Now Zoock was pulling a tarp over the hood of the jeep. He got under the tarp with a flashlight. The tarp rose and fell as Zoock grunted and chuckled, his feet clamped to the bumper, his thighs rubbing against the grill.
Felix sat up and watched. “He’s painting something. I can smell it.”
“Painting?” Max said. He went over and lifted the tarp and the strong whiff of fresh paint hit him. Zoock smiled, made room for Max, and pulled the tarp back over them.
On the hood, painted in white outline, was two-thirds of what appeared to be the Confederate States of America flag.
“Careful, don’t touch it,” Zoock said.
Max’s mouth opened in horror, but even his German failed him.
“It’s the Dixie flag,” Zoock added, wiping specks of paint from his jaw. “Y’aw like er?”
“What?” Max said, even though he had heard clearly. Zoock, Max recalled, had gone to see the last American movie shown in Grafenwöhr—Gone with the Wind. He had watched both showings. Ever since, he’d insisted on calling the Amis “Yankees.” He talked of “avenging Atlanta” and “General Sherman’s March”—for which the Sherman tank was named, he pointed out. Now Zoock was attempting an American southern accent? It was horrible, and hokey. It destroyed his near-perfect colloquial accent. He sounded to Max like a Chinese man trying to speak English.
Zoock’s smile faded. “Y’aw heard. Shore. Aw reckon aw said, y’aw like er—”
“Yes, I heard you.” Max added a smile. This would take some tiptoeing. He moved close, despite Zoock’s warm schnapps breath, and put his arm around Zoock. He spoke in clear and firm German. “Listen, sailor, I think you’re going to have to lose that accent. You’ll have to trust me on this one, for I am an actor.”
“I see,” Zoock said in German, staring at the rebel flag at his fingers. It only needed more stars. “Aw reckon aw have to think on thatta one.”
Two o’clock in the morning. Only three hours left. Max grabbed the canteen and let the rich brown schnapps ooze down his throat. Max and Felix had each pulled a couple crates together and laid on them, staring up into the black branches, smoking and drinking and pretending like Zoock really hadn’t painted a Confederate flag on the hood of their jeep. Zoock was sleeping, in the driver’s seat. He was not their only problem. Every jeep team was to have four commandos, since they only had so many jeeps. At Münstereifel station, Rattner had promised their fourth man would be sent directly. That was twelve hours ago.
Max tried to remain hopeful. “I’m rooting for another sailor—good English is the only thing that counts,” he said. He and Felix had spoken little for the last hour. When they did speak, it was in German. Who knew when they’d be able to speak it again.
“You mean like our man Zoock there?” Felix said.
They heard sloshing footsteps in the dark, and growing louder. Someone was coming. Max hoped it was a cook’s orderly bringing some of that hot soup though he expected only another private seeking a tree to pee on or a secluded spot to vomit.
“A fair point,” Max continued. “What we really should have done is have you use your influence with the captain . . .”
With a pop, Felix exhaled a stream of smoke. “Care to explain that, Kaspar?”
“Explain? Moi? I . . .”
“Bickering again?” said a voice. It was Captain Rattner himself.
They jumped to attention. Zoock rolled out of the driver’s seat.
“Stop, no—at ease,” Rattner said, waving hands. As the captain stepped closer they saw he wore the unkempt uniform of an American GI. He held a GI helmet at his hip. “I don’t mean the German ‘at ease’—I mean the American ‘at ease.’ Like we taught you.” Rattner tried it himself, slouching his shoulders—a little wooden but it would do. “Like this, meine Herren. You see now?” He was speaking with greater patience, as if addressing the children of prominent upper-class bosses. He hadn’t looked at Felix. He faced Zoock and Max, who had moved close to Zoock at the front fender. “See, I’m afraid you’ll—we’ll—have to get used to it. Because I’m your fourth man.”
Max slumped against the fender. Anything but this. He’d take one of the former chefs, the ballet dancer, anyone—
“Great! Just fuckin’ swell,” Zoock said in English, adding a grin.
Felix glared at the black ground, his cigarette hanging.
Rattner grinned. “What, no cheers? No toasts?”
Max held up the canteen. “Here, sir. Break a leg.”
Rattner grabbed the canteen. “That’s the spirit. Besides, I can’t let you drink all my hunters liquor, can I?” he said, giggling, and added something in dialect about this being his hometown drink, seeing how he was from Braunschweig. Max guessed he had given it to Felix as a bon voyage gift. He gulped it down, what must have been five shots’ worth, and passed the canteen to Felix.
Max’s knees loosened, and he stooped, the fender digging into the back of his thighs. He wanted to drop right there in the mud.
“That’s it, how Kaspar’s doing it? That’s the ‘at ease’ I’m looking for.”
“But, sore, yaw speakin’ German,” Zoock said, retreating to his Chinese Dixie accent. “Ah reckon we best be speakin’ English.”
“What was that?” Rattner grunted in German. “That English?” he said to Max.
“After a fashion,” Max said.
“Ah.” Rattner put on the GI helmet. Clearing his throat, he tried in thickly accented English, “Please, I am not so vell understanding.”
Felix shook his head and grumbled something. Rattner let it pass.
“Besides, you need a radioman—and I’m top certified,” Rattner said. This much could be counted on. Electronic devices seemed to be one of the captain’s few chaste joys. He had even overseen the field radio operators’ training. Yet it also meant he could keep in closer touch with HQ.
As their radioman, Rattner also wore the insignia of a common technical corporal. Max, however, was a lieutenant now. He had the bars on his shoulder. He’d almost forgot. He stood up tall and faced Rattner. “From this moment on, Corporal,” he said in crisp American English, “we’re going to have to speak American-style, whether it’s only a grunt or a yes or a no. Understand?”
Rattner straightened. He nodded, shook his head, and looked to Felix. Felix looked away. Rattner said, “Juss me, Joe. Vaaht zee fuck else?”
Zoock spat.
“Corporal, let’s have only yes or no answers, shall we?” Max said—
“Yeah, you stupid moron you,” Felix blurted. In German.
Zoock started. Max expected a tirade, but Rattner surprised them all. “Understood,” he said in German, and he grinned and wagged a finger at Felix.
“Very well, then,” Max said. He handed the canteen back to Rattner.
Rattner hugged it under an arm so he could light a cigarette. The lighter’s flame created a ghastly effect with shadow and made Max take good notice of Rattner’s features. Eyes too far apart. Broad forehead, with a hairline only inches from his thick eyebrows. Flabby lips. Gaps between his teeth. He’d probably shaved that afternoon, yet black stubble was already showing on his heavy jaw. Physically, at least, the man looked the part of the stereotypical Ami dogface. Max would have cast him.
Rattner clicked the lighter off. “So my English is no good,” he said in German. “So what? Half the brigade can’t speak it.”
A pause. This didn’t explain what the captain was doing there. They needed more explained to them. Something to give them hope. Max needed a PhD in it.
“That’s where you’ll come in. Anyone can shoot a gun, that’s clear, but not everyone can do an accent,” Rattner added to Max. “Can they, Kaspar?”
“No. Bravo to that.”
“That’s why I opted to join you all. At least with you I’ll stand a good chance. Plus, I can keep my eye on you, can’t I?”
Rattner had meant it as a joke. No one laughed. Felix reached in the jeep and turned back around holding one of the poi
son Zippo lighters. He strode over to Rattner, snatched the captain’s Wehrmacht-issue lighter and tossed it off into the mud.
“This one’s just for you, Corporal,” Felix said and stuffed the poison lighter deep in Rattner’s trouser pocket.
Ten
Four thirty in the morning, December 16. Darkness. Freezing. Zero Hour. In their American jeep, Max, Felix, Zoock and Rattner rode near the front of the German spearhead. Three hulking Panther tanks rolled ahead of them, while behind them the column seemed to stretch back to the eastern horizon. For ten minutes they had been inching westward, in single file. The clanking panzers and droning armored cars slowed, and halted, then restarted with a jolt, only to stop again for no reason they could know. Engines revved and roared. Exhaust fumes burned in their eyes and nostrils. The Panthers blocked Zoock’s view of the road ahead. All they saw was the beast’s steep rear end with its steaming grilles and two fat pipes pumping out the black smoke.
They had their collars up and scarves over their mouths to block the soot and cold. No one spoke. Reality was setting in, and no comparison to a theater production could help Max now. This column was heading straight into battle, and the four of them were undercover German agents. Max’s new American cover name was Lieutenant Julian Price. He sat up front wearing olive drab combat trousers, one of the better late-model American tunics with concealed buttons, and a wool overcoat. He had actual lieutenant’s bars. The overcoat, he couldn’t help noticing, had two holes near his left underarm. The other three were enlisted men. Zoock’s name and rank was Sergeant Bert Ignatius. Behind him sat Felix, who was now Corporal Herb Fellowes. Next to him rode Captain Rattner, or, Technical Corporal Curt Mauser.
All wore SS tunics under their GI garb so that, as SS Lieutenant Colonel Otto Skorzeny had promised, they wouldn’t be shot as spies.
Zoock’s left hand clamped the steering wheel while his right hand and legs worked a crude ballet of shifting, accelerating, braking so they didn’t ram into the rear end of the Panther. Ever the sailor, Zoock hated tanks. “Rather face an Ami firing squad than get sucked under that monster,” he’d shouted. He’d also proved stubborn about his Confederate flag on the hood. Zoock’s Dixie mania could get them killed, Max had warned Felix, yet Felix only joked, “Me, I like it. We could mount a pirate flag on the back.” Rattner also approved. He called it a “crafty ploy” and ordered that it stay. That was the last order Rattner gave. He then finished off the last of Felix’s canteen and started on another bottle of the hunters’ schnapps. Now he appeared to have passed out in his rear seat. His helmeted head slumped forward, and he swayed with the bumps. At least this gave Felix a break. When they first got in the jeep Rattner sat close to Felix, and Max saw the captain trying to grope for Felix’s hands. Felix resisted it. Finally, Rattner gave up and rediscovered his schnapps bottle.
Close to five o’clock in the morning, and still dark. They were heading uphill. The jeep’s engine growled in low gear, the front wheels shimmied. The temperature seemed to drop and a wind picked up, biting at Max’s ears. Straw covered the road, to keep the convoy quiet. It didn’t help the ride any. They lurched and rocked, bouncing along. Max checked his compass. They were heading due west, straight into the American front lines. His stomach tightened up. His throat constricted so it was hard to swallow. This was like stage fright—but more violent in its fury. Who knew what minutiae of dress and habit would give them away? All questions could not be known and they had no end. He only hoped his thin mustache fit the role of an American lieutenant. A cold sweat spread to his palms, forehead, and upper lip.
They stopped again. Max checked his watch—the second hand passed 5:15 a.m. They started up with a jerk and hit a full speed sprint out of the forest, the rush of wind smacking their taut faces. This was it. The column raced forward, the jeep wanting to overtake the slower Panthers ahead and Zoock, shouting again, kept her steady by downshifting, braking, spinning the wheels sideways.
The road widened. They hurtled onward, a storm of metal, the tracks clanging, the ball bearings squealing. Max was plastered to his seat, his hands stiff on his thighs. He closed his eyes. He heard a thump and his eyes popped open.
The darkness burst open with blinding light—hundreds of searchlights shot upward like giant fingers, white beams that lit up the American positions ahead and the low clouds above. The air had lost all moisture. Artillery thunked and rocket launchers screeched and tracers cut through the light, raining down on the Americans in orange and white and red, a horizon of erupting volcanoes. And they sped right for it, back onto slippery mud now, the Panther before them slinging the muck at their windshield. Awesome, horrific, ghastly. As if they were plunging down a narrow cavern of limestone in which bullets raced and ricocheted in all directions.
A glob of mud smacked Max on the tongue—he was screaming and didn’t realize it. The Panthers before them halted and Zoock had to wheel the jeep sideways to stop. One Panther fired and then another, and they continued on.
Was it time? They gaped at each other, their faces flashing white and black from the blasts. Rattner was sitting up, his eyes wide and not blinking. Felix nodded to Max. Max yelled: “We’re on, let’s go!”
Just in time. The tanks were coming up fast from behind. An armored car raced right around them, shredding the low hanging branches. Zoock punched it and drove on with his head low, staring through the steering wheel spokes. Up ahead, to the left, was the road crossing—just like on the maps.
From then on, they would be Americans.
Zoock steered for the crossing as the column of tanks plowed on forward into the convulsion of light and explosion. Their side road led southward into the woods. Zoock floored it. Shards of wood and metal landed in their path. Zoock swerved, they bounced high, Zoock almost fell out, and Max steered. Zoock grabbed the wheel again.
“Everyone okay?” Max shouted in English. “Bert? Fellowes?”
“Okay here, sir,” Zoock and Felix shouted. Rattner grunted. A stray burst hit the trees behind them, igniting trunks and branches, the sparks cracking and popping. Rattner thrust his head between his legs, but Felix didn’t so much as flinch. He gazed out the back of the jeep as if watching a fireworks show, his mouth hanging open.
Zoock drove on, skirting the main thrust. Max wiped drool from his chin. He checked the compass. They were still heading west, flanking the American front lines.
“Made it, we made it,” Zoock shouted in German.
Max nudged him and said “No more Deutsch” in English. So much for the stage fright. His bodily functions seemed to have ceased altogether as if his cavities were filled with a gelatin. The adrenalin enhanced his senses. He could make out individual tree trunks in the dark. He could hear far-off voices among the shelling.
They rounded a narrow bend and their headlights flashed on a green figure up ahead, crouching in the road. A motorcycle lay at his side as if he had simply pushed it over. Max saw his olive drab helmet.
“Shit,” Zoock blurted. Rattner, mumbling, grabbed at Felix’s sleeve. Felix drew his American Colt pistol.
“No,” Max said. “You wish to damage any chances we have?”
“You’re right,” Felix said, “all right,” and he lowered the Colt to his lap.
“Keep going, to the same tempo,” Max said to Zoock, “we’ll just pass him by.”
Zoock shook his head and shifted down, maintaining speed. Within yards now. The American soldier stood. He held out an arm to halt them. Max saw the sergeant stripes on his sleeve. The sergeant yanked a stubby cigar from his mouth.
“Stop there! Hey stop,” he yelled.
“The Germans they’re coming!” Max yelled as they passed, so closely that Max could smell the cigar.
“Retreat! While you can!” Felix shouted.
Speeding on, they saw American soldiers retreating through the woods beside them. They were running for their lives, sprinting and zigzagging and jumping over fallen trees and streams, like so many Daniel Boones. Some had tos
sed their weapons. This scene in a newsreel would have made Rattner, Felix and even Zoock whoop and hurrah but now they only gazed, incredulous. For they were heading in the same direction.
They rounded another bend, heading northwest, and the road glowed orange from the flames of burning American vehicles ahead. The flames licked upward, as high as the treetops, heating up their faces and stretching their skin dry. Zoock navigated the horrid, blazing carnage with care, slowing into low gear. Trucks, jeeps, and trailers stood at odd angles. An ambulance upside down. In the mud, blackened corpses flickered with orange and blue embers. The stench of burnt rubber and flesh quickened Max’s pulse. Such mayhem seemed to portend victory, but Max knew better from what he’d seen in Russia. The greater the mess, the slower the advance.
New German bombardments tore into the woods around them. They ducked. Splinters and who knew what whacked at the jeep as Zoock drove on.
“Help us! Slow down! Need a ride!” GIs ran out to them from the trees waving their arms. Some slipped and fell, yet more came from all sides. “Krauts’ll kill us,” one screamed, “SS are coming, Mac, gotta roll back,” yelled another. One got within inches of the rear fender. He lunged but missed and tumbled.
Up ahead, GIs were hauling an antitank gun into the road. Some broke off and started for the jeep. A GI landed on their hood. His helmet bounced off but he stayed on. Zoock swerved to shake him. The GI grabbed at the windshield. Max pulled him in by the collar. It was a kid, no more than 18. His blonde hair flapped in his eyes, and he gasped for breath. “Thanks mister, sir, thanks much,” he panted.
The Losing Role Page 9