James Shipman - Task Force Baum

The Americans turned and headed quickly back to the column and the highway to Hammelburg.

The task force was moving within a few minutes of the last Russian clearing the road. Hall sat in the passenger seat of the jeep, the steel barrel of his Thompson bringing him relief as he held the weapon with red knuckles. He was still recovering from the potentially fatal confrontation, and from the sight of twenty or more gray-clad bodies twisted in cruel angles and sprinkled up the hill. The German guards, he realized, and he thanked God he was not a target of the Russians’ wrath.

Stiller drove along next to him, his face set in a perpetual half frown. He could have been a statue except for the occasional flicker of his jaw as he worked away at a plug of tobacco. Hall wondered if the bodies had affected the major—if indeed anything could bruise the iron composure of the Texan. Too stupid to feel much , Hall realized, thanking God or whatever higher power might exist out there for the gift of his birth and his intelligence. Perhaps that wasn’t charitable, but who gave a damn? Besides, he desperately wanted a drink, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it right now.

“Where are we, sir?” he asked, more to pass the time than from any genuine interest.

“I don’t know for sure. Maybe five miles from Hammelburg, ten at the most. If those bastards don’t have any more surprises for us, I’d say we’ll make the town in the next half hour.”

“If they do?”

“One problem at a time, Hall.”

He hadn’t realized they were that close to their target. He hoped the camp was scantily defended. With any luck, they could have the POWs loaded up within an hour and be back to the American lines before nightfall. Without luck, well…

As if in answer to that thought, he heard a familiar buzzing, first at the edges of his consciousness and then growing in intensity. He looked up, knowing already what he was going to see. Sure enough, the German scout plane was back, circling high above the formation a couple of times before darting away.

“It’s that spy plane again,” said Hall.

Stiller grunted. “I know it. Not much we can do about it, though. I don’t know why the hell we don’t have any air support ourselves. Damn krauts haven’t hardly had a plane in the air since D-Day, and now the only thing up there’s got a swastika for a tail.”

“Should we try to shoot it down?”

“That’s up to the captain. You ever taken aim at an airplane? Particularly out of a moving truck? That’s like threading a needle while riding a wild bull. Ain’t gonna happen unless you get damned lucky. We don’t have much ammo left for that peashooter of yours. We’re not wasting it pissing in the wind.”

Hall nodded. He didn’t like the answer, but he didn’t have any choice in the matter. While Stiller had babbled on, the plane disappeared anyway. The Germans would know exactly where they were headed.

The minutes ticked by slowly as they rumbled along. Hall checked his watch over and over, counting the minutes against Stiller’s estimate of when they would come across their destination. They finally hit the number, and he looked up, straining his eyes to make out if he could see anything. Sure enough, there were spires in the distance, a church or two sprinkled over a fair-sized town. The old bastard was right, of course .

Stiller reached over and slapped Hall’s arm. “Look out there, son. Just like I told you and right on time. Get that Thompson ready. We’re headed around the south part of the town, but who knows what’s waiting for us inside. Best be prepared.”

Hall pulled the Thompson around and slipped the safety off. He felt oddly at home with the weapon now after he had had it in his possession for three-quarters of a day. He liked the bucking power of the weapon when he fired. He could grow used to combat, he realized, as long as it wasn’t too close at hand and assuming the monster never turned and bit him back.

The town grew closer, the buildings taking shape in the distance, the details materializing into view. A minute passed, and then another. Hall braced himself, waiting for the first shells to rain down on them. Miraculously, there were none. The town seemed quiet, without any vehicle traffic or even pedestrians nearby. As Hall watched, the road turned to the right, and they bent slowly away from the town. A few more minutes passed, and Hammelburg was behind them.

“How far to the Oflag?” he asked.

“A couple miles at the most, I think. Up some hills. They built the damn thing at the top, according to the prisoner. Hell of a place for a great defense if there’s a batch of krauts up there.”

Hall lowered the Thompson, but Stiller grabbed the barrel and pulled it back up.

“Best keep that in place for now. No time to relax until we get back to the Main. It’s in and out time, boy.”

Hall bristled but kept his mouth shut. He was a man with a college degree and a pedigree. He pushed his anger down. It didn’t matter, they were almost there. A few more hours…

The column reached the end of the valley and moved slowly up a narrow, winding road that rose steeply among the dotted pines of an enormous hill. The entire area was surrounded to the southeast by a series of prominences rolling back one on another. The landscape, rife with evergreens, reminded Hall of the hills to the northeast of Spokane. He thought back fondly of the hikes he took with his father. The long talks about the family future and his role in building their empire. He smiled to himself, enjoying the memories and thinking of the future.

The Shermans were laboring now, pushing the engines to drive the armored giants up the hill. The task force slowed to a crawl. The fumes nearly overwhelmed them in their open-air jeep. Hall coughed and sputtered, taking out a handkerchief to cover his face.

“Don’t do that, Hall. It’s good for you,” joked Stiller. “A little exhaust won’t hurt you none. Make a man out of you.”

Hall had had enough. He turned to the major, a hot retort on his lips, but the words never left him. A rapid and thunderous string of explosions rocked the column in front and behind them. The concussion nearly drove the jeep off the road. Stiller struggled to maintain control while the spit of machine-gun fire raked the Sherman in front of them. They were ambushed on all sides, with nowhere to hide.

South of Burgsinn, Germany

March 27, 1945, 1100 hours

“Idon’t care how you get it, just get the damned petrol here now!” Hauptmann Koehl screamed into the receiver. The town of Burgsinn was a scant half kilometer off. The Americans would be there at any moment. If he could get his fuel immediately, he still might cut them off in the cramped streets of the city and annihilate the enemy column. Instead, he was arguing with this schweinkopf on the other end of the line. He’d called the colonel, who had patched him through to supply. He’d spent five minutes trying to prove to some dim-witted sergeant on the other end of the line that he wasn’t an enemy spy, only to learn, after the man finally decided that Koehl was in fact a German, that they’d located some petrol, but there was no way to get it to him.

“Our refueling truck is up on blocks right now, Captain. I’m sorry. We had to change the oil. You can’t let these vehicles go without their regular maintenance, you know. Particularly with all the wear and tear in the field. If your ground troops were a little more patient and gentle with our equipment, we would be able to get—”

“I don’t give a damn about your problems!” shouted Koehl. “If that truck isn’t on the road in ten minutes, full of petrol for my company, you’ll be the one up on blocks! Do you hear me!”