The Hazards of War

by Jonathan Paul Isaacs

  The blond German led her out of the wine cellar, but instead of going back toward the kitchen he turned her down the corridor that connected to the wine cave.

  “Where are we going?” Gabrielle demanded with some alarm.

  “There’s only one more soldier on duty, and he’s this way,” Springer replied. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Gabrielle thought back to the previous night. She had seen Springer prowling in search of alcohol. Had they found something in the wine cave worth guarding? Was there really a soldier posted back this way?

  They walked for some ten meters or so before the corridor opened up into the dim vastness of the barrel cave. Filling the space before them were rows of oaken barrels, round ends and fat middles held tight by bands of dark iron that were stacked two or three high in solid wooden stands. The casks formed the walls of a virtual labyrinth in which it would be easy to get lost. Or hide, Gabrielle thought. It was an enormous, empty, isolated place, poorly lit by sporadic electric lights that hung in solitude every ten or twenty meters. Springer continued to guide her around this corner and that as they made their way to the last German.

  At last, Springer slowed his steps and used Gabrielle’s arm to turn her around slightly. “Quite romantic down here, isn’t it? I’ve always admired winemaking. There’s so much culture and tradition associated with it that it almost delineates where civilization begins and ends. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  The hairs on Gabrielle’s neck stood on end. Glancing sideways at Springer, she tried to keep walking and prayed that she had nothing to worry about. Please, she thought, please let this guard be just up ahead so that she could deliver the food and get back to her mother.

  Springer grabbed her elbow solidly and kept her from moving away.

  “Shouldn’t we almost be at your soldier’s post?” Gabrielle pleaded. “It’s easy to get lost… hello? Where are you, sir?”

  “That’s not necessary,” Springer drawled.

  “No, please—”

  “You needn’t be afraid of me, my dear. You’re well protected in the hands of Der Führer’s army.”

  Springer’s other hand gently stroked Gabrielle’s back, and she jumped. That made the German laugh. “For goodness’ sakes! Relax, my dear. Everything will be all right. Don’t you believe me?”

  Gabrielle looked at her feet and said a silent prayer. She knew she was attractive girl. That wasn’t helping matters at the moment. She was standing with a monster who had beaten her father and family. She stayed silent and waited, still hoping that they if she just kept quiet, Springer would shrug his shoulders, give up, and resume their task of feeding the last guard.

  Please, let there be a last guard.

  The SS officer moved inappropriately closer to her. Gabrielle took a step back and found herself blocked by a wall of wine barrels. Panic started building in her stomach as the German leaned over to kiss her. There was nowhere for her to go. She froze, trapped, her lips drawn tightly together while Springer pushed his mouth against hers.

  “Now that wasn’t much of an embrace, was it?” the German said. “There would be more passion between us if I were kissing stone. Let’s try that again, my pretty French maid. It’s okay. You don’t have to worry about showing a little life, you know.”

  Despite his soft words, Springer grabbed Gabrielle roughly by the arms and pinned her against the barrel. He forced a kiss on her again. This time, Gabrielle actively struggled. She dropped the soup pot and tried to push his hands off of her, tried to turn her chin away. But the soldier was too strong. Their mouths smashed together and Gabrielle responded with the only thing she could think of to defend herself. She bit him.

  Springer jerked back in surprise, with a small gash of bright red welling up on his bottom lip. Gabrielle tried to make a break for it, thinking she might be able to lose him in the maze of wine barrels stacked in the cavern. But the German’s grip did not loosen. There was a moment of silent tension between the two of them and the barrels. Springer stared at her with a dumbfounded look on his face.

  Oh, God, Gabrielle thought, what is he going to do to me? The realization of being utterly helpless closed in on her and she was sure that she was going to vomit.

  Then, of all the things the imposing Nazi officer could have done, Springer laughed.

  “Excellent! I like the spirited ones,” he said as he wiped his lip with the back of his hand. “Absolutely excellent. This will be much better than I thought.”

  Gabrielle didn’t see the fist coming. Springer slugged her hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her and making her collapse to the ground. Then he grabbed a fistful of her hair and hoisted her back upright. Springer threw her back against the barrel to kiss her again, and Gabrielle felt a shooting pain through her own bottom lip. It took a moment to realize he had bitten her back; she could taste the saltiness of her blood flowing past her tongue. Then another backhand and she was off her feet. She lay in a daze with her face against the hard, stony floor.

  Springer stood towering over her. He had loosened his tunic and was undoing the front of his trousers.

  “Don’t worry, little Gabrielle. The first time is always a little rough, but I haven’t met a girl yet who hasn’t wanted to come back for more. Trust me. You’ll like this.”

  12

  Cartwright shoved his hands into his armpits to keep his fingers warm. The air in the cellar was bloody cold. He understood from Robert that wine bottles were supposed to be stored at twelve degrees Centigrade, and that didn’t seem like it should be so bad, but the prolonged coolness and lack of any activity had sapped most the temperature from his body. Cartwright shivered in his misery as he stole furtive glances at his guard’s heavy overcoat.

  The German watching over him was another piece of ornamental decoration detracting from the cozy atmosphere. The soldier had the mean, battle-worn stare of someone who had seen combat in difficult circumstances. Cartwright knew that look well.

  Being under fire in the sky was horrific. One could only sit and wait as enemy fighters closed in with the sole intent of ripping a plane to shreds. Machine gun fire would disintegrate whole parts of the fuselage, while exploding flak randomly gutted anyone inside. Sturdily constructed bombers became fireballs before rolling belly-up into a death spiral. There was nowhere to hide in the sky. Nowhere to run. Sometimes the Messerschmitts would zoom by so closely that Cartwright could see the pilots’ facial expressions.

  Regardless of whether one fought on the ground or in the sky, the net result was the same. Death. Cartwright wondered if that was the end in store for him now.

  Thinking about Conti’s daughter didn’t help. Cartwright had never really been introduced to her—not surprising, given how busy he and the men of her family had been since that first night. He didn’t even know her name. The girl had kept her distance while they worked, with only an occasional peek from around the odd corner. He didn’t blame her for being shy. How else would one act at the sight of a tired, dirty stranger who only spoke English and whose few possessions included a compass and revolver?

  But one thing was for sure: she was gorgeous. Long brown hair and beautiful dark eyes. Surely she made heads turn whenever she walked down the street. That was the worrisome part. Cartwright saw how that bastard Springer looked at her before he escorted her out of the wine cellar. It didn’t take a genius to recognize the character and intentions of such a man.

  He hoped that she was okay. In the meantime, he had to contend with the current company. The SS guard stood like a statue near the arch entry, his hands resting on the MP40 machine pistol hanging from his shoulder.

  Cartwright had long since exhausted his mind trying to plot escape, so he did his best to idle away some of the time. For a while he studied the labels of the wine bottles on the iron rack next to him. The bottles were sorted by batch, so there was little variation in the print on each one. That didn’t matter, of course. Cartwright didn’t kn
ow French. His commoner roots meant limited exposure to the luxury of a classical education. He simply imagined as best he could what some of the words must have meant. It didn’t take a genius to know that Vin meant vine. Raisin appeared a lot, although Cartwright knew for a fact that wine was made from grapes, not raisins, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what a raisin would have to do with the process. Terre sounded like terror, not a very pleasant image for such a nice winery. Vendange. Must mean vendetta? Pain was mentioned every now and then.

  Cartwright squinted as he tried to make sense of the yellowing labels. Pain, terror, vendettas. Granted, he didn’t know much about the wine making process, but it all seemed rather brutal. Why would anyone carry on such a grudge against a harmless bunch of grapes? Perhaps the French wine industry had some sort of seedy, violent history he didn’t know about.

  He went through some more bottles and gradually realized the SS guard was watching intently him. Cartwright tried not to think about the machine pistol. He moved his arms a little slower, was a bit more careful in pulling bottles out of the rack and replacing them—anything he could do to not appear threatening. How ironic that he was practically lying on the floor, beaten to a pulp, yet he was the one struggling to appear meek.

  The guard took a step forward. Cartwright froze.

  Amazingly, the guard walked over to a different wine rack and started examining bottles himself. Cartwright was dumbfounded. He was not about to have the shite kicked out of him? The Englishman stared in silence as the Hun gently lifted a dusty specimen from Conti’s finest vintages off of its cradle. The soldier’s face took on a youthful wonder as he studied the bottle. When he finally put down the bottle it was only to pick up a second one.

  It would have been a perfect—perfect—bonding moment except for the fact that the wine rack the Hun had decided to investigate was right next to the wrong wall in the cellar. The wall that had newer construction than the rest. The one where the masonry didn’t quite match. The wall would spell disaster for all of them if examined too closely.

  Cartwright pretended to also study more wine, but in reality was observing what his keeper was doing. He needed to distract him. Luckily, the opportunity was an obvious one. Two men from different sides in the war, united through a common boredom.

  “Hallo,” Cartwright said.

  The guard glanced over as if surprised his prisoner could talk. His boyish face drifted off into nothing for a moment, considering. When he looked back, Cartwright knew that he had connected. The guard gave him a small nod.

  “My name’s Stephen. What’s yours?”

  Silence from the German as he stood holding a wine bottle.

  “Steee-vennnnn,” Cartwright tried again, pointing to his chest. “Stephen. Now. What’s your name?”

  The German seemed to understand what was being asked but acted unsure of whether he should say anything. He was a soldier first and foremost. One did not fraternize with prisoners. After a moment, however, boredom appeared to win out.

  “Ich heisse Erich.”

  “Erik? Good to meet you. I noticed that you’re looking at these bottles. Here, here’s a good year that might interest you.” Cartwright took the bottle he was holding and rolled it along the floor towards the German.

  Erich watched the bottle as it came to a stop at his feet. He paused, then cautiously bent over to pick it up and compare it to the wine he was holding. Glancing between the two labels made him smile. Cartwright grimaced when he saw that the bottles were the same.

  “Well, there we are. We both must have good taste.”

  The German considered the two bottles for a moment, then turned and walked to the arched doorway. He opened a small pack with his belongings and carefully stowed the wine away for safekeeping. There were obviously few comforts for an infantryman marching across Europe. Alcohol was prized highly by all.

  Cartwright felt an unease in his stomach. He hoped he wasn’t around when the German drank it and discovered how terrible it was. The good stuff was off in the oak barrels in the wine cave. All of these bottles? Well, there were reasons it tasted like piss.

  Erich finished stowing his gear and stood back up to face Cartwright. He was obviously pleased with himself for being so opportunistic. So much the better, Cartwright thought. He preferred a captor who was in a good mood.

  “Of all the places to be held prisoner,” Cartwright began with a smile, “I suppose there are worse places than one that is filled with booze. Wouldn’t you say?”

  The German returned a small smile. Reaching into a pocket in his tunic, he pulled out a package of cigarettes and offered the end to Cartwright. The Englishman took two after a careful glance to make sure it would be allowed. Erich produced a lighter and got both of them started in puffing away.

  Cartwright kept talking in between drags. “Although I must say, this place is quite a mess. Lots of broken glass everywhere. I wonder what sort of ruckus caused it?”

  He spoke slowly and studied Erich for any sort of clue from his question. German and English had enough similar words that he might get lucky and hit upon some common understanding. But Erich just stared at him.

  “Can you tell me why I was brought all the way down here? There are plenty of other places to hold me captive. The house upstairs is much nicer. Why the cellar?”

  Erich went back to leaning against the wall near the archway, his hands back to resting on his weapon. The slight smile was gone. The questions weren’t working. Was it the subject matter? Or just the language barrier?

  Cartwright changed tack. “So how long have you been in the SS?”

  A blank look.

  “Right. Since birth, I bet. Old Adolf probably spoon-fed you with a mess kit. You don’t speak English, do you?”

  Another blank look. He was getting nowhere.

  The stone wall of the cellar was only a few feet behind Cartwright. He slowly scooted himself past the wine rack until he could use it for back support. His muscles were tight and it felt good to use them even for such a small purpose. Thankfully, Erich didn’t seem to mind the repositioning. He simply watched and smoked.

  “Whew, that’s better,” Cartwright said. “Not the most comfortable accommodations. Before you lot got here, I actually had a nice, warm bed to sleep in, do you know that? Even better than the barracks in England. Not that I’m complaining about the cellar here. It beats a hole in the ground like you’re probably used to, I’m sure.”

  The German continued to silently study him. He did seem more relaxed and at ease than he had been earlier. That had to be worth something.

  “So why are you giving the Conti’s here such trouble? I suppose you stopped here to get out of the rain, but the weather seems like it’s cleared up a bit. Why are you staying around?”

  Still no comprehension. Cartwright gave up. The language barrier existed here as much as it had when Cartwright first arrived at the winery. No one understood anything he said—except Robert, to a small extent, and the German officer Cartwright had mentally tagged as The Rat. Otherwise he was a stranger in a foreign land, and utterly alone. It didn’t matter whether the tongue of choice was French or German.

  “Well, Erich, would you like to learn some English then? We have nothing better to do to pass the time. Can you speaken-English?”

  The German didn’t reply, but Cartwright could see that he had his attention. The Briton pointed to his eyes one at a time and said, “Eyes.”

  Erich watched closely.

  “Ears,” Cartwright continued. “Head.”

  Erich cleared his throat. “Kopf,” he replied.

  Cartwright smiled broadly. Monotony was winning over discipline. “Yes, that’s it. Kopf means head. I think.”

  A couple more. “Feet.”

  “Füsse.”

  “Hands.”

  “Hände.”

  “Very good, old chap. Let’s make it interesting.” Cartwright picked up a wine bottle. “I put the wine in my hand.” He pointed alternately
to the two main objects in the sentence. “Wine. Hand.”

  Erich nodded. “Ich nehme die Weinflasche in meine hände.”

  “Well done. We’ll make an honorary Brit out of you yet.” And then maybe you’ll be able to help me get out of here—even if you don’t realize it.

  The two men went through other simple words and phrases. Cartwright was enjoying himself when boot steps sounded from out in the corridor. The two men clammed up instantly, but when the sergeant with the scar strode into the cellar with Erich’s relief guard, it was obvious he knew something was going on.

  “Was geschieht hier, Ackerman?” Gohler yelled.

  Erich immediately stood at attention and shouted something short and unintelligible in reply. His eyes were focused off into space despite the fact that Gohler was inches from his face.

  The sergeant looked outraged. What followed was an exchange that was utterly incomprehensible to Cartwright. It adhered to a defined pattern between the two men of what appeared to be harsh question, excuse, rebuke, and apology. Then it repeated. Even a skilled translator would have been likely hard pressed to follow the German slang and profanity. Cartwright tried to crawl into the smallest ball his body had ever attempted, as if it would make him invisible.

  When he was finished, Gohler yelled a final command and Erich disappeared into the corridor. Then the sergeant glared at Cartwright.

  Uh oh.

  “Geben Sie mir Ihr Gewehr,” he said to the new guard.

  Without hesitation, the soldier handed his rifle to the sergeant.

  “Hold on, there, old boy.” Cartwright wanted to squirm his way into the darkest corner possible.

  Gohler began walking purposefully towards him. The scar on the sergeant’s face made it seem as if he was grinning a wicked smile.

  “Herr Cartwright, Ich verstehe, dass Sie meinen Soldaten unterrichtet haben, Englisch zu sprechen. Möglicherweise ist es jetzt Zeit für etwas Deutsch.”

  Although the words were foreign, somehow the Englishman knew exactly what they meant. The sergeant understood what the two of them had been doing, that Cartwright had been trying to teach the soldier a few basic English phrases.