by Michael Smth
“Fear has no grip on me. I’ll do whatever I can. Count on it.”
Pruvot looked at her fists, clenched so tight the knuckles were white. “Good girl.” He let off on the gas and the truck slowed. “We’ll change places. You drive. I’ll lie on the cot in back. From now on, I’m your father, sick with pneumonia. You’re taking me to the clinic in Trois Ponts. Got it? And no more German-speaking. Understood?”
“What if we’re stopped at a checkpoint?”
“Stick to the story, Eva. You do the talking. As a last resort, try bawling. To help bring on the tears, Monsieur suggested you recall that stupid nun of yours, dangling from the rope.”
“She had a name. Mother Catherine. And she was anything but stupid.”
“That’s rich. Got herself hanged for a trifle, didn’t she?” Pruvot smirked. “Probably shouldn’t tell you, but after her puppet show, Monsieur took to calling her Saint Shit-For-Brains.” He saw Eva’s lip quiver. “Oh, come on. It was just a joke. Don’t be so serious.”
“I will be serious. Resolved.” Eva crossed her arms tightly. “Tonight I must be so.”
He chuckled. “OK, OK, little tiger. By the way, in case your tears don’t work, I’ve got this.” He raised his pant leg. Taped to his shin was a shiny, double-bladed knife, ten inches long counting its rawhide-covered handle. “And this.” He reached under the seat and pulled out a large, black Luger. “I’ll keep it handy back there. You’ve only to distract them.”
Eva got behind the wheel and Pruvot climbed onto the cot in back. She eased out on the clutch and the vehicle jerked ahead. She turned her head and said, “You must be patient. I haven’t driven since you showed me how last summer.”
“You’ll be fine if you take it slow.” Pruvot was up on his elbow, looking to the road ahead. “Just keep us out of the ditch.”
They had only been going ten minutes when Eva saw a light ahead. As they got closer, she could see a GI standing at the approach to a bridge. He’d built a fire and was warming his hands. There was a bright lantern on the bridge railing. When they were twenty meters off, he stepped into the road and waved his hands.
“Pruvot!” Eva said.
“I see him. Looks like he’s alone. Just pull up slowly and tell him the story.”
Eva stopped and the heavy GI, Pvt. Parker, walked to her window. “Sorry, girlie, you can’t proceed. No civvies allowed ahead.” He peered in at Eva. “What you doing out so late at night?”
Eva answered in English. “My father, he needs the hospital.” She tapped her nose and looked pleadingly at the soldier.
The GI didn’t catch on. He only sighed and said, “Look, lady, I got orders. There’s some kind of action up ahead. Save us both the trouble and just turn around.”
From the rear, Pruvot called in a weak voice, “What’s the matter, little one?”
“A soldier says we may not pass.”
Pruvot called, stronger this time, “Sir, I am a sick man. Come back to see for yourself. I need the hospital.”
As the GI walked to the back of the vehicle, Eva heard the sound of tape ripping. The soldier opened the rear door. “Sorry mister, but I got my orders. I—”
Pruvot sprang at the man like a snake at a mouse. The knife sunk deep into the soldier’s chest and he was dead in seconds. Pruvot jumped out. He put his foot on the GI’s chest. “Come here, Eva.” He pulled out the knife. “While I drag him away, you clean the blade. Careful, it’s sharp. I’ll be right back.”
While Pruvot struggled to pull the heavy body down through the weeds and snow to the riverbank under the bridge, Eva scribbled something on a sheet of paper she’d found next to Henri’s cigarettes in the glove box. Pruvot was climbing back up the slippery hill, when he spied her leaning into the back of the truck. “What are you doing back there? Get your ass up front. We have only two hours to get those lights in place.”
“I was just putting away the knife. I wrapped it in newspaper for safety and put it by the pillow.” Eva took her place behind the wheel and Pruvot climbed onto the cot in back.
As she let the clutch out, Eva shuddered, trying to shake the image of the GI, one minute living, breathing, talking to her at the truck window in a uniform identical to Stan’s, and the next, a corpse being dragged into the weeds. Only when she reached into her pocket and felt the sharp tip of Stan’s arrowhead did resolve take over: She’d had a chance to subvert Pruvot’s mission and she’d failed. Failed Stanley, Mother Catherine, herself. Pressing her finger onto the arrow point, Eva swore, if she got another chance, she wouldn’t fail again.
The going was slow and it took fifty minutes to go the fifteen kilometers to the outskirts of Werbomont. It was the last town before the turn-off for the drop zone where they would set the searchlights. Dawn was still hours away.
In the distance Eva saw a flashing red light. She said nothing, but Pruvot had seen it, too. “Another checkpoint ahead, Eva. Must be the crossroads with the highway to Liege. Just relax. Everything’s fine. We’ll handle it like before.”
They were thirty meters from the checkpoint when Pruvot shouted, “What’s going on with the damn headlights?”
“They’re flickering,” Eva said. “I’m trying to steady them.”
“Leave them alone, fool. They’ll suspect something.”
As the truck eased to a halt at the checkpoint, Eva could see three soldiers there. They wore white helmets and armbands that said MP. One of them ran toward her, waving his arms. Another was back at their jeep, talking on the radio. She knew if she was going to act, this might be her last chance. She wasn’t about to let Stan down. Or Mother Catherine.
Eva jumped from the truck with her hands held high. She yelled in English, “Danger! A bad man hides in the back. Be careful, he has a gun for shooting.”
Buck Sergeant Jenks, the closest MP, trained his carbine on the truck. The two other MPs ran up, one on each side of the vehicle. Jenks shouted, “Whoever’s in there, come on out and reach for the sky.”
Pruvot climbed from the truck with hands up. “I am a sick man, needing the hospital.” He glared at Eva, disbelief in his eyes.
Jenks poked his carbine in Eva’s ribs. “What’s going on here, Sister? What’s this lights flashing stuff and who’s got a gun? You keep them arms raised.”
Eva looked into Pruvot’s eyes for a moment and calmly turned back to the MP. “That man is a German agent, coming here to be the monkey’s wrench for you. He has a gun.” She pointed to Pruvot. “I hear him talking to a man he calls Mr. Knife outside a café in my village of Lefebvre. They speak in the German. I learned it as a girl so I can understand they are Boche saboteurs. This man discovers I hear him, so he makes me go along. He will place lights to guide parachute soldiers landing west of Malmedy. If you don’t believe me, see in the car for those lights. And a bloody knife. He is using it to kill one of your comrades back at the Ourthe bridge. He hides the body at the riverbank. You can find him there. He keeps writings in German under the pillow in the rear, too.”
“Lies,” Pruvot screeched. “I do have a knife in the car, but it is an old one for the hunting. And German papers? Certainly not. The girl is crazy.”
Jenks looked at Eva “You best not be funning me, toots.” He yelled, “Dawson, see what that yahoo’s got in the back there. Anders, keep him covered.”
Dawson searched and yelled back, “Found a knife, Sarge, wrapped in newspaper. It’s covered in fresh blood, and it ain’t no hunting knife neither. More like some commando job. And there’s three high-power searchlights stowed back here, too.” He ducked back into the vehicle and came out waving a sheet of paper. “Look what I found under the pillow, Sarge. Got a bunch of Kraut writing on it, just like honey-buns claimed. Don’t know what it says.”
Pruvot’s face went white. He screamed, “Bitch,” and reached to his back, under his jacket. He whipped out the Luger, leveling it at Eva. Before he could fire, a volley of carbine rounds ripped through his torso. His arm flew up and the pistol discharged i
nto the night sky. A moment later all was quiet.
When Anders confirmed Pruvot was dead, Jenks lowered his carbine. “You can put them hands down, ma’am.” He glanced at the dead body. “Sorry you had to see that. Pretty nasty business. All I can say is you’re one tough dame. My old lady see that, they’d hear the hollering all the way back in Cleveland.” He pushed his helmet back. “Say, think you might be able to read what’s on that paper of his? Said you studied German. Might be important.”
“Yes, certainly I will try,” Eva said. Dawson handed her the paper. Eva looked it over, running her finger over the writing slowly, as if reading it was difficult. “die Operation Wacht am Rhein means Operation Watch on the Rhine River. These are towns in a line east of here—St. Vith, Trois Ponts, and Lefebvre. It says here they are the linchpins. Here is the word kritisch, meaning crucial. Scheinwerfer means light thrower—the searchlights, I suppose. Here is Fallschirm, the German word for parachute, and this says landing three kilometers west of Malmedy. It’s a village near here. This word is dawn and here is 18 December. Today.” She looked at Jenks and shrugged. “The rest I don’t know.”
Jenks turned back to Anders. “Get battalion on the horn and tell ’em we got wind the Hun’s planning an airborne drop three klicks west of Malmedy. This morning at dawn. Then take the jeep and get this document to G-2 up in Chaudfountaine. Pronto!” He turned to Dawson. “Bring that thermos of coffee over here.” He offered Eva a Lucky Strike, which she declined. He lit it for himself. “When you drove up flashing that SOS with the lights, I didn’t know what to make of it. Gotta hand it to you, toots, you got a shitload, pardon my French, of moxie.”
“If this moxie is courage, then no, it’s not what I have. I only have obligations.”
Dawson brought the thermos. “Pour the little lady a cup,” Jenks said. “She’s earned it. And when Anders is done on the radio, call Rutledge and tell him he’d better get someone over to check on Parker at the other bridge. Warn him what he might find. And tell him I need two more MPs here ASAP. Hold on.” He turned to Eva. “What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Eva Messiaen, sir.”
“Dawson, tell Rutledge we got a Belgian kid named Eva helped us out big time here. Don’t want her to freeze. Tell him you’re fixing to run her back to her home up in Lefebvre.”
Thirty minutes later, Dawson was driving Eva north in Pruvot’s truck. She sat quietly, planning what to say when she saw Henri. She’d tell him Pruvot never came that night. There’d be no one to challenge the story. And if he didn’t believe her, even if he killed her, it would be Mother Catherine taking her in place of Stanley, as she’d offered in her prayer. She wasn’t afraid of that. Hindering the spider and protecting her love were all that mattered.
As they turned up the Ducoisie drive, Dawson squirmed in his seat. “Ma’am, when things quiet down, what do you say you and me go out dancing some night?”
Eva smiled. “I’m sorry. My heart’s already given to a GI named Stanley.”
“Figures.” Dawson sighed as he stopped the truck. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
Eva exited the vehicle and went into the house. Madam Ducoisie was still in bed. It wasn’t yet 7:00 a.m. “You’re up early, Eva,” Madam called from her room. “Not sleeping well? Worried for Stanley, I suppose. Or is the loft too cold? Anyway, stir up the stove and add some coal. And make the coffee. Then you can say you’ve accomplished something already today.”
Across From the Tannery
Late December 19th, Stan trekked slowly northwest. He heard lots of banging, coming from down around Bastogne, he figured. He began to wonder if there were any friendly lines to make it back to. “Damn Germans,” he muttered, “we had ’em all but beat. Now they’re everywhere and callin’ the shots. Must’ve tore through our front like W. C. Fields through gin. For all I know, Lefebvre may be back in their greasy paws already.” He looked at the gray sky—how he hated the thought of those paws anywhere near Eva.
A few hours after nightfall, he came out of a long stretch of woods to a narrow field. Across the field was a hard surface road. Broken clouds galloped across the moon, each pass bedimming the luminous landscape. During one of these dark moments, he hustled through the field and ducked under the low branches of a lone fir tree near the road. He surveyed the area. Directly across from his tree there teetered a brooding, barn-sized building. When the moon reemerged, it revealed a time-blanched sign, Tannerie Letisse S.A. The building had lost most of its siding and many roof tiles, so that it seemed a gaunt skeleton only waiting for the coup de grâce that a strong wind or perhaps an artillery shell might deliver. He tried to picture the building new—sturdy, bright, bustling—but he couldn’t. Like an old schoolmarm, its youth was unimaginable.
Across the road, in an open, moonlit space, movement caught his eye. Two figures darted toward the building—an adult and a child. Leading was a stout woman in a long dark coat. Her red scarf had slipped back off her head. With one hand, she pulled along a young boy in a blue coat and cap. The child skidded on the snow, but the woman kept him up and moving. In her other arm, she carried a bundle. A baby, Stan figured. As if swallowed by it, they disappeared into the wooden hulk. Stan looked down the road and saw no one pursuing them. He wondered if he should help, but what could he do?
Stan was about to move on when he heard footsteps. A moment later, a German soldier passed by, left to right, on his side of the road. Soon another trudged by, right to left, on the far side. From then on, German sentries shuffled by at roughly three-minute intervals.
Stan couldn’t chance crossing the road. He was about to slip back across the field when he heard vehicles. He froze. The noise got louder. Riding abreast, two motorcycles, K-rads, rolled past. Up clanked one of the huge, whitewashed panzers, like the one that had destroyed the two Shermans. Its gun silhouetted against the sky, the beast was just forty feet from Stan. The gigantic treads croaked an eerie duet of hoarse rumbling and chirping creaks. He felt the ground tremble. Though the moon was covered, he could make out infantrymen riding on the deck. He could see the glowing tips of their cigarettes. As it passed he smelt the exhaust.
Right after the first tank came another. Same sound. Same cigarette tips. Same smell. Then a single troop truck, a three-ton Opel, with a white canvas cover over the back.
Next came a Kraut jeep. It pulled to the side of the road and an officer jumped out. He signaled, slowing the convoy.
The breath froze in Stan’s lungs.
A half-tracked truck with high metal sides on the rear, an Opel Mule, clattered by. Stan could tell it was open on top as he saw helmets bob up and down with each bump in the road. Five more of the half-track Mules loped by. Next came a dozen K-rad cycles with their dozen sidecars. Then sixty or more troops on bicycles, their rifles strapped across the backs of their white tunics. There was some space and then came more panzers—smaller ones and more boxy than the first two. There were eight of these, each slapped with whitewash and each with troops riding up top.
After the panzers creaked by, there was a fuel wagon drawn by an emaciated pair of horses. On the back of the rusty metal vessel was stenciled, “Benzin 7,000 lit.” and “Nicht Rauchen.” Next came several small halftracks, each with a pod of four large caliber machine guns pointed skyward. Finally there were trucks, at least thirty, all brandnew three-ton Opels, with white canvass covers over the backs. As the string of trucks rolled by, Stan shook his head and wondered, My God, where’s First Army? Where’s the Air Corps? The whole damn Wehrmacht’s pourin’ through here. I’m fucked. We’re all fucked.
The last truck had a wooden shanty on the back. The shanty had a tall stovepipe belching gray smoke. As it approached, Stan smelled food. It reminded him how hungry he was.
The officer signaled again, and the parade halted. As Stan watched men pour out of the trucks, he wiggled deeper under the fir boughs. Down dropped the wooden tailgate of the shanty truck, clearly a mess wagon. Men streamed by, taking trays of steaming chow. T
hey went off in small groups, laughing and talking. Some tromped into the field, behind Stan. Some ate squatting. Some stood. Some sat on their gray woolen greatcoats or their rucksacks. So many smoked that the still air hung blue. There must have been five hundred soldiers milling around.
A group of five soldiers sat near Stan, arguing. Suddenly one jumped up, pointed to the weathercock atop the tannery, and shouted, “Der Hahn, da. Drei mal!” He tossed his cigarette dramatically and aimed his rifle. Pop, pling. Pop, pling. Pop, pling. The soldier laughed riotously, as did his comrades. They each slapped money into his hand.
A moment later another of them jumped up. He fired a burp gun from the waist, shooting just to the side of the mess truck. Tat, tat, tat, tat, tat. He hit the Tannerie sign. Some of the siding clattered down, kicking up a cloud of dust. The soldier in the mess truck cursed. Lots of others laughed. Stan was thinking about the woman and her children inside.
A sergeant bellowed, and men began sauntering back to the trucks. Stan was thinking he might have lucked out, until a German came running toward him. The big fellow unslung his rifle. Stan held his breath.
The soldier leaned his Mauser on a bough of Stan’s fir. He began singing, in English, “We’re in the money. We’re in the money. We’ve got a lot of what it takes to get along.” The accent was thick, but he had the words right. As he sang, he unbuttoned his fly and began to piss on the tree limb. Urine splashed on Stan’s face and hands, but he didn’t move. He barely breathed. When the soldier was done and had buttoned his fly, he reached for his rifle and bumped it. It clattered down, under the tree limb. “Scheiβ,” he muttered.
Stan stared at the muzzle, just inches from his face. It was like being eye-to-eye with a rattler. The air in his lungs burned.
The German moved the branch to reach his rifle. Stan watched his gloved hand move in and grab it at the small of the stock. He watched the rifle barrel slip away. And he watched the German turn and amble off like a bear to one of the trucks. Stan exhaled.