James Shipman - Task Force Baum

Hall wasted no time. Taking a quick look around to make sure nobody was watching, he drew the flask out of his pocket and unscrewed the top. He tipped the metal back and took a deep drink, gulping down about half the remaining schnapps with a few intense swallows. He almost coughed as the fiery liquid burned his throat, but he held it down and quickly returned the flask to his pocket. He breathed deeply, relaxing, enjoying the sensation. He felt the excitement rush through him too. He was thumbing his nose at Stiller. He relished the feeling of deceit and the control it gave him over the witless simpleton of a major. A few minutes passed before his commander returned.

“What’s going on?” Hall asked, assuming a cheerful mien.

“Baum grabbed a prisoner. Some paratrooper out here all by himself. Bet you anything he’s a deserter.”

“So what?”

“So,” said Stiller, his voice tense with irritation, “he’s a local. He knows the area. He told Baum there could be a bridge a few miles north. If it’s still there.”

“How can we trust him?”

“Do we really have a choice? It’s that or continue to grope along blindly until the Germans finally catch up to us.”

Hall heard a buzzing overhead. He looked up and saw the same German plane as before, slowly passing the length of the column before turning off east. He felt his skin crawl. “What if he’s just helping that guy?” he said, nodding off toward the aircraft.

“I doubt it. That pilot don’t need anyone on the ground to tell him where we are. I wouldn’t have believed a German would desert a few months ago, but we’ve seen plenty of ’em lately. I think we can probably trust him.”

Baum walked up to the jeep just then. His face showed signs of fatigue, a leaf’s vein of lines scrawled across his forehead and temples. He limped slightly, and his jaw flickered in apparent pain as he came to a halt in front of them.

Stiller nodded to the captain. “Learn anything?”

“Yep. If it’s true. The kraut says there’s a good bridge just up a ways, and a highway leading right to Hammelburg from there. If he’s telling the truth, and it’s still there, he said we’d be there shortly. What’s more, he knows where the Oflag is. He verified it’s the former barracks just southeast of the town.”

“He know anything about likely resistance?” asked Hall.

“Nah. He hasn’t been back here in a while. Just ran off a few weeks ago, and he’s been making his way home. Lucky we picked him up.”

“What if he’s lying?” asked Hall.

“I don’t see why he would. If he is, he’s going to get a bullet in the brain. I told him as much. We’re only a half hour or so from where he said the bridge is. I don’t think he’d gamble with his life when we’ll know the truth of it in a jiffy.”

Stiller grunted. “Good point. When we moving out?”

“Ten or less. The poor sap was practically starving. I gave him some grub so he stays alert, at least until we get to the bridge.”

“What are you going to do with him after?” asked Hall.

“We’ll hold on to him until we get to the Oflag. If he’s been honest, I’ll let him go. If not,” Baum made a pistol shape with his fingers. “Anyway, sit tight, and we’ll be out of here in a few.”

Stiller nodded, and Baum went up the line to give orders to the Shermans out front. Hall returned his direction to the sky, but the German reconnaissance plane was nowhere to be seen. “How long you figure before he comes back with some friends?” the lieutenant asked.

Stiller shrugged. “No way to know. This whole thing went to hell in a handbasket when the bridge blew. But Baum knows what he’s about. If we can find a way across, I’ll bet you we make the Oflag in a couple hours.”

“Then what?”

The major scowled, spitting brown liquid on the ground. “Then we see.”

The column rumbled back into movement, faster this time with the apparent guidance of the German paratrooper. Hall was surprised the Shermans would move so quickly on such narrow roads, with the right-hand side jutting precariously downward a hundred yards or more to the river. At times, the tank in front of them was a mere foot away from the edge. If it tumbled over, everyone inside would assuredly be drowned if they weren’t killed by the impact of the fall.

The minutes rolled by. Hall felt relaxed with the schnapps coursing through his body. His toes and fingers were warmed, and he was calm. He understood why most of the armies and navies in world history had kept their men half-drunk most of the time in combat. He thought it a stupid decision to take the daily ration away, as most had done in the nineteenth century.

In the distance to his right, Hall thought he could make out the sharp, bony outline of iron through the trees. He strained his eyes, and after a few moments, he was sure. His heart trembled. A bridge. The damned paratrooper was telling the truth. There was an intact span over the Main.

“Hall, do you see that?” shouted Stiller, nearly coming out of his seat in elation. “A bridge. Damn it, if that kraut wasn’t right. He’s the hero of this whole expedition.” Stiller laughed. “If we make it through this thing, hell, I’ll recommend him for a Bronze Star!”

Hall nodded without response. Stiller might be thrilled they were going, but the lieutenant was far from it. They were turning away east now, heading directly in the direction that German plane was heading. There wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it but hang on and hope for the best.

In twenty minutes, Task Force Baum completed their traverse of the Main River. The bridge was undefended and intact. The structure was narrow and a little rickety, requiring the armored vehicles to pass one at a time. Hall could scarcely breathe when they crossed, but the structure served its purpose well, and soon the column was back on the road to Hammelburg.

They passed a small town just after the bridge. Hall kept his weapon trained on the windows of the little gingerbread houses, but there were no shots. There weren’t even attempts at surrender. The Americans must have caught the village totally unawares. The citizens hadn’t even had the time to react to the violent green monsters grinding past their homes. They were blissfully unaware of the danger. For them, Hall thought, the war was nearly over. Unlike Spokane, though, and the rest of victorious America, what would peace look like in Germany? He thought of the women. The older girls and the young widows. How desperate they would be. Begging for favors. They would do anything for a little chocolate or some cigarettes. Perhaps he should delay his return home for a few months after all…

Stiller rode along silently next to him. Hall wondered what thoughts, if any, went through the simpleton’s head. He’s probably humming “The Star-Spangled Banner” to himself. Or perhaps “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” What would it be like to live your life like that? A loyal, hardworking sap. Content to lick the boots of his betters. Hall could taste the bile in his throat. What a repugnant thought. His father had taught him to look beyond all of that, to watch each person and every moment. Look for their weaknesses, their hopes, addictions, dreams. Then file all of that away and wait like one of the rattlesnakes they had come across now and again on their hikes near Mount Spokane. Lie in wait, coiled, and at the right moment, strike, your bite a pinprick of pain, but deadly.

For all his simplicity, Stiller had been a conundrum for Hall from the start. He wasn’t subject to the kind of flattery and attention that most women and men responded so well to. He couldn’t be persuaded or bought. Hall had had the feeling from the very first day that despite Stiller’s dim-wittedness, he could read the lieutenant like a book. But now finally he had the major where he wanted him. He’d shown the bastard that he could handle himself in combat. But there was more fighting ahead.