THE TEN THOUSAND

by Harold Coyle

  The sudden appearance of the battalion's supply officer startled Captain Friedrich Seydlitz. Though he was still standing upright in the commander's hatch of his Leopard II tank, he had fallen sound asleep. Only after a great deal of shaking did the supply officer manage to awaken Seydlitz. When he did come around, Seydlitz jumped, causing the supply officer to laugh. "Well, Friedrich, I am glad to see the defenders of the Fatherland are alert and ever watchful."

  Though he couldn't see the face, Seydlitz recognized the voice. Realizing that he had fallen sound asleep but that there was no immediate danger, Seydlitz cleared his throat before he responded. "Fuck you, Rudi."

  Slapping Seydlitz on the back, Captain Rudi Buhle laughed even louder. "Well, I am certainly glad to see that war has done nothing to diminish your charm and eloquence, my dear Friedrich." Known for his easy and friendly manner, Rudi Buhle was never at a loss for a quick comment. His ready smile often served to cheer up the darkest face. And if anyone needed a little cheer, it was Friedrich Seydlitz.

  Left with only his company to hold an area that the entire battalion had been stretched to defend a few hours before, Seydlitz had been a nervous wreck. Throughout the early evening his tank platoons, now spread out to the point where they could no longer support each other, had sent him a steady stream of sighting reports. That the enemy was still across from them and active was driven home twice when artillery barrages came crashing down on, around, and behind Seydlitz's location. Of course, Seydlitz's tired mind never was able to make the connection that the artillery attacks, normally lasting less than a few seconds, came after he contacted the brigade command post he had been ordered to report to. It simply did not occur to him that the Americans were using his radio transmissions to locate him and his company.

  Stretching, Seydlitz yawned while Buhle sat on the turret of Seydlitz's tank and waited. Ready and more alert, Seydlitz turned to Buhle. "I see that you have finally decided to venture out into the night to find us."

  Buhle grunted. "Finally? Finally? I've been on the road since before dawn this morning looking for the battalion. Where the hell have you all been?"

  "We have been here all day. Don't you ever read the battalion orders?"

  Folding his arms, Buhle leaned back. "My dear Friedrich, I have not seen a copy of the battalion's orders in almost a week. I am reduced to leading my little supply column around the countryside like a band of gypsies asking everyone I come across, 'Ah, excuse me, good sir, but have you seen the 26th Panzer Battalion? Yes, panzer battalion, you know, a collection of tanks and soldiers'." Seydlitz watched Buhle gesturing while he spoke. Then he stopped and leaned forward. "And do you know something, Friedrich? I have had to stop asking civilians. I can no longer depend on the people we are supposed to be defending. One old man I asked this morning said he had seen you and gave me detailed directions on how to find you. It wasn't until we found ourselves running down a dead-end road that I realized that the old bastard had lied to me. A fellow German. Our countryman. And he lied to me."

  Buhle's carefree manner had disappeared. In its place was a mixture of confusion and scorn. Though Seydlitz himself knew that not all Germans agreed with what the Chancellor was doing, intentional obstructions of the war effort, like the one that Buhle was describing, were an entirely different matter. It was, Seydlitz thought, treason.

  After a long and heavy pause, during which Buhle calmed himself and caught his breath, Seydlitz reached out and placed his hand on Buhle's shoulder. "It will be all right, my friend. Surely you know that?"

  Though Seydlitz's voice and reassurance were anything but convincing, Buhle nodded his head. "Yes, yes, I know." When he was ready, Buhle continued his story. "Now I just ask military personnel for directions. And even they are not very helpful. Christ, Friedrich, the whole division is screwed up. Brigades and battalions are intermixed. Supply trains and artillery units are stumbling over each other. Command posts are passing out information that is out of date. Even the Feldjägers don't know what they're doing. Earlier this evening they sent me south of here in search of the battalion. They told me that American units and raiding parties were roaming around throughout this area and that the battalion had pulled out of here earlier today. Everyone in the rear is running around like chickens without their heads. You are lucky, Friedrich, being up here where you at least know what you're doing."

  When Buhle had finished, Seydlitz considered Buhle's last comments. Buhle obviously had his problems. But to imagine that it was better to be up front hanging your ass out and waiting for someone to swat it was not what Seydlitz would consider lucky. And the idea that he, Seydlitz, knew what was happening was a little much. Still Seydlitz said nothing. He was too tired and there was far too much to do. His company needed to be rearmed and refueled. But he could not let Buhle get away without comment. Though he found it strange that he would be defending the Feldjägers, or military police, a branch of service that Seydlitz never did like, he couldn't resist the urge to bust the supply officer's bubble. Leaning over, Seydlitz tapped Buhle on the shoulder. "Rudi, the Feldjägers were right, a little. The rest of the battalion left here late this afternoon. They are south of here, in an assembly area, waiting to continue the attack to the west. My company is the only one here."

  The sudden realization that he had not seen an end to his seemingly aimless wanderings hit Buhle hard. Even in the dark, Seydlitz could see Buhle's shoulders slump forward. In the two years in which he had known Buhle, Seydlitz had never heard him talk so or be at a loss for a joke. Now finding that he had an opportunity to be the cheerful one, Seydlitz slapped Buhle on the arm. "Cheer up, my old friend. Things could be worse. You could be sitting on the side of some road waiting for the Feldjägers to figure out what they were doing instead of earning an honest living pumping fuel and passing out ammunition, both of which, by the way, my company needs."

  Taking two deep breaths, Buhle prepared to climb down off of Seydlitz's tank, but paused. "You know, I'd rather face enemy fire than to tell my drivers that we're not staying here for the night. To a man, they're dead on their feet."

  Seydlitz laughed. "Don't give me that shit, Rudi. Your drivers haven't used their feet all day except for pushing the accelerator down."

  With a chuckle, Buhle corrected himself. "Okay, they're dead on their asses. Now let's get on with this. I have a feeling this will be another long night."

  Though they were only five kilometers northwest of Bad Hersfeld when she woke up, Hilary Cole had no way of knowing that. As if awakening from a drunken stupor, it took her several minutes to realize that the truck was stopped, the engine was running at an idle, and the driver, leaning against the door and window on his side, was sound asleep. Looking outside the cab, she noticed that they were parked off on the side of the road right behind a truck only a few feet to their front. Though she wondered why they were stopped, she felt no great desire to go out into the cold and find out. The driver had left the heater on, the cab was warm, the steady hum of the engine had a tranquilizing effect, and she couldn't do anything anyway to improve their situation even if she knew. They were stopped, no doubt, by some MPs waiting for the road ahead to clear or for another convoy to pass. The military police were always doing things like that.

  That they were sitting behind an engineer bridge unit that was waiting for their orders to move didn't matter to Cole. What did matter was that she was being left alone and that she could go back to sleep. Someone no doubt with more horsepower than she had was out there in the cold night stumbling around trying to sort the column out. Best to stay where she was and get some more sleep while she could. That, she knew, would end soon enough.

  The rearming and refueling of Seydlitz's company had taken longer than Buhle would have liked. That it did shouldn't have been a surprise to anyone. Both his men and Seydlitz's were dead tired. Most wandered around during the resupply operations like zombies, barely knowing what they were doing or even where they were. While he watched, it amazed Buhle that anyone
could expect men in that condition to think and act, let alone fight. Perhaps, he thought, this was what everyone meant when they said that war was insane.

  Though he would have liked to coil up behind Seydlitz's tanks for a few hours and allow his drivers to sleep before pushing on back into the night, the news that the battalion was preparing to continue the attack to the west demanded that he continue. For if the fuel levels of Seydlitz's tanks were any indication, the rest of the battalion would not be able to go very far with what they had. So with great reluctance Buhle ordered his drivers to mount up, re-formed his column, and led it back out onto the hard-surfaced road that had taken them there.

  When Buhle's column reached the juncture where the forest trail that they had been following met the hard-surfaced road that would take them back to Hünfeld, Buhle tapped his driver on the shoulder and pointed to his right. The driver, barely awake, simply turned the wheel and pulled out onto the hard-surfaced road. At first he slowed, since the trucks following needed time to make the turn and catch up to Buhle's little Volkswagen staff car. To make sure that all of his trucks were still with him and made the turn, Buhle opened his door slightly, leaned out, and turned his head to the rear to watch. His senior sergeant, riding in the cab of the last truck, would flash a green-filtered flashlight toward the head of the column when he was on the road. Until then, Buhle simply hung on to the door with his right hand, the dashboard with his left, and stared off into the darkness watching for the signal.

  Actually, Buhle thought, this wasn't half bad. The cold air flowing around his neck felt good. It helped to wake him up and clear his mind. He needed to stay alert. He needed to keep himself, his driver, and every man in his column awake and alert. Before this night was over, Buhle mused, he was going to have to use every leadership and motivational skill and trick that his tired brain could conjure up.

  Like a beacon at the end of a long dark tunnel, Buhle saw the green light from the last truck flashing. But he didn't react at first. It took several seconds for Buhle's tired mind to make the connection between the image of the green light and what he was supposed to do next. Finally a thought snapped and Buhle sat up, turned to his driver, and ordered him to begin to pick up the speed. While doing this, Buhle missed the red light to their immediate front, now only a few meters away, flashing wildly.

  Buhle's driver, however, didn't. Between Buhle's shaking him out of his stupor and the sudden appearance of a red light shining in his eyes, the driver shot upright in his seat, clutched the steering wheel in both hands, and slammed down the brake without hitting the clutch, stalling the Volkswagen and throwing Buhle forward into the windshield. A sudden jerk that shook the whole vehicle told Buhle that the truck behind them, still following closely since there had been no time to assume the proper convoy intervals between vehicles, had also been caught off guard by his driver's sudden stop. The thought that his little Volkswagen staff car could have been crushed by the huge Mann supply truck never crossed Buhle's exhausted mind. At that point it could only deal with one thought or one action at a time.

  Pushing himself up and away from the dash, Buhle looked at his driver in wide-eyed surprise. He still had no idea why his driver, staring to the front with mouth agape, had stopped. It wasn't until he heard a rapping on his side window that Buhle turned away from his driver. When he did, he realized that his vehicle was surrounded by several figures. Where in the hell, he wondered, had they come from? Now it was Buhle's turn to gaze outside in wide-eyed amazement at the apparitions that had sprung up from nowhere.

  After what seemed like ages, the soldier standing at Buhle's door opened it. Shining a red-filtered flashlight from Buhle's face over to the driver and then back to Buhle, the soldier said nothing. Only slowly did it dawn upon Buhle, now blinded by the flashlight despite its filter, that he not only didn't have any idea who these people were, he didn't even know whose side they were on. Seydlitz's warning that there were enemy units infiltrated into their rear drifted into Buhle's slow-moving mind and caused him to start.

  Seeing this, the soldier with the flashlight paused but kept the flashlight aimed in Buhle's face. "Oh, excuse me, Herr Hauptmann. I was simply checking to make sure that you and your driver were all right. We seem to have given you quite a surprise."

  As with everything that night, the fact that the soldier at his door responded in German with a heavy, very formal northeastern German accent took several seconds to register. When it did, Buhle could feel himself go limp with relief. The soldier also noticed Buhle's response and introduced himself. "Sorry to cause you such concern, Herr Hauptmann. I am Oberstleutnant Kramer, Feldjäger Company 75."

  While this sank into Buhle's mind, dulled by lack of sleep and the stress of wandering about the countryside in search of his battalion, Oberstleutnant Kramer continued to talk. "I am afraid I must divert your column. This road is no longer open to German military traffic."

  More alert, Buhle shook his head. "You mean that there are American units operating this far to the rear?"

  "Yes, Herr Hauptmann. In fact, they are very, very close."

  With the Feldjäger's flashlight still in his eyes and his inability to deal with anything beyond the most immediate and obvious problems, Buhle never took note of the soldiers moving around or behind the lieutenant. Nor did his drivers, given a chance to lay their heads on the steering wheels in front of them and rest a minute, hear the movement of other soldiers as they moved out from the cover of the woods on either side of the road and crept up to the cabs of their trucks.

  Standing upright and stepping back away from Buhle's door, the Feldjäger lieutenant named Kramer dropped the red-filtered flashlight from Buhle's face and turned to face toward the rear of the column. Buhle, wanting to talk to the Feldjäger lieutenant, began to climb out of his Volkswagen. This prevented him from seeing Kramer raise his red-filtered flashlight and wave it toward the rear of the column. Buhle, however, did catch the glow of green-filtered light at the rear of the column being waved at them.

  For a moment he looked at the green light and thought. His sergeant, he was sure, had already signaled him that all of the trucks had made the turn onto the road. Why was his sergeant signaling him again? Perhaps the sergeant was tired, just like Buhle, and wanted to make sure that he had seen it. Or maybe, Buhle thought, the sergeant was under the impression that Buhle had stopped the column to allow the last trucks to catch up before continuing and it was he, Buhle, waving the red light. Well, no matter. Everything would be clarified in a few minutes. Turning back to the Feldjäger lieutenant, Buhle realized that he was looking down the barrel of a pistol held inches from his face.

  Shaking his head to make sure he wasn't imagining things, Buhle began to step back, but Kramer, the Feldjäger lieutenant, whispered so that only Buhle could hear. "If you are very smart and very careful, you and your men will survive the next few minutes. If not, you all die. It makes no difference to me or my men."

  Still not understanding what was happening, and working on the original premise that the Feldjäger lieutenant was who he said he was, Buhle began to protest. "What in the hell is this all about? Are you crazy?"

  The sound of the hammer of the pistol held in front of his eyes being cocked back was the only answer Major Nikolai Ilvanich gave Buhle. But it was enough to convince Buhle that this Feldjäger lieutenant was perhaps not who he said he was and that he, Buhle, was in serious trouble.

  Without taking his eyes off of Buhle, Ilvanich called out in English, "Sergeant Rasper. Lieutenant Fitzhugh and his men are ready."

  Without any need for further instructions, Sergeant First Class Rasper of Company A, 1st Ranger Battalion, hit the horn of Ilvanich's commandeered German staff car three times. Rasper's three blasts served to startle the dozing German drivers and signal the rest of Company A to spring into action. As one, the rangers who had crept out of the bushes on either side of the road and eased up to the cabs of Buhle's trucks jerked both doors of the trucks open. Some drivers who had bee
n leaning against the doors of their cabs asleep fell out onto the road. Their screams and yells were answered by rangers who shoved the muzzles of their M-16 rifles into their faces. In seconds, without a single shot being fired, the entire column— its precious fuel and 120mm tank-gun and 7.62mm machine-gun ammunition, all of which could be used by American tank units—was firmly in Ilvanich's hands.

  Turning away from Ilvanich, Buhle tried to watch what was happening. Though he could see little, he heard everything. Surprised shouts and curses muttered by his drivers were answered by the rangers as they yelled to the German drivers to get up and put their hands behind their heads. Every now and then the clatter of a pistol or a rifle being torn away from a German driver and thrown onto the pavement of the road could be heard. Standing there watching his unit being taken over by the enemy caused Buhle to become angry. Then, realizing that there was nothing he could do, Buhle lost the last ounce of control he had and began to cry. He had been surprised, overpowered, and taken prisoner. Turning to face Ilvanich, who had in the meantime reached over and relieved Buhle of his own pistol, Buhle, with tears running down his cheeks, sputtered out in German, "Who in the hell are you?"

  Ilvanich smiled to himself. Now was a good time to use some of the weird humor that had so fascinated him since joining this American unit. In his heavily accented English, Ilvanich responded to Buhle so that the rangers around him could hear. "We, Herr Captain, are the good guys. You, my prisoner." Then with a great flourish Ilvanich added, "On behalf of the United States Army and the Russian Republic, I thank you for these magnificent trucks and the supplies. They will, I assure you, be put to good use." On the other side of Buhle's vehicle, Specialist Pape, who was training his heavy German-made machine gun on Buhle's driver, began to laugh.