Somehow, the meaning of Cartwright’s touch made it through the language barrier. She gave him a smile. As she slipped down onto the bed of the wagon with him, Cartwright saw that her eyes did not leave his for a moment. And for that little moment in time they shared a sliver of hope that the future would turn out for the better.
* * *
SS-Sturmscharführer Rudolph Gohler stumbled unsteadily up the spiral staircase until he was standing in the kitchen. His thoughts were still unfocused and he lost his balance every couple of moments. As he extended a hand against a small wooden table, he surveyed the surrounding picture out the open back door. While his thinking was still not clear, he knew he did not like what he saw.
The courtyard was in shambles. Debris littered every square meter in a jagged symphony. Presumably it had all come from the wine barn, which was now… gone, replaced only by smoking fires and splintered wood. Bodies were strewn about wearing the charred uniforms of the SS. All of them were dead.
Gohler put down the wine bottle he had procured as a weapon and leaned even more heavily against the door. He saw the body of Springer and his unmistakable blond hair out in the wreckage. Part of him wanted to run. There obviously had been some sort of explosion, and only a fool would stay in a hot zone without a weapon, cover, or support. But another part of him sensed that for whatever altercation had taken place here, it was now over, and that safety, however relative, had returned to the battle zone.
And the battle apparently had been lost.
Gohler furrowed his brow. The thought of the traitor Eppler escaping was bad enough. Add the loss of his superior officers and infantrymen and it was sickening. How had he missed it all? Granted, in retrospect he had been foolish in rushing to Peterson’s body when he saw him in the cellar. He had been escorting a prisoner and should have kept his priorities straight. Perhaps he had let his guard down because he had wanted to believe Eppler’s story, that it all was a big misunderstanding and it would be cleared up once they reached Perpignan. But blame didn’t really figure into the grand equation of war. There was only life and death. And sometimes, the only difference between the two was a random roll of the dice.
A lone man stumbled from behind a stone pillar that had miraculously remained standing. Krauss. He appeared hurt and now staggered in a circle, lost.
With a determined sigh, Gohler pushed off of the kitchen door and headed out into the courtyard for whatever fate had next in store for him.
* * *
Although they had come late to the spectacle, another set of eyes got to watch the smoke billow forth from the wine barn. German eyes.
Observing from high upon a neighboring hill, sitting among some scant brush that provided what little cover was available, Wilhelm Eppler stroked his chin with his fingers as he watched the remnants of the wine barn burn. What he saw made him snort in amusement. Krauss looked shell shocked and eventually just sat down in the dirt after turning around multiple times. A man in a sergeant’s uniform—Gohler? Yes, it was him—was exiting the back of the manor carrying a wine bottle. Amazing that the bastard was alive after the clubbing Eppler had given him. Another soldier was creeping up on the carnage, his rifle lowered in disbelief. There was no sign of Tiedemann or the other officers.
What had happened? Eppler didn’t care. He had no love for these SS men, these ideological mutants who marched in lockstep unison to the Führer’s wishes. He had been sickened by their arrogance when he had seen them in Bad Tölz. His wife had been seduced by one of their leaders. Eppler had no use for them and was glad they were all dead. His country was dead to him after Greta had left. He did wonder about the girl and the Englishman, though. Cartwright. That man was a survivor. All the abuse that had been heaped upon him and he still had managed to almost get out. Maybe he had.
But what about himself? Where would he go?
Eppler’s eyes swept past the manor over to the road far down the hill. The Opel was out of the ditch and Tiedemann’s staff car sat motionless just in front. A lone soldier was leaning against the bumper.
The staff car. Eppler smiled, stood up, and walked carefully down the hill.
As he approached, the soldier gave him a snappy salute at the sight of the warrior who had fought on the battle lines of the legendary Rommel. Eppler waved him at ease, then regarded the truck disapprovingly. Finally he turned his attention to the staff car.
“There’s been a terrible accident. The Hauptsturmführer needs us to get aid. We’re taking his car into town to find help.”
“Jawohl, Herr Obersturmführer!” the soldier barked.
Eppler and his driver climbed in and pulled away from the silent transport truck. As they passed the bottom of the footpath that led to the house, there were no people in sight. Perhaps this idea would work after all.
“Herr Obersturmführer,” the driver said simply, asking for permission to speak.
“Yes?”
“That explosion. What happened?”
“I told you. An accident.”
“Yes, sir.”
Eppler paused thoughtfully. “What’s your name, soldier?”
“Thomsen, sir.”
“Well, Thomsen, head back to Dijon. All these little villages no doubt have only horses and carts. We need real help—an ambulance at minimum. That means Dijon.”
“Jawohl.”
“When we get there I’m going to drop you off at the fire station. Hitch a ride with them back to the Conti estate immediately. While you’re doing that I’m going to head to the police. We don’t know if there is subversive activity in this region and if many of our men are injured, we might need their help to secure the manor. Understand?”
“Yes, Herr Obersturmführer.”
Of course, Eppler’s drive to the police station might detour through Spain. There was no life for him in Germany now.
Gazing out the window, Eppler took a deep breath as the countryside glided by. It had been a long journey from North Africa to southern France, a journey that had taken him from one armed service to another, through lies and deception as he came to grips with betrayal by his life partner. He had known early on that embarking on a path of revenge could lead to being a fugitive. Or worse. Even now, with his reprisal complete, he felt empty and alone inside. But he didn’t care.
Tiedemann had said more than he knew when he had talked of why men fought through the horrors of war. It would begin, of course, with patriotism and ideals, but the glue that kept it going was individual loyalty to each other. Continuing to push when there was no reason to keep going, all for the sake of keeping your comrades alive. Eppler had that trust broken and responded in kind. Now he didn’t care about the Reich or the Allies or any grand political implications of the world war. He didn’t care about anything other than living to the next day.
In that particular respect, he was still no different than any other soldier.
The Hazards of War Page 22