James Shipman - Task Force Baum

Curtis looked down, refusing to answer. The lieutenant pushed forward. “Come on, sir. It’s not your fault. We’ve hardly had a thing to eat for days. Don’t take it so hard. Have a little.”

“We won’t have anything now if we have to march out of here.”

“That’s not true, sir. We’ll have full stomachs. First time in I don’t know when. That’s worth a hell of a lot to everyone.”

Without responding further, Curtis silently reached out and took the cigarettes and the half-eaten biscuit. He turned the hard, grayish roll over a few times, then bit down on the stale, flavorless bread. At first, he chewed methodically and without reaction, but soon his body took over. His mouth watered, and his stomach rumbled. He shoved the rest of the biscuit in his mouth, chewing it quickly and swallowing the first food he’d eaten in nearly a day. The biscuit barely stanched the cascading wave of his hunger, and he looked around greedily for more. But there was nothing for him. Each man was an island, hoarding his tiny cache of remaining food. If he wanted some, he’d have to fight for it. He wouldn’t sink to that, not yet anyway.

Still, there were the cigarettes. He looked down at the three precious sticks, his hand rolling them delicately between thumb and fingers. He drew them to his nose, breathing in the rich tobacco, his body tingling all over in trepidation and excitement. He tucked two of the cigarettes into the inside of his shirt pocket and then fished a match out of his trousers. He flipped the head against a rough patch of his bunk, and the stick exploded in flames.

Curtis lifted the fire to the tip of his cigarette and pulled his breath luxuriously in, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. He closed his eyes, hunger leaving him, enjoying the rapture of the tobacco. He leaned back into the bunk, sucking in the delicious smoke, forgetting about the war for a moment, that his stomach was empty and his future uncertain. For a few minutes, he was alone in the here and now.

Too soon he was finished. He drew the last few breaths, trying to pull every ounce out of the cigarette. No matter, he had two more. They should get him through until Patton arrived. If they were taken away by the Germans… well, he would have bigger things to worry about.

He decided he’d better report his failure to Colonel Goode. Another disaster to chalk up in his long line as a so-called commander of men. He smiled to himself again at the irony. He’d shown nothing but promise during the training, winning promotion and the praise of his commanders. Oh, how disappointed they would be in him now. He wasn’t fit to lead after all. Well, so be it , he thought. Did it really matter anymore? The end was near.

He left the barracks and headed out into the still-frozen air toward the headquarters. He was one of the few POWs allowed out of the camp, and he felt the eyes of the guards watching him as he tramped toward Colonel Goode’s office. He tried to keep an even pace, not wanting to arouse suspicion. Soon he’d made it without incident, and he entered the building, which, for once, was practically empty. Colonel Goode was not present, but Lieutenant Colonel Waters sat at a desk filling out some paperwork.

The colonel looked up, smiling in recognition. “Curtis, how good to see you. How are the preparations going?”

“That’s what I’m here to talk about, sir. I regret to inform you that I failed.”

“What do you mean?” asked Waters, his eyes alert and a frown creasing his face.

“It’s the food, sir. We gathered it like you said, but when I got to the barracks the men rushed in and consumed it. I tried to stop them, but there was nothing I could do. We have nothing left.”

“You too, aye?” said Waters, pushing back in his seat. “That’s a story I’ve heard a lot this morning.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you didn’t screw up, Curtis. Goode and I did. We didn’t think about how hungry the men have become. Right after we dismissed you, there was a run on the canteen. Boys started grabbing not only their fair share but anything they could get their hands on. I’m surprised your man even made it back with anything. He must have been one of the first ones there.”

“You mean—”

“I mean we tried to give a little bit of food to a pack of hungry wolves. I don’t think there’s a scrap of food left in the whole camp, at least that the general population knows about. We should’ve seen it coming. We could’ve brought everything here and held onto it.” He looked up at Curtis with a knowing expression. “You blamed yourself again, didn’t you? It’s always the same story with you, Curtis, but this one wasn’t your fault. I told you we’re a long way from perfect. We’re all just men.”

The door slammed open, and a POW stood there panting, doubled over.

“What is it?” demanded Waters.

“You gotta come, sir! Right now.”

“Let’s go, Curtis,” said Waters, rising and running out the door. Curtis followed him, amazed at his swiftness. He caught up to the colonel just a few steps from the entrance. He stood, unable to move, frozen in horror.

Less than a hundred yards away was the hospital. A truck had pulled up nearby, and there were at least a dozen Germans standing nearby, rifles and submachine guns at the ready. As they watched, the Germans moved as one toward the infirmary door.

Curtis started toward them, but Waters grabbed his arm, holding him back. The captain tried to fight free, but the XO held him in an iron grip. “Stay put, son,” he ordered harshly. “Whatever is about to happen, there’s not a damned thing we can do about it.”

A shot rang out, then many, ripping through the crisp air. Curtis fell to his knees, tears washing over him. After months of protecting his friend, keeping his spirits up, promising him a future, all his worst fears were coming true.

Curtis fell to his knees, vomiting in the frozen dirt. His head spun. He struggled to rise, but Waters kept a firm hand on his shoulder, keeping him down. “Stay down there, son.”

Curtis tried to fight the colonel off, but he was too strong. A memory flashed through his mind of when they had first met. The camp was in chaos at that time. Nobody seemed to be in charge. The Oflag was full of the dejected members of Curtis’s division and other green troops captured at the Bulge. A collection of misfits who’d failed on their first day of combat. He’d felt ashamed for them and for himself. They were unkempt and unwashed; there was no discipline and no purpose. Curtis and the others hadn’t cared whether the war was won or lost.

Then Waters and the others had arrived from Poland. Curtis remembered them shambling into the camp. They were dirty too, frozen and half-starved. The new arrivals were for the most part in worse shape than the original prisoners. With a notable difference. They walked with their heads held high. They stared defiantly at the guards and marched to their assigned barracks in disciplined order. In a matter of hours, they seemed to take over the camp. Waters himself had confronted Curtis, sitting on the stairs of his barracks, staring listlessly at the fence line.

“What are you doing, Captain?” he’d demanded.

Curtis had ignored him.

“On your feet, Captain! I’m Lieutenant Colonel Waters, and when I talk to you, you listen!”

This had drawn his attention. He struggled to stand and gave a half-hearted salute.

“Again!” Waters demanded.

Curtis repeated the gesture, this time delivering a crisp salute. “What’s your name?”

“Curtis.”

“That’s better, Curtis! What division are you from?”

“116th, sir.”

“What happened to you?”

“Captured on the first day of combat, at the Bulge,” explained Curtis, his gaze darting back down to the ground.