t come out, Chantal went after him. She saw him sitting at a table buying drinks for two other men. The money she had just paid him was laying on the table.

  Her frustration flared but she sensed that she would have to drag the old man out and that would cause a scene, drawing attention she did not want. She went outside and checked on Zack. His fever was getting worse. She snatched the blanket off the horse and wrapped it around them both, using her body heat to keep them warm. She hoped the driver would soon come out of his own accord.

  When Zack started to shiver, she grabbed her purse and went back inside the gasthaus. The driver and his two mates were now visibly drunker. She marched up to the table and flung a handful of Reichsmarks down. “The rest of what I owe you,” she said and walked out of the smoke-filled room.

  “Leck mich doch am schwanz!” he yelled after her.

  Chantal blushed at the crude reference to fellatio as she rushed out the door. She heard someone sharply reprimand the driver and say he was a worthless drunk. She climbed into the driver’s seat and unwound the reins. Before she could prod the horse into moving, the driver staggered out the door of the Gasthaus carrying a bottle. He jerked the carriage door open and yelled at her while he pulled himself into the seat. After pushing her aside, he dropped a full bottle of schnapps into her lap and grabbed the reins.

  “Strichmadchen,” he muttered, calling her a whore, “you shamed me in front of my friends.” He whipped the old horse and they jolted down the street and crossed over a bridge that marked the end of the town. He hauled the horse to a halt and started to turn around. “Polizei,” he muttered, “maybe they should check your papers…”

  Chantal grabbed the heavy bottle in her lap and swung, hitting him in the right temple. He slumped forward and the horse stopped moving. She hit him again in the same spot, feeling a reassuring crunch
. She pushed the inert body out of the door.

  Zack watched her through feverish eyes, slow to realize what was happening. “What are you doing?” he asked in English.

  “Speak German,” she commanded as she dragged the unconscious man under the bridge. Zack staggered down to the ground and leaned over the rail in time to see her hold the driver’s head under the water. After what seemed an eternity, she let go and uncorked the bottle and poured most of it into the stream. “Maybe they’ll think this was an accident,” she said. “A drunk slipping and falling into the water.”

  She scrambled back up the bank and helped Zack back into the seat. “Where are we going?” he mumbled, still speaking in English. His fever was getting worse.

  She slapped him hard. “Speak German,” she ordered. He nodded and forced himself to think in German, not sure if he was mumbling or not. She started the horse down the road. “We’re very close to the border,” she explained, “and this may be our only chance to cross over.” His head nodded as he drifted into sleep and only the sounds of the horse’s plodding hoofs broke the silence of the night.

  Zack awoke and a sudden panic gripped him. He didn’t know where he was. “I’m here,” Chantal said. “You’re safe.” Her words calmed him as he tried to push through the fever that bound him. Slowly, he became aware that they were bundled up on a hard seat, sharing a smelly horse blanket and body heat. But he couldn’t recall her name. Then he remembered she had killed an old man. Why had she done that? Then he remembered, they were escaping from the Germans.

  Through the trees he could see a wide river in the morning mist. “Where are we?” he asked, remembering to speak in German. “Your name is…”

  “Chantal,” she answered, not worried about what he said as long as he did not speak English in his feverish state.

  Zack forced himself to concentrate. “Dubois,” he said, completing her name.