James Shipman - Task Force Baum

Curtis managed to shake his head.

“Well, then. I must assume you consider the matter closed.” Knorr chuckled to himself before reaching down to drag Curtis from the floor and shove him sprawling out the door. As the captain tried to recover, the sergeant had upended a canteen of ice-cold water over Curtis, before he was half-dragged, half-carried to the barracks.

That was the captain’s first experience with Knorr. Since that time, he had avoided the sergeant, although he had witnessed other prisoners suffer from his sadistic cruelty.

Months had passed since then. Curtis had hoped Knorr had forgotten him. But had he? Had the sergeant known about Hanson? Did he observe the daily visits to the hospital? Would Knorr actually lie in wait all these months just for another opportunity to toy with the captain? He felt the anger well up again, and he started toward the building, but Waters held him back.

“Let me go!” demanded the captain.

“Quiet now! Stop struggling!” Waters’s whisper was a hiss. “They’ll kill you!”

“I don’t care anymore! I want them to!”

Waters spun him around, backhanding him even as he kept his grip. Curtis reeled from the sharp pain, and he tasted blood in his mouth. “Now listen to me, boy. You’re going to knock it off right now! I haven’t kept my eye on you all this time for you to just end up dead. You’re going to shake it off, and we’re going to walk away.”

“I can’t do it. I can’t let them get away with it,” Curtis said through gritted teeth. He spit blood on the frozen ground.

Waters refused to release his iron grip on Curtis’s arm. “You can’t save Hanson. He’s already dead. Think, boy! What did we hear this morning? The army is almost here. You can’t go and get yourself killed right now. In a few hours, we may be free. If the camp is liberated, what do you think is going to happen to that son of a bitch Knorr? We’ll take care of him ourselves, or the army will. I’ll make sure of it. But if you screw this up and do something stupid, you’ll never see it happen.”

Curtis closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. His mind spun with images of the bloody interior of the hospital, of Germans shooting and laughing amid the screams and agony of the dying prisoners. He willed himself to calm down. “You’re right,” he said. “There won’t be any revenge if I’m dead.”

Waters released his tight grip, but he didn’t let go. The colonel’s eyes softened. “You sure?”

Curtis nodded.

Waters released him. “Let’s get the hell out of here then. I want to tell Goode and the others what just happened. Did you recognize any of the other men?”

He shook his head.

“They must have brought a special unit in for the dirty stuff. All except Knorr. That bastard would be up for anything.”

“Sir. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t make it.” Now that the anger had left him, Curtis felt the doubt and humiliation envelop him. The feeling was intensified by Hanson’s murder in cold blood. He felt impotent, futile. After years of intense training and preparation for leadership in combat, everything had fallen apart in that foxhole at the Bulge. His confidence and pride died that day, and although Waters had restored a spark of his spirit, there was no flame.

“You’re doing fine,” said Waters. “You hold tight. We’re hours away from this thing being over.”

“And if they take us away?”

“Then it becomes days. Either way, this whole thing’s about to collapse on top of these krauts, and God have mercy on them because I’ll have none.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you for everything.”

“No sweat. Now you’ve got to excuse me. I’m going to go collect the colonel. You get the hell out of here and head back to the barracks, you hear?”

Curtis shook Waters’s hand, and the colonel turned, heading off toward the cluster of barracks. The captain watched him for a few moments and turned away.

“Captain Curtis,” said a familiar voice, laced with a thick German accent. He felt his blood freeze. He turned slowly to face Sergeant Knorr.

“How are you today, mein freund? ” asked the guard, his piercing blue eyes twinkling with sadistic mirth.

Curtis did not answer.

“I started the day out with a cloud over my head and a snuffle in my nose,” said Knorr. “I decided I needed to check myself into the hospital for a little while. Then bang!” he said, slapping his hands together, “I suddenly felt so much better. Do you know what I mean?”

Curtis could feel his anger burning. He wanted to rush the sergeant and throw him to the ground, wrap his hands around his thin, long neck, and choke the life out of him. But he stopped himself. He knew he’d be dead the moment he touched him.

Knorr watched him closely. He pulled his handkerchief out and ran his fingers through it. “By the way, I saw your friend Hanson in there. You should check on him. He doesn’t seem to be doing very well.”

So he did know? The sergeant had waited months for this opportunity to take revenge on Curtis. He’d targeted other POWs along the way. Curtis remembered the last delivery of Red Cross parcels. Knorr had led the members of the International Red Cross through the camp, answering questions and playing the tour guide. After the delegation left, he had lined up all the prisoners, and while they watched, he’d stacked up the food into a large pile and set it on fire. He’d stood behind the conflagration, that same twisted grin on his face, watching with delight as the Americans groaned and swore in frustration.

Now he was apparently playing another of his games. Curtis was losing control. He took a step forward. Knorr braced himself, an ever-widening smile wrapping its way across his face. The captain held back. “You say what you want, Sergeant. You’ll be captured or dead in a week.”

The sergeant’s face flushed red. He approached the captain, inches from his face. Curtis could feel his hot, fetid breath. “The war isn’t over yet. The Führer ’s miracle weapons will end it in victory for the Reich.”

“Fat chance.”

“Do you think your friends are coming for you?” the sergeant asked, his voice a whisper. “We will stop them.”

“Like you’ve stopped them so far?”

Knorr lunged at Curtis, throwing him to the ground. The impact knocked the wind out of the captain, and he lay there for a few moments in agony. The sergeant stood over him. “Don’t you worry; we will stop them. Besides, you’ll all be long gone before they get here. The trains are coming for you, Curtis. You’re going deep into Germany, where nobody will ever find you again.”

“Even if they take us away, we’ll be free in a week.”

“Good luck with that, my friend,” said Knorr menacingly. “They’re shooting more than the wounded where we’re sending you. You’ll never see your friends again, or your home. You’re going to die, Curtis, like your little coward friend Hanson.”

Curtis didn’t answer. He knew the sergeant was baiting him, trying to prod him into physical action that would lead to his death. He closed his eyes and rolled over into the fetal position, refusing to move or to acknowledge the sergeant.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” shouted Knorr.

Curtis refused to answer. There was a pause, then he felt exploding pain in his back as Knorr kicked him. He struck once, twice, then again and again. Curtis rolled over, groaning with the pain.

“That’s a little taste of what’s to come. I’ll leave you to your fantasies for now. Unless you want me to escort you to the hospital?”

The sergeant’s boots crunched on the hard ground as he walked away. He heard the laughter, and it filled his mouth with bitterness to mix with the blood already swimming there.