James Shipman - Task Force Baum

Curtis turned back to Hanson, holding his friend and closing his eyes. Soon, he heard sharp barking behind him. He rolled over. His foxhole was surrounded by Germans, towering over him in their winter white camouflage. They screamed in their clipped, barking language. He didn’t understand. He drew his hands into the air. One of them raised his rifle and drove it down toward his face. He saw a sharp flash of light as the wooden stock crashed against his head, and all was darkness.

Headquarters, 3rd US Army

Southwest Germany

March 26, 1945, 1100 hours

First Lieutenant Sam Hall ran a bored finger down the map, tracing the farthest point of advance. He marked the spot with a heavy black pen and double-checked the information to make sure the coordinates were correct. Pointless, since by the time anyone bothered to read his report, the front would have advanced a half-dozen times. He set the papers down and rubbed his eyes, yawning and leaning back for a moment. He checked his watch. Twelve hours. Didn’t the major ever sleep?

He scratched the dimple in his chin and looked up and down the narrow hallway outside Stiller’s office. His desk filled most of the space, forcing the endless line of staff members to pass single file around him. His legs were crammed against the metal surface, almost to his chest. He had to be careful. He reached down and ran his hand over his ankle, lifting the hem of his trouser. He looked around. Nobody was coming. Hall pulled a flask out of his sock and drew it to his waist, sitting up straight with his hands concealed. He methodically unscrewed the cap, keeping a lookout down the hallway. He glanced quickly one more time behind him and lifted the metal rapidly to his lips; tipping the brandy down his throat, he pulled a deep gulp, letting the fiery liquid drizzle down inside him. He coughed and sputtered. He’d drunk too much too fast. He recovered and took another swallow. He smiled to himself. Nobody had seen a thing. He hastily screwed the cap back on and returned the flask to its hiding place.

Hall closed his eyes and let the liquid fill him. The brandy warmed his insides, a drawback, as it was already too damned stuffy in here. He shook his head in disgust. Such intolerable conditions. He made sure the hallway was still clear and opened a drawer, retrieving an envelope containing a letter from his father and a magazine. He pulled out the journal and smiled: it was a periodical about Washington State College, his alma mater and his father’s too. He opened the page to an article about the school football program. There’d been no games in 1943 or 1944, but the college was hopeful that the war would end this year and the team could return to the gridiron the coming fall. He hummed the fight song of WSC as he read, the brandy tingling in his fingertips.

“Hall, what in the hell are you doing?” The Texas drawl of Major Alexander Stiller rumbled over him. He jolted upright and hastily covered the magazine with his report. His commander stood in the doorway like a chiseled granite statue. Sneaky bastard. Hall hadn’t heard him open the door. Must be the brandy. Stiller reached out a stone finger and slid the report aside, exposing the reading material beneath.

“Just what in the Sam Hill is this, Hall?”

“Nothing, sir.”

The major scowled. “It don’t look like nothing. It looks like some personal trash covering up my operational map.” He reached down and picked up the magazine, thumbing through the pages before flinging it to the floor. “You know better than that, Lieutenant. That dog just ain’t gonna hunt. We got important work to do and no time for daydreaming over football.”

“I know sir, but I was just—”

“I hope you were finishing my ready report.” The major’s eyes bored in on Hall, as if to burn through him. The weathered leather of his face creased into a frown resting beneath a short-cropped crown of salt and pepper hair. “Is that what you were doing, Lieutenant? Finishing my ready report?”

“That’s exactly what I was completing. I just needed a little break before—”

“What the heck is that smell?” The major took a deep sniff, moving his head closer to the lieutenant’s face. Hall stiffened. If he was caught drinking on the job…

He stood up quickly, turning away from Stiller and reaching down for the magazine. “Let me just put this away, sir.” He stuffed the periodical into his desk drawer. “I was looking at the tactical situation, and I had a couple of ideas.”

Stiller watched him closely, taking another deep breath. His eyes narrowed further. “Come in my office. I want a word, boy.”

Hall reluctantly followed his commander into the hotel room that currently served as the major’s headquarters. He took in the space rapidly with his eyes as Stiller bent to examine some papers: a folding table and chair, clothes rumpled on an unmade bed, the ever-present brass spittoon at the foot of the mattress. The major stomped around the table and tipped the chair back, crashing into the seat as he reached for some documents. He appeared to find what he was looking for, a brown leather pouch. He unzipped the wallet and drew out a plug of chewing tobacco. Stiller stuffed the wad into his mouth until a lump formed in his cheek. He swished the substance around for a few moments and leaned forward, hawking an auburn glob of liquid through the air to land violently against the side of the spittoon. The major smiled in satisfaction and turned his attention to Hall.

“How long have you been here now, boy?”

Hall cleared his throat. “About three months, I guess.”

Stiller grunted. “Seems longer to me.” He rested his hands on the desk, his eyes boring into the lieutenant again. “Well?”

“Well what, sir?”

“The report, damn it!” A scarlet storm crossed the major’s brow.

Hall drew himself up and began. “Not too much new since the crossing on the twenty-fourth. The krauts didn’t expect us in boats, and they weren’t prepared. We suffered far fewer casualties than expected. Across the board, we’re now rolling through Germany with little more than localized resistance. Same with the British up north as well. The Russians are hitting hard in the east. Only a matter of weeks, I’d say, before we link up with them, somewhere in the south, I’d wager.”

“Your assessment of the Germans?”

“Not much life left in them, but when they organize, they can still hit hard. To be honest, I think they’re about ready to call it quits, but after the Bulge, nobody knows for sure.”

Stiller nodded. “That was a goat rodeo. Damn krauts don’t know when they’re beat. Should have given up months ago. Instead, they hit us hard with our pants down and damn near drove us back to Antwerp.”

“That’s why I recommend caution, sir. I think we’ve got them this time, but who knows what they’ll pull out next.”

“Anything you think we should be doing differently?”

Hall was surprised by the question. Stiller never asked his opinion. “I don’t know. I could come up with some ideas if you want me to.”

“I’ll let you know.” The major still stared at him, his face a stone scowl.

“Is there anything else, sir?”

“No, you’re dismissed, Lieutenant.”

Hall breathed in relief. He’d delivered his report without incident. He’d expected to be chewed out about the magazine. He saluted crisply and turned to go.

“Oh, Lieutenant.”

He froze, still facing the door.

“I guess there is one more thing.”

He turned slowly around. “Yes, sir?”

“You want to tell me about this?” The major held up an envelope, tapping it a few times against the desk.