James Shipman - Task Force Baum

The hands readjusted, taking a firmer grip. “Up,” said Waters, commanding the men to pick up Curtis. The captain felt the hot, tearing pain lance through his back as they jerked him upward. “I can’t,” he repeated, panting for breath. “Please, just leave me here.”

“Won’t do it, Curtis,” responded Waters. “Knorr is after your hide. The artillery distracted him for a minute, but he’ll be back. We’ve all been ordered to our barracks. We’ve got to get you out of here and hidden, in case that bastard comes looking for you.”

Curtis shook his head. “I’m too dizzy to get up.”

“Don’t worry about that. These boys will help you along. Just don’t fight ’em.”

Waters gave the command, and the men with him pulled Curtis’s arms around their necks. They stepped forward, half-carrying, half-dragging the captain. Curtis tried to open his eyes to see where they were going, but the blinding streaks of light and darkness still gripped his eyes, and he could not see. Each step, each moment was a torment almost beyond measure. He gasped, choking and chewing on the anguish. But they were making progress. Although it seemed an eternity, Curtis heard a door squeak open; he felt the ground beneath him change to the wooden floor of a barracks. A bright, bare bulb flashed above his eyes for a few moments, then he was pulled into darkness. Carefully, the men laid him back onto a cot, and Curtis realized they had returned him to the room just off the command center of the POW camp.

“You stay here now, Curtis, and try to keep quiet,” said Waters. “But be ready; we might have to move you if Knorr comes calling.”

“What is that noise?” he asked.

“You mean the rumbling. Artillery, I figure, but I don’t know if it’s ours or theirs. Could be just some training going on, but it sure seemed to rattle the Germans. I’d guess our boys are close, a hell of a lot closer than the krauts thought. If we can sit tight for a few more hours, I think we’re liberated.”

“I’m not going to make it,” said Curtis, feeling a surge of shame as he said it.

“Nonsense. You’re just fine. A little bruised, but you ain’t broken yet. You sit tight and keep your mouth shut. Get some rest. I intend to keep you in one piece.”

The door closed, and Curtis was there by himself. Through the blur of his pain, he thought about liberation. Could it truly be just a few hours away? This nightmare would finally come to an end. He thought of his dead friend Hanson, and a terrible sadness overwhelmed him. Just twenty-four hours longer and he’d still be alive. He’d failed him, as he’d failed in everything. Everything he touched was a disaster. They’d selected him for officer training because he was supposed to be a leader—someone who could shepherd his men through combat. He’d excelled in training, winning promotion to platoon leader and then company commander. He’d looked forward to testing his mettle against the Germans. Then the moment had come, and he’d done nothing. The Germans had swarmed his position, and all his training had come to nothing. He hadn’t been able to save his men. He couldn’t even save Hanson, at the Bulge or at the Oflag. He felt the fear again—there must be something missing inside him. Something he couldn’t see.

In the distance, he could still hear the faint rumbling. Was it getting closer? He couldn’t tell. He wished the buzzing in his ears would stop. He needed to concentrate. He hoped the Americans had medicine with them. He desperately wanted a shot of morphine or anything to dull the pain. He felt the shame again. There would be real casualties. Boys with terrible wounds who needed immediate attention. He steeled himself. He would keep his mouth shut and wait his turn. He would not give up the last shreds of his honor.

He heard the door bang open and closed again, and he bristled, still unable to see. “It’s me,” said Waters, and Curtis exhaled in relief. “I’ve brought you a little bread and a cup of water. Sorry, it’s all I’ve got left.”

“I can’t sit up, sir. Can you give me the bread?”

“Sure, son.” Waters handed the plum-sized crust to Curtis. “I’ll just put the water next to you on the floor.” Curtis nodded, and Waters left the room again. The captain gripped the stale bun, tearing off a mouthful and shoving the coarse roll into his mouth. He didn’t feel like eating, but he knew he might need his strength soon, so he forced his teeth to chew the flavorless food until he could swallow it. He nearly threw up, but he held the bite down. He willed himself to take another, then another, until he’d finished the meager ration. By the time he was done, the nausea had subsided. The flashes were receding now too, and he found that, by blinking his eyes open and closed, he was starting to see bits and pieces again.

A rumble of thunder rolled away in the distance. He tried to calculate how far away the sound might be coming from. He chuckled to himself. What did he know about combat? He’d fought for a half hour, if you could even call it fighting. More like cringing in his foxhole. He didn’t know a thing about measuring artillery. Still, it kept the minutes flowing by, so he made a game of it, predicting how long between each rumble and trying to calculate whether the sounds were staying in the same general area or were getting closer.

The door flung open again, and the light above him was abruptly flicked on. Waters was there. “Curtis, we’ve got to go.”

“What do you mean, sir? I can’t stand.”

“No choice. The krauts are here. They’re evacuating us after all.”

“Can’t we stop them?”

A flicker of fire flashed in Waters’s eyes. “If there was any chance, I’d fight them with my bare hands. But we don’t have any weapons, and they’re ready for us. They’re armed to the teeth now and jittery as hell. We’ve got to take you with us.”

“No chance, sir. My back is too badly hurt. I can barely walk. Just leave me here. Maybe the Americans will get here first.”

“They’ll get here all right, and they’ll find you with one of Knorr’s bullets in your brain. If we must go, you’re going with us.”

Curtis shook his head. He didn’t want to face the pain again. He felt peace here, in the solitary room, alone with his thoughts.

“It’s not your call, Captain. You’re going, and that’s an order.” Waters turned away for a moment and called to someone out of the room. A couple of POWs appeared and moved toward the bed. Curtis closed his eyes, wanting to fight them. He just wanted to give up, to take his chances that the army would get here before Knorr found him. But he knew Waters. He steeled himself even as the hands wrapped around him. Wherever Waters was going, he was going with him.

The fire in his back flamed up again as they drew him as gently as haste would allow from his bed. At least he could see now, blinking still, but able to make out the semi-blurry forms around him between the flashes of his lids. He felt a fraction stronger. Perhaps it was the bread. This time, he was able to move his legs, although much of his weight was still on the kriegies holding him on each side. Now that he was up, he knew Waters was right. It was suicide to remain behind. He’d be no better than those poor saps in the hospital wing, than his friend, dead from Knorr’s bullets. They shambled out of the private room and into the main headquarters area. A few men milled about, waiting for messages from Goode. The camp POW commander looked up, nodding briefly at Waters before his eyes fell on Curtis. The colonel frowned.

“Is he well enough to travel?”

“He’s going to have to be,” said Waters.

“We’ve been through this already, John. He’s better off here if he can’t make it.”