The Losing Role

by Steve Anderson

  Subtly, Felix shook his head at him.

  Rattner snarled: “Corporal Kaspar, get a hold of yourself—”

  “Least we should take off our SS tunics,” Zoock shouted. “I’m not even in the goddamned SS, and neither is Kaspar here. Man’s a goddamned actor. Look at him. And I’m a sailor.” He banged at the steering wheel.

  Felix turned to Rattner. He said, softly, “Sailor boy has a point, now Hartmut, it is a long way back—”

  Rattner pushed at Felix. “How dare you call an officer by his first name? You heard what Skorzeny said—we’d be shot as spies that way. Who knows what happened back there, any of you. Maybe one of them lost his head? Betrayed the others.”

  As Rattner said this, he locked his scowl on Max.

  Max glared back. “Just what are you implying, sir?”

  “You know perfectly well. So don’t feed me that gentleman shit-speak.” Rattner grabbed at Max’s collar, then heaved it loose.

  Max turned around and faced the rough and icy road that was sending them further east. The captain must have been suspecting him the whole time. Perhaps his drunkenness was only a ploy. Perhaps they all suspected him. Luckily, Max still had the Colt in his overcoat pocket. And yet Zoock had a Walther pistol in his lap, Felix a tommy, and Rattner a tommy.

  And they drove on, in silence. They might as well have been chained together, Max thought, like a team of escaped convicts.

  Afternoon now, December 17. The snow fell in heavy, churning sheets. Their forest world had turned white. They got lost twice. They lost time. Yet already they were halfway back to the German lines. Max’s heart ached and he imagined it black and clogged, barely pumping. His predicament was suffocating him, yet his indecision was worse. How could he make a break for it? Here the Ardennes was all slippery hills and snowbound streams and Zoock kept racing on, horrified of getting stuck.

  Max gripped the Colt in his pocket. He slid off the safety. “This is it,” he muttered as the snow whipped at his lips. Whatever he was to do he would do it for Lucy, to show her. And he would survive it for Liselotte, to love her still.

  They passed a sign for a town, but the name was shot up. Only “Five Kilometers” was legible. Rattner, waving his tommy, screamed at Zoock to drive on.

  The snow and the wind let up, and they heard the din of battle, growing louder.

  Up ahead, a line of GIs was blocking the road. They saw the white helmet stripes—they were MPs.

  “In English, and keep it short,” Max said to the rest, “let’s keep our guns down. Captain, I suggest you act drunk. You’ve done such a fine job in the role before.”

  Felix smiled at that and Rattner nodded, grunting. At least their canvas top was up—it would help cover Rattner. Zoock lowered his Walther to the floor.

  Out in the road, two of the MPs moved forward with rifles raised. The MPs were black. American Negroes. Zoock’s Confederate hood was free of snow and clear to see.

  “Tell them this is not our usual jeep,” Max said to Zoock out the side of his mouth. “Make up the rest. That clear? You can do it.”

  Zoock nodded, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. Yards away now. Zoock stopped with a squeal of brakes and a crunch of snow. One MP approached Zoock’s side. He was a corporal and a lighter skinned black, with freckles on his cheeks. He had a thin mustache like Max’s. He saluted for Max. Max saluted back.

  “Where you heading?” the MP corporal said to Zoock.

  Zoock grinned. “Hey there, I think we’re lost.” He’d ditched the Chinese Southern accent for good.

  “See your papers,” said the MP corporal. Zoock looked to Max, who handed over his papers. The MP corporal placed them on his wrist to read, still aiming the rifle.

  The other MP was circling their jeep. He came around the back. Passing Max he gave a lazy salute and said, “‘Tenant.”

  “Afternoon.”

  The MP corporal flipped the papers over, rereading everything, his lips pursed. The other MP stopped at the hood. Zoock pointed and blurted, “Hey, hey, sorry about the Dixie flag, gents,” giggling. “Had a good ole’ boy in our unit, he done it. But, well, he bought it yesterday. He was a sailor . . .”

  The other MP stared, his rifle barrel resting on the hood.

  “You see, since yesterday we cannot find our unit,” Max said to the MP corporal.

  “Uh huh.” The MP corporal slid Max’s papers into a pocket. He nodded toward the back seat. “You got a radio in the back there. Shouldn’t be that hard. Sir.”

  “That’s just the thing, Jack,” Felix said, showing himself at Zoock’s shoulder. “Can’t receive shit in this damn forest.”

  The MP corporal was looking at Rattner. Rattner, wild-eyed, hugged at his stomach and gave a cheap little groan. The MP kept staring—the man could stare as long as he wanted. Probably make a great actor if America gave him half a chance, Max thought, and for some reason this thought terrified him. His heart raced, thumped.

  They heard thuds of artillery, and the dull rattle of faraway machine guns.

  The MP at the hood called over the other two MPs, and the three of them spoke within full earshot of Max. Max didn’t understand their speech and, he suspected, many Americans wouldn’t have either. They wore natty gloves with the shooting fingers cut off. They were unshaven. One chuckled at the Confederate flag, but another was glaring at the hood. This one said to Zoock: “Say now, driver man, what’s that big ole’ scratch on the corner the hood for? New too—metal still shiny.”

  “Oh, that—like I was saying, the lug who did it is dead anyway, see.”

  The MP corporal gave his three men a nod, and they spread out to the four corners of the jeep—one at Max’s side of the hood, the other two at the rear corners. Only the canvas top stood between them and Felix and Rattner.

  The bombings neared and they heard shells screeching in, probably hitting the town down the road. The MPs crouched and clutched their helmets on their heads.

  And Max realized something that both terrified and inspired. By the looks of them, these MPs might too have lost their way.

  The MP corporal looked beyond Zoock, over at Max. “Here’s the rub, Lieutenant, sir. Our field radio went dead—we’ll have to use yours. That all right?”

  There were only four of the MPs, and four of them. The MPs had clunky Garand rifles, they had tommys, and the bombardment would cover the noise. Max only hoped Rattner—and Felix—had not realized this. He shrugged. “You are welcome to try, Corporal,” he said to the MP corporal and then turned to Rattner, who’d stopped groaning and holding his stomach. “Private, why don’t you reach me that radio from the back,” he continued to Rattner, in a monotone.

  Rattner’s face hardened. He didn’t budge.

  Felix blurted: “I got it, sir,” and handed the radio up through to Max, who handed it to the MP at his side. The MP stood the radio at his feet.

  “Thanks.” The MP corporal took a couple steps back. “Good. Now, a few formalities compliments of the boys in G-2.”

  G-2 meant Counter Intelligence. The other MPs stiffened and raised their rifles.

  “Fair enough,” Max said. “Shoot,” Zoock said. “Can’t be too careful,” Felix said.

  “What’s Sinatra’s first name?” the MP corporal said.

  “What? Oh, it’s Frank,” Max said. “Mister Frank Sinatra.”

  “The capitol of Oregon?” said the MP corporal.

  Silence. “Portland,” Felix said.

  The MPs eyed each other.

  “Who knows Oregon—it’s Salem,” Zoock said. “Portland’s the big city.”

  The MP at the hood said, “Where do you find a tight end?”

  No one spoke. The MPs raised their guns, grasping them tight. The MP corporal said, “Here’s an easy one—how much is a postage stamp?”

  Any true GI would know this. Stamps and letters kept them human. Max had no clue, and he was sure the rest didn’t either.

  “Three hundred dollars,” Felix whispered. He had p
laced three one hundred dollar bills on Zoock’s shoulder so that only the MP corporal could see them.

  Zoock froze still, as if a toxic spider had dropped onto his shoulder and he was deathly allergic.

  “Afraid that’s a little high,” the MP corporal said. “Out of the jeep. All of you. Now.” He’d said it calmly, as if routine. Was it really ending here? Max thought. Perhaps the man only thought they were deserters.

  “All right. Out of the jeep, men,” Max said. He began to step out, but the shells fell closer, a shrieking fury of rockets, mortars and artillery that shattered the woods along the road with a sound like breaking glass. The earth rocked and rolled.

  Max recoiled, his head down. Squatting, the MP corporal waved them out.

  Orange bursts lit up the cab. Rattner and Felix were firing out the back through the canvas. The two MPs dropped, their blood splattering snow. Hot shells clanked and bounced at the metal floor. Zoock had his Walther on the MP corporal. He froze, his hands up. Max’s MP fired a shot, it bounced off the hood, and he ran. Max fumbled for his Colt and leaned out aiming. The MP was yards from the trees. Max had a clean shot.

  He shot for the treetops. The MP lunged behind trunks and sprinted off.

  “Nein schiessen, nein schiessen,” the MP corporal said in broken German. Bitter gunpowder smoke had filled the cab. Rattner and Felix climbed straight out the back, through the tears in the canvas. They tumbled out onto snow and stood over the MP corporal, their legs stomping like pistons, aiming and screaming, “Hands up hands up!”

  “They’re up—don’t shoot him!” Max shouted in German.

  The shells kept falling just out of range, killing all other sound. Once they caught their breath, they worked fast—their training had made them automatons. Max and Felix dragged the two corpses off into the woods to cover them with underbrush and snow while Zoock parked the jeep off to the side of the road. Felix stammered: “I had to shoot, I had to.”

  “You did the right thing,” Max said. Anything to keep Felix levelheaded now.

  Felix rummaged through the dead MPs’ pockets but only found letters, photos, and two half-smoked Lucky Strikes.

  Rattner moved the MP corporal beyond the tree line. He sat him up against a tree trunk, facing into the woods so he couldn’t be seen from the road. Brandishing the tommy with one hand, he’d tied rope tight around the MP’s arms and chest. The MP’s face had lost color, revealing more of the freckles. He grimaced at Max and Felix as they trudged up.

  Rattner struck the MP across the chin with the gun’s butt. It was his show now. He ordered Felix and Zoock to keep watch—Felix out by the road, Zoock farther into the woods behind them—and told Max to translate while he interrogated their prisoner.

  “I’ll tell your boss all I know,” the MP told Max, “but it’s not out of fear, understand? Uncle Sam been giving us little reason to die for him.”

  He spoke with his chin high. A couple stray units had holed up in the nearby town, he revealed. They had been the only GIs on this road. The whole sector might have been cut off, but they weren’t sure because their radio had gone kaput.

  Max would have mistranslated any of it to help himself, but none of it could help him now. As the questions dragged on, the MP began to gasp for words, so Max demanded that Rattner loosen the rope around his chest. Rattner snarled but obliged.

  “That MP who escaped—could he bring reinforcements our way?” Rattner asked.

  “Little chance of that. That boy’s sure to have run back into town. He’ll stay put with the rest.” The MP paused. He added to Max, “That’s the good news for you. The bad news? The boy saw your faces.”

  The bombing had stopped, bringing an eerie quiet. Farther off, shattered trees creaked and snapped, and crazed birds fluttered in branches. Rattner left Max with the MP and went to try the radio. He’d handed off the tommy. Max slung it on his shoulder.

  The MP shook his head at Max and gave a grim toothy smile. “So, looks like a good ole’ fashion lynching. Eh, boss?”

  The word was the same in German—“lynchen”—meaning a cruel and unjust vigilante murder. It had been borrowed from American English for lack of a German equivalent. Then the Nazis came, and the strange American word wasn’t so strange anymore. Max shook his head. “No, not if I can help it—”

  Rattner was back. He shoved Max out of the way and grabbed the tommy. Felix and Zoock moved closer so they could hear the interrogation.

  “How did you know about us?” Rattner barked.

  The MP waited for Max’s translation. “Know what?”

  “That we were Germans.”

  “That was easy—you were traveling four to a jeep. I was trying to finagle the radio out of you so we could call for help. We’re cut off—out in left field—got me? You know how that is.” The MP added another grim smile.

  “I do,” Max said.

  Max translated the rest. Rattner wanted to know more about what gave them away. It was the four-to-a-jeep more than anything, the MP said. That was the dead giveaway. No one travels four to a jeep behind American lines. It weighed down the ride and was an easy target. Apart from that, it was just like G-2 had told them—look for code letters on the hood, any funny speech, suspicious wads of money, and any colored handkerchiefs—as worn by Felix. Any one of Max’s crew fit the bill to a tee.

  The MP continued to Max: “I’m only telling you this in the hope you’ll spare my sorry behind. Tell your captain that, will you?”

  Max told Rattner. Rattner grunted. “What tipped off your intelligence?”

  “You mean in the first place? You really want to know?” The MP smiled again. “Captured a German captain with detailed documents, maps, everything. Just yesterday morning. Now those cowboys from G-2 are out looking to nab you all. One passed by here before we got cut off, heading east for your lines. Know what the man said? ‘Thank God the krauts keep good records.’”

  Max translated. Felix and Rattner exchanged sickened glances.

  “Maybe you’ll get to meet the man,” the MP said to Max.

  “Perhaps not, with any luck. I’m finished with this war.”

  The MP nodded. “Hey, hasn’t your captain forgot something?” he said to Max.

  “What’s that?”

  “My name, rank, and serial number—”

  Rattner pulled a knife. The MP writhed, screamed. Rattner slit his throat, a thin line of red and a rush of dark blood hit the ground like a bucket being emptied. The MP opened his mouth. He could only wheeze. He was staring at Max. Then he was still.

  Max’s heart seemed to stop. The world stopped. He couldn’t stop staring. Someone was yelling at him but he couldn’t hear it.

  It was Rattner: “Cut him down,” he squealed. “Then search him.”

  Max shook his head. “No, no. You do it. You lynched him.”

  Rattner lunged and pushed Max to the ground. Max’s Colt tumbled out of his pocket. It lay at Rattner’s feet. Rattner shouted: “Who you talking back to? Has-been know-it-all actor, eh? Well, I got your number, Kaspar, had it all along. Now I got proof. You tried to give up our radio back there. You let that MP run off too, and I saw it—”

  Rattner’s head erupted in a flare of red and flesh. He dropped on his side.

  Felix had fired. He stood only feet away. His overcoat was bundled around his tommy to quell the noise, and his GI tunic was half-open to show his SS uniform. Hot steam pulsed from his tiny mouth. He grinned at Max.

  Max scrambled to his feet.

  “Relax, Kaspar. You’re safe with me. Now get his gun.”

  “Right.” Max pulled the tommy from Rattner’s clenched hand.

  “Wait. Shit. No . . .” Felix’s grin fell away. He was peering through the forest, crouching and pivoting in all directions. “Bert!” he shouted. “Ignatius, where are you? Goddamnit, Zoock, show yourself.”

  Fourteen

  Felix and Max spread out to search for Zoock but it was little use in the dim and hazy forest light. After a few min
utes slogging through snow and underbrush, Max found Zoock’s SS tunic tossed in the cavity of a rotting log. He didn’t bother telling Felix. Back at the lynching tree, Felix lit one of the half Lucky Strikes Rattner had taken from the MP corporal. They worked in silence. Felix cut down the MP corporal and lay him next to Rattner while Max gathered branches to cover the two corpses. Soon Max smelled a metallic bitter-sweetness. He had fresh blood on his overcoat, his hands, his thigh. He touched it. It was sticky, like glue firming up. A sour tang clung to his sinuses and throat, like syrup. His head spun and he had to lower himself down against a tree trunk. He strained to take long, deep breaths. He pulled off his helmet.

  “That’s the shock wearing off. Your senses want to punish you now.” Felix sat next to Max. He cupped snow in his hands and washed the blood from them, seemingly unfazed by the icy cold. “Here, now turn to me.” Felix took off his blue handkerchief. He dampened it with snow and rubbed at one of Max’s cheeks, a temple, and an ear. “Had some on your face, too,” he said.

  “Thanks.” Max put his helmet back on. “This must be the scene where I thank you for saving my life.”

  Felix chuckled. “I was saving my own. You were just in the way.”

  “Captain Rattner was in the way, you mean.”

  “Perhaps.”

  The crazed birds and creaking trees quieted down. A whirling wind rushed through the branches above, like a thousand brushes scrubbing.

  Felix said, “You want to get rid of your SS tunic, I won’t hold it against you.”

  “No, I’ll keep it on a while,” Max said.

  Daylight was thinning, creating broad and dark shadows. Back at the jeep Felix spread the maps out on the hood. “So. We’re closer to the front than we thought. We are lost, but not completely. Somewhere near a town called Malmedy. Here. Must be it down the road. But we can’t drive through it, can we? I say we make our way around.”