James Shipman - Task Force Baum

“You okay, Hall?” asked Stiller. The major pulled out another huge plug of tobacco, offering his pouch to the lieutenant, who declined.

“Fine, sir. Think anyone was hit?”

“Doubt it. The Germans put up a pretty piss-poor fight back there.”

“It gets worse?”

“Hell, yes, it does. When the krauts are serious, you’ll know it.”

Hall felt a flicker of fear. How much worse would it be? As he thought through this, he noticed a cluster of buildings coming up on the right. He could see much better now. The structures were squat and square, more functional than aesthetically pleasing. There was something familiar about them that he couldn’t quite place. He watched them closely as they passed by.

The jeep cleared the buildings. Behind them was a large concrete square, and that’s when Hall realized what he was reminded of. The buildings were barracks. The courtyard beyond was full of at least a company of soldiers, lined up in neat rows for morning inspection. Even as he watched, he could see surprise register on the enemy faces and fingers pointed in excitement toward the column.

“Look at that, sir!” shouted Hall.

“Shit!” shouted Stiller. “Turn that Thompson on them!”

Hall flipped the safety off and aimed his weapon at the line of soldiers. He hesitated. They were unarmed. He couldn’t just shoot them like that. The Shermans didn’t hold back. He heard the machine gun fire ahead of him, and a row of soldiers toppled over. The enemy scrambled as the tanks poured fire into them, killing some of the Germans and sending others tumbling for cover.

“Shoot them, damn it!” shouted Stiller.

“No point,” said Hall, turning to the major. “The Shermans have this. I need to save my ammo, don’t I?”

Stiller stared at him hard for a minute. “Good thinking,” he said finally. “No point wasting bullets on those boys. They don’t have anything to shoot back with.”

The machine gun fire continued. Hall kept his eyes on Stiller. He didn’t want to watch the slaughter any longer. His brain tried to process what he’d seen. He heard the screams of pain and fear through the firing. Thankfully, the column was still moving, and soon it was over. He did not turn around but kept his eyes fixed firmly on the tank in front of him.

The major seemed to understand, and he patted the lieutenant’s hand. “That’s tough stuff back there, Hall, but it’s part of war.”

“They weren’t even armed.”

“Don’t matter. They would be by the time we came back, that’s for damn sure. That’s a whole batch of kraut bastards that won’t get a chance to kill more Americans. I know it hardly seems fair, but remember, this whole war is a mess. If there’s any good news, it’s that it’s almost over. For now, we’ve got to keep our eyes on the ball. Just remember what’s ahead. A bunch of our boys locked up. If we don’t help them, they may be shipped away or even worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are rumors the Germans are shooting prisoners.”

“That can’t be true,” said Hall.

“You don’t know the Germans. Don’t worry about it, Hall. You’re doing fine.” Stiller put his hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder again. “Just keep rolling, and we’ll get through this thing.”

Hall sat back as the barracks faded away in the distance. He felt sick to his stomach. He couldn’t drive the images of those dying unarmed Germans out of his mind. He wished he’d stayed behind, that he’d never pressed for a combat mission in the first place. Still he was here, and it was almost halfway over. A few more hours and he’d be done. With the war almost finished, he’d be rid of Stiller and the army.

Another hour passed as they moved along the German countryside. Hall could see farmhouses dotting the highway, and even a farmer who stopped what he was doing in the middle of a field to watch the long column pass him by.

The sun poked above the hills in the distance, although Hall could see the clouds rolling in above him. They were in for an overcast day, perhaps even rain. Hall saw that the task force was approaching a small city. The highway here was dotted with trees lined row after row on each side of the road. Stiller rose to his feet, holding on to the driver’s seat in front of him and staring out around the Sherman directly in front of them.

“That’s a big one up ahead,” he said. The column rolled along a little farther and then rumbled to a stop. “Looks like something’s blocking the road. We’re gonna be here for a bit. You want some more coffee? I’ll see if I can find—”

A metal cylinder ripped through the air and struck the Sherman directly in front of them. The tank shook, bouncing a few inches above the ground, and came to rest in a cloud of smoke and fire. The hatch opened, and Hall heard agonized screaming. A figure emerged through the turret; he was on fire, and the flames licked his arms and his back. The lieutenant watched in horror as the man almost calmly pulled himself out of the tank and stood for a moment, as if scanning the horizon, before he slumped over and fell sideways off the tank, landing in a ditch near the road. He didn’t move, but the fire engulfed his body, licking the flesh to charcoal.

Hall saw the outline of a German soldier through the trees. He was holding a spent panzerfaust , an anti-tank weapon like their bazooka. The lieutenant realized with horror that there were dozens of enemy soldiers out there, rifles raised and fire flashing from the barrels. He started to aim his weapon, but he couldn’t fire in that direction without endangering the driver and Stiller. He turned his head to the right and saw other Germans closing in from that direction as well. He twisted his Thompson around, trying desperately to respond to the fire and death closing in on them.

Oflag XIII

Near Hammelburg, Germany

March 27, 1945, 0700 hours

Captain Curtis lay in his bunk, his eyes half closed. He’d had the dream again. Most nights, he experienced the same vision. He was back in the Ardennes—the cold, the snow, his men spread out in well-prepared positions, with nothing to guard. The night exploded. The ghostly Germans were there among the trees, between the tanks, belching fire as the peaceful landscape erupted in metal, fire, and death. Lieutenant Hanson crouched in the foxhole with him. He reached to protect him, to take the shrapnel in his place, but he was too late. His friend, the officer under his protection, was wounded, near death, paralyzed forever.

He shook his head awake, glaring at the pine-knotted surface of the top bunk. Why couldn’t he ever reach his friend in time? Even in his dreams? It was always the same. No matter what he did, how hard he tried, his company was lost, all of them, wounded, dead, or captured. He felt the anger boiling in him. Why hadn’t the brass warned them? Where were their tanks, their planes? Who was the bastard that placed them there, only to die without a chance to ever even fight? The answer came back to him as it always did. You were the officer in command . Headquarters didn’t fail the company; you did . He felt the despair overwhelm him. I am at fault. And only me.

He heard the artillery again in his head. Now his dreams were haunting him when he was awake. As the thudding continued, he realized it wasn’t in his mind. Curtis strained his ears until he was sure. There were explosions out there in the distance somewhere. Far away, for sure, but close enough that he could hear them. He rose out of his bunk to see dozens of men standing, their faces peering out the window intently, listening to the sounds of war. There was a collective, palatable joy in the barracks. The thunder spelled freedom. Their comrades were coming for them after all.