James Shipman - Task Force Baum

They found a table and sat across from each other in silence. Hall ran his fork back and forth across the pasty substance, unable to take a bite. His stomach was a churning cauldron as fear lashed through him.

“Eat it up, Hall,” said Stiller. “That’s the last hot food you’re likely to see for a long time coming.”

“I’m not hungry,”

“I didn’t ask if you were hungry. You’re going to need your strength. Now shovel that stuff in, Lieutenant. All of it. That’s an order.”

Hall dug into the substance, forcing a slimy bite down his throat. He hated the stuff and nearly choked, but he wasn’t going to give the major the satisfaction. As he mechanically worked through the plate, his mind raced, trying to figure some way out of this disaster. He couldn’t come up with a damned thing. He thought about feigning illness. Certainly, the food was enough to make him throw up. Would Stiller order him to remain behind if he had the stomach flu? No way, he realized. The major was on to him and watching him like a hawk. The reality was he was stuck. He was heading into combat in an ill-defined, under-armed raid that nobody seemed to believe would succeed. What in the hell was happening?

They eventually finished the meal and lingered over their coffee, letting the minutes drag by. The two-hour wait was interminable. Finally, Stiller motioned for them to rise, and they cleared their trays, heading back toward the command tent. Hall was surprised to see how much things had changed outside in the past couple of hours. A dozen or more tanks were disbursed in the open ground in front of HQ, along with a few 105mm self-propelled guns and a batch of half-tracks. There were also a few jeeps. Men milled around in every direction, loading ammunition and rations. Mechanics climbed over and under the tanks, working away on mechanical issues. Hall did a quick count of the assembled men and came up with around three hundred.

Captain Baum approached Stiller with a few men in tow. “Major, I want to introduce my commanders.” He motioned to a lieutenant standing directly behind him. “This is William Nutto. I’ve worked with him a few times before. He’s in charge of the Shermans.”

Stiller saluted. “Nice to meet you. How many do we have?”

“Ten, sir,” answered Nutto, wiping his dirty chin with the back of a gloved hand. He was approximately the same height as the major but outweighed him by at least twenty pounds.

“I was hoping for more,” said Stiller.

“We’ve been banged up pretty good the past few days, sir. Frankly, we need a rest badly. We were just settling down for a break and a refitting when we received orders for this little expedition.”

“Sorry we’re interrupting your breather,” said the major.

Nutto laughed. “Hell, isn’t the first time by a far stretch.”

Baum turned to another of his men, a handsome young, blue-eyed soldier who looked even younger than Hall. “This is Lieutenant Weaver. He’s in charge of the light tanks. We’ve got five of them. Watch out for this kid; his dad’s a West Pointer, so he’s Regular Army through and through.” Weaver nodded, a sheepish grin on his face.

“Last but not least, we’ve got three one-oh-fives that Tech Sergeant Chuck Graham will run for us. This here is Major Stiller and his aide, Lieutenant Hall.” The men all shook hands.

“So, what’s next?” asked Stiller.

Baum opened a map he was holding in his hand and moved over to the hood of a nearby jeep. The men gathered around him. “We are right here,” said Baum, tracing an elongated finger along a line depicting the headquarters. We will be departing in the next few minutes. Our first objective is Schweinheim. That’s the front line at this point.”

“How do we get through?” asked the major.

“B Company of the 37th Tank Battalion and B Company of the 10th Armored Infantry are going to punch a hole through for us. That shouldn’t take more than half an hour. They are starting their attack any minute. Once we get through, we will head east until we reach Gemünden. There’s a bridge there crossing the Main. Once we hop over that, it’s east/northeast on the highway to Hammelburg. The Germans won’t be expecting us. With luck, we’ll break through the camp just after first light tomorrow and be back through our lines by early afternoon.”

“What if we encounter resistance?” asked Stiller.

Baum shrugged. “Welcome to our world, Major. That happens most of the time. If we do, we fight or we run around it. Don’t worry about that stuff. You’re along for the ride. We know our business. We’ll get you in and back. Any more questions?” There were none.

Even as they finished the discussion, the vehicles were lighting up, the steely rumble rising to a thunderous roar all around them.

“Stiller,” shouted Baum, so he could be heard over the noise. “Here’s your ride. Everything is in it, and we’re ready to go.”

Hall followed Stiller over to an open-top jeep where a sergeant waited in the driver’s seat. In the back rested a Thompson submachine gun nestled against an ammunition satchel, as well as the extra clips for Stiller, a radio, and two days of K rations.

“You need anything else?” shouted Baum.

Stiller shook his head.

“Okay, sir. We are heading out. Stick tight to the sergeant,” he said, pointing at the driver. “He’s a trooper. I’ll see you on the other side.” Baum turned and walked briskly away. Stiller motioned to Hall, and they both took a seat in the back. Hall lifted the Thompson and checked the safety. He’d trained with the weapon before but had had very little time with it. He hoped he’d have no need to use it.

They sat in the jeep for a few minutes as the tanks started slowly into motion. They took their place in the long line of vehicles heading toward the front. The dull crash of artillery already thudded on the horizon.

Rieneck, Germany

March 26, 1945, 1900 hours

Hauptmann Richard Koehl glanced at his watch again. She was late. He looked around the restaurant, but he couldn’t find her. Had something happened? He lifted his glass of whiskey and drained the remainder with a quick flick of his wrist. The liquid burned as it went down, but he hardly noticed. His mind raced through a dozen scenarios. An accident. A bomb. Anything could have happened. He fumbled for his wallet, drawing out a few notes and crumpling them on the table. His hands shook. He couldn’t just sit here; he would go find her. He whispered a Hail Mary …

“Richard.”

The musical voice released all his fears, and he exhaled a river of relief. She was here.

“Gerta,” he said, hastening around the table to greet her. She was taller than he remembered, blond braids swinging against his shoulders as he held her tight. He released her and stepped back to look her over. She was a young woman now. A scattering of freckles climbed the bridge of her nose. Blue eyes crowned pale features. “You’re beautiful. You must be driving the boys crazy.”

Her cheeks flushed, and her dimples deepened. She laughed. “What boys? Everyone’s at war. Besides, big brother, you’re a priest; you’re not supposed to notice earthly beauty.”

He laughed. “I’m hardly one these days. Except perhaps a warrior priest.”

“It’s been so long,” she said, suddenly serious.

“I wanted to come home when we were transferred west, but I couldn’t swing it. The Americans won’t give us a minute’s rest.”

“How much longer can it last?” she asked, taking a seat at the table. He ordered her some wine and another whiskey for himself before he answered.

“No way to tell, but I wouldn’t think much longer. Maybe summer at the latest.” He whispered the words. Even now, at the end, it was dangerous to utter defeatist words.