Christopher Reich - The Runner

A sudden thud awakened him. The car was completely dark. He could barely make out his companion’s shadow at the far side of the car. “Lenz,” he yelled. “What was that?”

“A new engine?”

“Too close. It came from the wagon in front of us.” Seyss hustled toward the sound, picking his way over the jerry cans as nimbly as a cat. Men’s voices carried from somewhere down the track. He peered from the car, searching for a clue to his anxiety. Something felt wrong. For a soldier, that was enough.

The train shuddered, then began rolling forward. He tapped his feet in rhythm to the pulse of the engine. Faster, faster. He slid to his left and stared from the slats. Stars shown from the ground. He squinted his eyes and saw that he was looking at the night sky’s reflection in a body of water. They were headed toward a broad river.

“It’s the Rhine,” he said, as if announcing its discovery.

“We don’t want to get off on the other side,” said Lenz, who was staring at the river from the opposite end of the car. “The French control the Saar. That must be Ludwigshafen, we’re looking at.”

“So?”

“The French aren’t as forgiving as Uncle Sam or John Bull. Your persilschein means nothing to them. Haven’t you heard? They’re sending our men to labor camps in Biarritz and Avignon. I’m all for a holiday, but that’s not exactly my style.”

Seyss recalled Robert Weber telling him about the French government’s policy of using captured German soldiers to man their factories and mine their ore. At the same moment, he remembered Rosen’s words as he closed the wagon door.Bon voyage. And suddenly, it clicked. The Americans had put them into a car bound for the French zone. Two less mouths for the occupational army to feed. Who knew how many more men were in the cars behind them? As if to confirm his thoughts, the train veered left and he heard the hollow thump of the forward cars crossing onto the bridge.

“We’re crossing the fucking Rhine!” shouted Lenz.

Seyss scuttled toward the door and began hoisting empty jerry cans and throwing them over his shoulder. Lenz joined him. When a small square had been cleared, Seyss jumped into the opening and began handing the cans up to his companion. He looked outside. The train was gathering speed, but their car had not yet come to the bridge. He lifted a can, then another. He jumped down a level. Empty gasoline cans fell onto his shoulders. The fumes were overpowering. The car jostled violently under him. They were on the bridge. Another few cans and he found the latch to the door. Wrapping his palms around the iron arm, he shoved it downward with all his strength. The lock disengaged and the door slid open. He swung from the car and looked ahead of him. Twenty yards further on a platoon of soldiers waited, strung out along the wooden ramparts leading to the far side of the bridge. The silhouette of their helmets identified them as French. Les Poilus. Thirty feet below flowed the Rhine. He smiled despite himself. The sergeant in Munich palming his watch. Private Rosen wishing him ‘Bon voyage’. Brilliant! The men would have made the SS proud.

He looked up at Lenz, than back at the Frenchmen. Dammit. There was really no decision to be made. “Lenz, get your ass down here.”

The stout man dangled over the edge of the shifting ledge. This was no time for hesitation. Seyss grabbed his feet and gave them a tremendous yank. Lenz tumbled down, all two hundred pounds of him and a dozen jerry cans, to boot. Seyss linked arms with him. “Ready?”

Seyss leapt from the train before Lenz could answer. The two men landed in a heap and rolled onto their backs. Fifteen feet away, a soldier raised his weapon. “ Arretez! ”

Seyss picked up Lenz and shoved him across the ramparts. Jump!”

A shot was fired, then another. Lenz took a step forward and disappeared from view. Seyss followed a half second later. The water was cold; the current faster than he expected. He glanced up and saw a dozen rifles pointed at him. Then he was in darkness, safe under the bridge.

“Lenz!”

“Over here.”

“Are you hit?”

“By a lousy frog? Never.”

“Kick against the current. We must remain under the bridge.”

“My brother was the sailor. Me, I’m infantry all the way.” The gargling of water replaced his voice, then “Shit. I can’t keep this up.”

Seyss swam toward the gravelly voice. A jagged piece of debris slammed into his cheek and he found himself sucking down a mouthful of water. Lenz was flailing now, arms slapping the water, head bobbing up and down, his motions growing more spasmodic, more hysterical. Seyss ducked under the water, surfacing behind the larger man. He positioned an arm around his shoulder, but Lenz knocked it off, spinning in the water, throwing both arms around Seyss as if hoping to climb up and over him. Christ, thought Seyss, it was like holding up a boulder. Frantic hands groped his shoulders, his shirt. He kicked violently, working to free Lenz, to turn him around so that he might drag him to a bridge support.

Suddenly, Lenz went under and a moment later, Seyss did too, dragged down by desperate fingers clawing at his waist and the frayed web belt that held his gold. Finally, he pried the fingers free, managing to wrap his forearm around Lenz’s neck. Two firm kicks brought the men to the surface.

“Ruhe!” shouted Seyss through gasps for breath. Calm down! He laid an arm around Lenz’s neck and began kicking towards the nearest pylon. Floodlights erupted from the western shore. Pale beams swept the water but did not penetrate beneath the bridge. He swam harder. After another minute, he pulled Lenz onto a rough concrete abutment, then joined him. Above them, footsteps pounded back and forth along the ramparts built to support the bridge. Voices called in French and English, but he could not make out what they said.

Seyss lay still, gathering his breath. One hand checked his breast pocket for the Russian Colonel Truchin’s identification. Good. Still there. The other fell to his trousers and the web belt that no longer circled his waist. He was standing in a snap, eyes combing the abutment, running over the flowing green water. It was hopeless. The gold was gone. And to his horror, so was his wallet, and with it two thousand dollars. He was penniless.

A new round of cries forced him to postpone his mourning. His first priority was to get to safety. They had one option and one option only. They must drift north a mile or two under cover of darkness, then swim to shore. It was doubtful the Americans would search for a couple of Krauts trying to keep themselves out of French hands. He explained his idea to Lenz, who grunted his approval. One thing was certain: the man could not stay afloat long by himself. He would need assistance.

Seyss swam into the river and trod water until he could find a piece of debris large enough to support Sergeant Hans-Christian Lenz. Part of him wanted to abandon the man right here. Lenz could drown for all he cared. He’d already brought enough bad luck. The idea never took root. A German officer’s foremost duty was to his men. Spotting a warped piece of wood large enough to have been a road sign or a section of flooring, he yanked it to his body and swam back to the pylon.

“Take this,” he instructed Lenz. “Hold it above your chest and float under it. You must keep your head under the water for as long as possible until we are far from the bridge. Take a deep breath, then under you go. Alles klar? ”

“ Ja. Alles klar .” Lenz pulled at the tips of his mustache. “I should have guessed you were a filthy officer. What? A captain? Major? Or were you one of the ambitious pricks they promoted to colonel?”