“What is this, Harry? Were you working on an art project? It looks like a game.”
I knew what it was but what I couldn’t understand was why it was here. It didn’t belong in this place or anywhere near this place. Something was terribly wrong with reality, my reality specifically. The old French farmhouse we were hiding in was being shelled relentlessly by the Nazis, and both the sergeant and the lieutenant were powerless to stop it. There was no air or artillery support this far behind enemy lines — we were on our own. “We have to get out of this place, out into the open where we won’t be a target.”
Beth put down the stack of game markers she had been examining. “Do you think it’s safe yet?”
“We have no choice. The Nazis are moving up more eighty-eights. Caje saw them on recon. We either get out or we’re all dead.”
“Harry?”
The new recruit sounded like a scared girl. The other guys in the squad had made fun of him, calling him G.I. Jane, and all along I stuck up for him, but they were right. He sounded like a damn girl and I didn’t need that right now. I needed my men to rally behind me while we got out of that Nazi death trap. “Just shut up and follow orders. We go single file. I’ll take point. And if you jeopardize this mission, I’ll feed you to the Krauts myself.”
The front door of the farmhouse opened with a creak. I had waited for a lull in the shelling and realized too late what a mistake that was. The cover of the noise and confusion of the shelling would have been far better than the semi-darkness of the moonlit night. I didn’t usually make such rookie mistakes. I was Sergeant Saunders and this was Combat! I lived for this each week at 7:00 p.m. and in daily reruns on the independent channel. This was my job, my life, and mine to give, if necessary, to protect America and the people I loved. To protect Mom and Dad and Harry, especially Harry. God bless Harry and make him the best priest ever. And the residuals from the reruns — that was where the real money was.
What was wrong with me? Nothing was making any sense. My feet were moving, but I couldn’t move. It was like the recurring dream where you are running from someone and never getting away. I looked back at G.I. Jane but it was Beth standing there in horror, but not in horror of me. My eyes followed her gaze and met the business end of Detective James’ fist.
Chapter 13
When I awoke, my jaw screaming at me, I realized that Betty Grable was gone. My service revolver and I never parted company and I felt naked without her. I sat up slowly and looked around. I was alone in a jail cell of some sort with one barred window, one metal door with a slot in its center for serving prisoners food, one cot, one toilet, and one short table with a basin of water on it — fairly standard issue Nazi prison fare from what I had heard. All that made sense to me, but not what I was wearing. I was out of uniform. While I was unconscious, the Nazis had taken my khakis and dressed me in civvies. Now, I was no more than a spy, a uniformless piece of crap that they could stand against a wall and shoot like a dog. Was this the way the enemy really operated? For the first time since we’d hit the Normandy beaches, I was scared. I was glad my men weren’t around to see it.
The men... I wondered if they had made it out or had died in that nameless farmhouse, or if they were being held like me. Probably not that — there was no tactical advantage in holding a front line infantryman captive, maybe a sergeant, but not them. They were a burden because they required valuable resources to guard, rations to keep alive, and never knew anything important beyond their own mission objective anyway. If they were being held, it was just a matter of time before some Nazi signed their execution orders. And I wasn’t worth much more than them. I knew the “why” of the mission but little more than that. Why the hell had they even bothered to move me to a prison camp? Fifteen minutes of beating me to see if I talked would have been enough.
Maybe they had already tried that — my head was pounding. My jaw was probably broken. I lay back down on the cot and closed my eyes. I couldn’t sleep, but I felt tired and woozy. They must have drugged me. Had they been interrogating me? I couldn’t remember clearly. I seemed to remember someone asking me questions. The annoying glare from the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling was giving me a headache. Sleep deprivation — a standard technique for breaking a prisoner.
I heard heavy footsteps in the hall — probably a wake-up call, the bastards. They’d get nothing out of me.
“Open the door.” The gruff voice was speaking in German. I didn’t speak German and almost regretted not paying attention during those “Everything you need to know in German” briefings before D-Day. But then, Betty knew enough German to get a Nazi to either put his hands up or lie down dead. Too bad she wasn’t with me. I sat up.
“But the captain said…”
“Just open the damn door.”
The door opened slowly and then slammed hard against the wall as a supersized Kraut strode in, pushing past a soldier dressed in military police-like blue. I wouldn’t have ordered him in my Happy Meal. He looked way overweight and out of shape for an elite Aryan. Dressed in plain clothes, acting like he owned the place, knowing that he could have anyone killed who stood in his way — oh yeah, he was Gestapo, no doubt about it. The timid sheep that was following him retreated when Gestapo man stopped him cold with a simple raised hand. This was someone to be afraid of.
The best defense is a good offense, right? “Vic Morrow. Sergeant, U.S. Army. Serial number 37337565. That’s all I’m required to say, and that’s all you’re going to get out of me.”
The men would have been proud of me. Maybe they were all looking down on me from heaven. I’d probably be joining them soon. I wasn’t looking forward to that. I’d take a big ration of crap for leading them into that Nazi trap.
The German scowled and came close enough for me to smell him. Stale tobacco… I could have rolled him up in cigarette paper and smoked him. I really needed a cigarette. I’d lost my last pack in a foxhole when a grenade nearly took my head off. He sneered something in German. But I could only make out the first part of it. If it wasn’t ach tung or sprechen Sie Englisch, forget it. “Vic Morrow? Wasn’t that the guy who was in Combat!?”
“Vic Morrow? I said, my name is Sergeant Chip Saunders.” Vic Morrow — that name sounded familiar. I felt confused and disoriented. They must have drugged me. It was hard to think.
“Look punk, I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, but you are in a world of trouble. Why don’t you make it easy on everybody and just come clean? Or, I could beat it out of you. That would be fun, too.”
I had no clue what he was saying, but I got the message. If I didn’t give him something, my time was up. Problem was — I had nothing. I could make up something about a mission, but truthfully, after months in the French countryside, I had no idea what we were trying to accomplish out there. War was nothing more than sending a bunch of guys into an unfamiliar place to figure out the best way to kill another bunch of guys they didn’t even know. The more you killed, the more medals you got. The more medals you got, the more stripes you got. The more stripes you got, the better the odds you would be the next one killed by the enemy. Some reward system — it was kind of like Father Harkins’ explanation as to why the good suffer more than the bad. The better you are, the greater your reward will be if you make it to heaven. The greater the potential reward, the harder the devil works to make you suffer. The more you suffer, the more likely it is you will just give up and accept hell as your destiny. Why would anyone put themselves in that position? Why would anyone be stupid enough to try and be good, or dumb enough to join the army?
I could feel myself slipping — must have been the drugs…
The Gestapo bastard shoved me awake. “Hey! I’m talking to you.” He was speaking English now — too bad — I was thinking of calling him a stinking little dipstick and laughing at him because he wouldn’t have had a clue what I was saying. Maybe I should go with Pig Latin.
“Ou-ya are-ya at-fay azi-nay aggot-fay.”
For
all that apparent flab, the Nazi picked me up like I was made of cardboard and moved so quickly that I was only barely aware of his fist plowing into my stomach and knocking me unconscious.
When I awoke, I knew I was not alone. It was that feeling of knowing that someone was staring at me that gave it away. I’d known it in the field and I’d known it at home — from the stare of Nazis waiting in ambush in the brush to brothers hiding in the bushes when I was “it.” I kept my eyes closed. It was probably not a Nazi, though. The delicate smell of a scented soap told me it was a woman and I couldn’t remember ever having seen a woman Gestapo agent. Maybe they’d captured one of the French girls we’d found in the farmhouse and thrown her in with me. Why waste a perfectly good cell on a woman? Especially when she was going to be shot along with the dumb sergeant who had gotten himself caught.
“Are you French?” I whispered, not moving. It hurt to talk. My chest was aching. When she didn’t answer, I repeated in French, “Et-vous Francaise?” Her breathing was shallow and regular. I opened my eyes. Sitting asleep on a chair next to my cot was a woman dressed in civvies — light brown hair, tanned skin, a few inches shorter than me. Well, she could have been awake and just faking it. I was fully justified in being wary under the circumstances. The guys would back me up on that.
“Hey!” I tried to get her attention.
She stirred and sat up straight. When her blue eyes focused and her awareness included me, she smiled. “Hi. I fell asleep. How are you doing?”
My French wasn’t much better than my German. I didn’t understand a word she said. “Do you speak English?” I asked slowly.
Cocking her head and giving me an “Are you nuts?” look, she just nodded.
“Good. Look, I’m Saunders, Sergeant Chip Saunders. I’m not sure why they tossed you in here with me, but just try and stay calm. I’ll get us out of here somehow. You can count on it. I just need to get my strength back.” I nearly fell trying to get up, but she caught me. There was something oddly familiar about her, not just the farmhouse, something else.
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Beth. Don’t you recognize me?” She saw I was not getting it when she repeated, “Beth.”
High school French was easy after two years of Latin — I had written everything I needed to know on my arm before each test. “Beth. Nice name.”
“You’re scaring me. The police said you might be faking insanity or something, but you don’t have to do that with me. I’m on your side.”
I must have paid attention in at least one class — I understood the last part of what she said. She was on my side. But what side was that? What was I fighting for? My mission… What was my mission again? It was still dark outside but seemed to be lighter than before. Morning was coming, and with it my death.
“We need to get out of here. We don’t have much time.”
I found the strength to stand on my own. Months of trial by fire in the woods of France had made me stronger than any man should be. I was more than a man, I was a squad leader, and there was still hope I would find my men alive in the woods. I had to get to them. Grabbing the French woman by the arm I forced her toward the door. “Scream,” I commanded.
“What?”
“Scream, damn it!” I twisted her arm so hard she did scream. That would do nicely. I heard running in the hall and a key in the lock. I pushed her in front of the doorway and stood aside, waiting for the guard to enter. What happened, happened quickly and without much noise. The guard entered and said something in German to Frenchie. She, still frozen in surprise, just stood there, and I cold cocked him from behind. I grabbed his keys and gun, and shoving her through the doorway, locked him in. We headed down the hallway, then another, then stairs, and another hallway that ended in two metal doors. One apparently led to a guardroom because I could hear the Nazis talking in hushed tones inside. The other felt cold to the touch. Stifling the frightened woman’s protests, I shoved it open. An alarm sounded and we ran out into the darkness.
The Germans had taken me to a town, not a prison camp. And it looked like it could have been any small rural American town. The police station was on a town square with buildings neatly arranged around a central statue of some French hero. Many of the structures were brick. I didn’t see any bomb damage. They’d either been lucky or we were pretty deep behind Nazi lines. The French woman and I ran without talking until we were off the square and several blocks down a side street.
Then she stopped. “Please, this is wrong. You’re only getting yourself into more trouble.”
I really wished she would talk in English but I tried not to be annoyed with her. She was, after all, just an innocent victim of war. “We have to find a vehicle. I have a general idea which way the squad is, but we’ve got to move.”
She was crying.
“Look, everything will be okay, I promise. I’ll get you back home and once our boys push through this area in force, you’ll be safe.”
There was a small pickup parked on the street and I moved her to it. It was unlocked. I helped her into the passenger side and slid over her to the driver’s. It was a Ford — odd thing to find in France. It didn’t matter. It was old enough to be hot-wired. Once I got it started and cranked up the heat, we headed east out of town. I was pretty sure the Nazis had taken me west — the sun had been in our eyes most of the way. I only hoped that we would not run into any enemy patrols on the way back to the farmhouse.
The snow on the fields eerily reflected the moonlight dancing across melted and refrozen snow dunes spiked with the leavings of last summer’s crops, an army of soldiers taken before their time in some senseless cause, a mocking rebuttal of everything I had lived for, trained for, fought for. I had lost the “why” somewhere amid the succession of deaths — squad members, friends, family. No reason… no reason…
I had seen this place before. I was sure of that. And I remembered where Betty was. I had hid her under a rock near where the Nazis had caught us. We had made it to a river but were trapped by its icy waters, unable to get to the trestle bridge to cross in time before they surrounded us. I had abandoned her there in one chivalrous act of protecting my lady from capture — just another stupid move on my part. I wished I had her now, but this road we were on would take me to her and all would be right again. The river was ahead on our right and I knew just where I had left her. The men could wait. The farmhouse could wait. If nothing else, I needed to save that one thing from my past mistakes. At the base of a hill, the road began to wind upward affording a distant view of the dark river. The truck lurched over a hump in the road and I stopped. Railroad tracks. I could follow them to the trestle bridge and Betty. I left the truck running and got out.
“What are you doing?” the French woman cried in broken English. I wasn’t trained in civilian panic. She would just have to deal with it. I had my mission.
“Just wait here. I’ll be right back. If you don’t want to wait, that’s okay, too. Take the truck and head up this road. Your village is at the top of the hill.” I didn’t hang around for her reply. I checked the magazine of the pistol I had taken from the guard. It was empty. I dropped it in the snow and started out at a jog down the tracks. The truck had not moved — she was waiting — probably still too scared. I felt bad about leaving her there — some kind of knight in shining armor complex, I guess — but not bad enough for me to jeopardize the current mission.
Through the dark, snow-covered, silent woods I ran, picking up the pace, warming to the task. I could feel the well-trained muscles in my legs chewing up the distance between Betty and me. The crunching noise of my feet pounding on the hardened snow and my heart beating wildly would have given my position away to anyone within a hundred yards, but I didn’t care. There were no tracks in sight, no lights, no other sounds. I was alone and liked it that way. There was no one to worry about protecting but myself, no one to yell orders to when we came under fire, no one to watch die and have to write home about.
I often r
egretted taking the squad leader position. It was no fun being a sergeant. No fun at all. So much responsibility, so little recognition, and absolutely no messing around… As a PFC I could sit in a foxhole and play cards or sing songs or curse the idiot officers who obviously knew less than me. But when I was promoted to sergeant, that all went south. I was stuck between the goof-offs and the serious-minded killers running the show. I was the tool of the corps, the implementer, the one who got the job done and made the real life or death decisions in the field.
It’s odd how some memories are stronger than others, how they can intrude on your thoughts at the worst times and there’s not much short of a bullet to the brain you can do to make them go away. And they leave when they are damn good and ready to.
It was happening then as I ran along those tracks, trying not to trip on the slippery railroad ties — the memory of that damned “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Whatever” letter — the one that haunted me regularly, the one I tried to forget, but couldn’t. I couldn’t remember the last name, but I’d never forget the letter.
It was my job to write those letters, and when a boy died for his country, his parents had a right to know and be proud of their son in their hour of grief. But I struggled with that one. I had to write something to the parents of a stupid punk who had only joined the army because he thought it would make his parents and his brother proud of him. He so desperately needed their approval that he gave up his chance to go to college and put his life on the line, not for love of country or freedom or democracy, but because he thought that’s what they wanted.
Four Years from Home Page 22