James Shipman - Task Force Baum

“Eyes up, Captain. Now you listen to me,” said Waters, pointing a finger. “I heard all about that battle. A swarm of Germans caught Eisenhower with his pants down. Nothing to be ashamed of. What were you, two divisions against twenty? A mess of tanks too? You’re lucky you’re even here.”

Curtis shook his head, refusing to listen. “My fault. The responsibility is on me.”

“Nonsense, Captain.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Look at me, Curtis.” The captain lifted his eyes again, although he found it hard to meet the colonel’s iron glare. “I don’t give a damn what you think you did. I don’t care who you blame, but the past is the past, and it won’t do you or anyone else any good to dwell on it. This camp is a shit hole. I’m embarrassed to call myself an American after touring this mess. But all of that is going to change today, and you’re going to help me. Do you understand?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t think—”

“I didn’t ask you, Captain. I told you. Now, we’re taking charge of this FUBAR situation starting this minute. Colonel Goode and I will set up headquarters and start organizing an escape committee, inspections, and everything else that should have been done here months ago. You’re going to be a designated runner for your barracks. Get it?”

Curtis nodded, and Waters had stomped off. He’d felt hot anger then, and resentment. Nobody had talked to him like that in months. At the same time, there was a different feeling rising inside him, something deeper. He felt a spark of hope, something to hang on to.

And so now he clung to Waters as the shots rang out in the hospital, ending the lives of the wounded, of his friend. He didn’t know how he would survive this, but he knew that in the deepest moment of desperation, Waters would be there, an iron pillar to cleave to.

Lohr, Germany

March 27, 1945, 0800 hours

Bullets flew everywhere. Hall fumbled with his Thompson, trying to move the weapon into position. Even as he watched, a line of holes ripped across the hood of their jeep, breaking the window just short of their driver. He aimed his weapon to his right and pulled the trigger, the sharp buck of the recoil driving the weapon up so that the bullets whizzed harmlessly into the air above the enemy.

Stiller was screaming next to him, shouting something undecipherable. Hall could hear the sharp bark of the major’s .45 banging away at the Germans on the other side of the road. Another metal flash ripped through the air, passing right by his head. He could hear the whistle and feel the heat as the projectile ripped by, crashing into the trees on the other side of the road. He depressed the Thompson again, aiming lower this time, and saw with satisfaction bullets kicking up the dirt near the tree line, forcing one of the Germans to dive to the ground.

He glanced in front of him. The Sherman still smoked and bellowed, but he was shocked to see that the tank was rumbling forward. Was it possible some of the crew had survived? The vehicle steered to the left and rolled at an angle into the ditch. Hall looked more closely and saw that the next Sherman in line was towing the disabled vehicle out of the way.

An explosion erupted to his right. Another tank fired into the cluster of Germans near him. He watched a mangled torso fly fifty feet up before crashing in a bloodied mass in the field behind the trees. As he tried to process this, his jeep lurched forward, and they were moving again, pushing through the barricade and storming into the city. The Germans were pulling back, fleeing from a trail of metal and the blazing cannons of the Shermans. Bullets still whizzed through the air, but the fire was dying, and soon they were well into the town and away from the ambush.

Hall was sure there were other Germans waiting for them, and he scanned the windows with his weapon, but the town was silent, and the task force moved through without further incident. As the jeep bounced over the stony streets, Hall checked his weapon, realizing he had expended another clip in the firefight. He ejected the metal stick and tossed it out on to the sidewalk, drawing another of his precious reserve into the submachine gun and clicking it into place.

“You all right?” asked the major.

“I’m okay,” said Hall, not sure that was true. His mind kept racing over the shell explosion, the flying limbs, the blood.

“How you set for ammo?”

Hall fumbled through his satchel, counting the clips. “Still four sticks, sir, plus the one in the chute.”

Stiller grunted. “I’ll have to see if I can get you some more. This thing’s a little hotter than I expected. I used up everything for my forty-five.” He patted the grenades lying between them. “Still have the pineapples, though.”

The task force sped through the last of the streets and back out into the countryside. Hall sat quietly, trying to calm down. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He felt his whole body shaking. His nose was filled with the acrid smell of gunpowder. His ears rang so loudly he could hardly hear the roar of the engines anymore. After a few minutes, he felt a lurch, and he realized the column was slowing to a stop. He pulled the Thompson around, expecting another ambush. He realized that they were in the middle of some empty fields and there were no threats. He breathed deeply, willing himself to relax.

Stiller looked around. “Wonder why we stopped? Hall, come with me. Keep a sharp eye.” The major jumped out of the jeep, walking toward the command jeep, a few vehicles behind. The lieutenant followed, his Thompson out—ready, if need be.

They reached the jeep and found Baum there, his command team clustered around him. They were poring over a map. “What’s the situation?” asked Stiller, interrupting the discussion.

Baum’s eyes flashed a flicker of irritation. “Trying to figure that out right now, Major,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a second.”

The captain returned to his huddle. “Where are we?” he asked.

Lieutenant Nutto leaned in, jabbing a sharp finger at the map. “We just came through here. That’s Lohr right there. We have about seven miles until we hit Gemünden, then about ten more to Hammelburg.”

“Not too bad,” said Baum. “Considering the delay. Any idea where the hell this camp is supposed to be?”

“Nope,” said Nutto. “Not for sure at least. But to the south of the town is an old barracks. See, it’s marked on the map. If I was gonna set up a POW camp, I wouldn’t start fresh; I’d put it right there.”

Baum nodded approvingly. “Good thinking. When we get there, we’ll try the old camp first. If that’s not it, we’ll do a sweep in a circle five miles around the city. We should hit it eventually.”

“There’s going to be a shitload of Germans there if we have to play ring-around-the-rosy,” observed Nutto.

“Agreed. Let’s hope your instincts are correct, Lieutenant.”

As they debated, a sergeant appeared and approached Captain Baum. The commander looked up. “What is it?”

“Casualty reports are in, sir.”

“Give it to me straight.”

“It’s not too bad. Got six wounded in the half-tracks. Nobody in the jeeps.”

“What about that Sherman? Anyone get out?”

The soldier shook his head. “They’re all goners. The thing lit up like a Zippo.”

Baum rolled his shoulders as if trying to shake off the news. “Well, I guess I didn’t expect to get through this for free. What’s the condition of the vehicles?”

“Everything looks good, sir. We took some bullets, though. A radiator on one of our half-tracks is torn up pretty good. But the boys are looking into it. We should be good to go in a few.”