Уильям Макгиверн - Soldiers of ’44

The scarf was made of heavy silk, the initials KJ at one of the fringed ends, the letters embroidered in a Gothic style with black and yellow threads.

“Let’s go,” Docker said, and went outside and told Farrel to find Sonny Laurel and send him over to the machine guns.

Corporal Schmitzer leaned against the multiple gun mount and looked at Laurel, who was staring after the lights of Docker’s jeep, the spinning snow lightly touching his lips and eyelashes.

Docker had first wanted to know from Felice how the German officer had got to the castle past their machine guns. With Laurel helping to translate, she had explained that the village priest, Father Juneau, had guided the German up a logging trail from the other side of the village... Schmitzer’s thoughts were as bitter as the winds around them as he watched Laurel looking down the road where the blackout taillights of Docker’s jeep were turning toward the iron gates of Castle Rêve. He’d got the little Belgian girl, Schmitzer knew; maybe that’s why they’d stopped calling him Goldilocks. It was no secret, but even if he hadn’t known, it was there in the way they looked at each other, the way he watched her eyes and her lips, solemn and breathless, as she told Docker about the German and the priest.

Docker was stalling for time, but there was no hope for any of them now and the sergeant must damn well know it. Some of Schmitzer’s frustration and anger dissolved with that knowledge because he could almost welcome what was coming, if it didn’t take too long... Now he watched as Laurel turned without looking at him and walked to the crest of the hill, where the wind was bending the scrub trees almost flat to the ground and the sleet made dry, clicking sounds on the outcroppings of rock and shale. Schmitzer stood alone, under the barrels of the machine guns, and watched Laurel go from him.

Docker left Felice Bonnard at the gatehouse, parked the jeep and walked up the winding drive to Castle Rêve looming high against a sky of driven snow and heavy clouds. The German officer’s command car was parked near the stone steps at the entrance of the castle.

Docker stood motionless until his eyes adjusted to the darkness and shifting shadows, then checked the area around the car, scanning the formal gardens, the overgrown clusters of topiary, and listening to the sound of the wind in the crowns of the big trees.

He went through the gardens and up to the wide flagstone terrace that overlooked the river and the valley. Standing at the railing with his back to Docker was a German officer in a greatcoat and visored garrison cap.

“Herr Oberst.”

Karl Jaeger turned and looked thoughtfully at the American sergeant. “Ah, ’n Abend, Feldwebel. Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”

Docker nodded. “Ja, ein wenig.”

They exchanged names. The German officer was almost as tall as Docker. The name of his division, Das Reich, was stitched on the cuffs of his coat, the letters in yellow against a field of black.

Docker handed him the silk scarf and Jaeger accepted it with a faint smile.

He said, “Schön. Sie sind wohl Deutsch-Amerikaner?”

“Ja, aber—” Docker began, then, in English: “Let’s get to the point, colonel.”

“Von mir aus. Bin ich allzu optimistisch, aus Ihrer Gegenwart hier zu entnehmen, dass Sie die Lage begreifen?”

Docker’s German was not that proficient. He said, “Sorry, Oberst. Ich nicht ganz verstehen.”

Karl Jaeger unbuttoned his coat and looped the white scarf about his throat.

“So? Und da glaubt’ ich nun Sie verstehen die Sprache unserer Vorfahren, die Sprache Goethes und Schillers, Uhlands and Mörikes.”

The German’s condescension was as puzzling to Docker as it was irritating. “Sir, let’s save all this for the next literary tea party,” he said. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

The sergeant was intelligent, Jaeger realized, obviously cultivated, but seasoned and hardened by this war. A good soldier, probably a good man, and Jaeger found this gratifying because leniency toward a respected enemy was not a weakness. “Your guns are no match for the firepower of a Tiger tank,” he said. “I think I’ve demonstrated that. But if I am forced to attack your position again, sergeant, I’ll destroy it. With the war coming to an end, what would be the point of sacrificing yourself and your men?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“That you immediately surrender your men and weapons to my command.” Jaeger took a briar pipe from his pocket and cupped it in the palm of his hand. “Unconditionally, but honorably, sergeant. You will drive alone to the square in Lepont, bringing all rifles, handguns, grenades and so forth. The rest of your men, unarmed, will then come down the hill in groups of three at fifteen-minute intervals.”

“You seem convinced we’ve got no alternative.”

“Not a practical one. Your presence tells me that. You wouldn’t be here unless you hoped something would be gained from it.”

“Doesn’t the same apply to you, Oberst? ”

“Of course not. And you will regret it, sergeant, if you force me to prove that you are wrong. Your men will be allowed to keep their personal effects, letters, diaries, toilet articles, cigarettes and rations. We’ll require only names, ranks and Army serial numbers.” Jaeger tapped the stem of the pipe against the back of his hand. “What do you say?”

Something didn’t hang together here. Docker thought; like a picture taken slightly off focus, the situation had a blurred, disturbing look to it. Why bother asking the section to surrender? Why all this Geneva convention bullshit about toilet articles, cigarettes and rations? The German tank could destroy their position in seconds. If these had been war games in training areas with military umpires and judges vetting the action. Section Eight would already have been checked off as a destroyed target with eighty to ninety percent casualties. Why was the officer avoiding a firefight? Why did he prefer surrender? He could be concerned about his own casualties but there was more to it than that. Docker was suddenly convinced. Not knowing the German’s purpose, Docker decided he’d better play for time.

“I don’t have the authority to surrender under these circumstances. It’s a decision I can’t make.”

“What about the authority of plain common sense?”

The wind had picked up and the flying snow was like a porous wall between Docker and the German officer.

“I can’t surrender or retreat until my present orders are countermanded and I’m given new ones,” Docker said smoothly, and untruthfully. “My section receives two radio signals every twenty-four hours from Battery headquarters. Their transmitter sends at four in the afternoon and four in the morning, and shuts down between those signals. I’ll present your proposals to the battery commander when and if we’re in contact tomorrow morning. Then I’ll follow his orders.”

“You’re obviously a very dedicated soldier,” Jaeger said. “But you’re also damned stupid if you think there’s anything heroic about being slaughtered for no good reason.” Jaeger paced the terrace, his boots grinding through the crust of ice on the flagstones. “I’m a serious man,” he said. “You’d be wise to keep that in mind. If you are lying to me, I should tell you something: I received a report only an hour ago from our weather station in Frankfurt. The present weather front will hold for at least another three days and nights. So don’t put your trust in the Eighth Air Force.” Jaeger was trying to control an expanding frustration; there was something unbending about the American sergeant that infuriated him. “You think you have some God-given right to defend that hill?” His voice had suddenly become hard with tension. “Some sacred duty, some moral responsibility to travel thousands of miles from your own innocent country and drop bombs on hospitals and schools and streets filled with women and children?” Somehow his words, with their evocation of his little daughters Rosa and Hannah, calmed and steadied him. “Let me tell you something,” he said quietly now. “In every country whose borders we’ve crossed, thousands of volunteers have joined our colors. There are Waffen SS units made up of Danes and Frenchmen and Norwegians, commanded by their own officers. The Eleventh Nordland Division was raised from Scandinavian volunteers only last year. From the earliest days of the conflict, sergeant, the German armed forces accepted recruits from Holland and Finland and Belgium... yes, from this very ground we’re standing on came some of our finest combat units. And from Hungary and Romania and Bulgaria there were dozens of divisions fighting at our side against the Russians.”