James Shipman - Task Force Baum

His helper leapt out in front of him and then turned, raising a hand to Curtis. The lieutenant took it, placed his feet as close to the edge as possible, and jumped down. The impact on the frozen dirt was like on concrete, and his back exploded with stabbing needles, but he forced himself to hold back the agony under the watchful eye of the German. He looked around, trying to grasp the situation.

POWs were scrambling in every direction. The shouts of the guards increased in volume now that he was outside. After a few moments, he realized they were moving away from the trucks and back through the gate toward the main camp. What had happened? What change had halted the evacuation? He wanted to ask someone, but there was no time. He looked around. His helper had disappeared, either unwilling to help him further or swept up in the mass of retreating kriegies. He felt his panic rising. The guard was still watching him closely, ignoring the other men jumping out of the truck. He knew he only had moments before the German stopped him. He had to try to walk away.

Curtis took a shaky step. His knees buckled, and he stumbled as the pain in his back tore through him. By a miracle, he kept his balance and took another step forward, then another, shambling toward the crowd of POWs that even now was fading away from the immobile convoy of trucks. He wanted to risk another glance at the guard, but he was terrified he would fall if he did, so he kept his face forward and concentrated on the other POWs a few yards away. Fortunately, there was a bottleneck at the gate, and after another half-dozen wrenching steps, he reached the back of the line. He placed his hands on the shoulders of the man in front of him.

“What the hell are you doing?” the prisoner asked.

“I can’t hardly walk,” whispered Curtis. “Please just let me rest here and walk along with you. They’ll kill me otherwise.”

The man hesitated. “Fine, buddy, but not too much weight on me. I’m not exactly doing great myself.”

Curtis was thankful. He looked around, hoping he recognized someone in the press, but while he saw a few faces he thought he knew, there was nobody from his barracks or from the command team that he could see in the immediate area. It didn’t matter. The line was moving, and he was able to keep his balance now. Once they were back in the yard, he could find Waters and get a few boys to help him back to his bunk. He just hoped there were no more evacuations. If they sat tight, they should be liberated in a few days, maybe even today.

The line was moving well now, as the majority of the kriegies filtered through the gate and headed back toward their barracks. There were scarcely fifty men left in the German portion of the camp. In the distance, Curtis thought he could see Waters, standing with a cluster of men on the far side, scanning the POWs for something or someone, perhaps even for him.

“Let me help you, Captain.”

Curtis’s heart iced over. He tried to keep moving, but he felt a hand on his shoulder, holding him back. He turned gingerly to face the smirking countenance of Sergeant Knorr.

“Where are you heading in such a hurry, Captain?” he asked with mock concern. “ Mein Gott , your face is white as snow. Is something wrong with you?”

“No, I’m fine,” responded the captain through the pain, trying to keep his expression clear.

“Nonsense. You’ve been hurt somehow. Das ist so schade ,” said the sergeant, wiping his face with his scarlet handkerchief. “Whatever shall we do with you?”

“I don’t need any help,” said Curtis, trying to pull away, despite the pain. “I’m just going back to the barracks.”

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Captain. You are obviously far too ill for that. I wouldn’t want to burden the other men with you.” He paused as if considering the problem, and his face brightened into a grin. “I know the best place for you. Our hospital. I know you’re familiar with it, aren’t you?” he said, his eyes brimming with mirth. “I think you had a friend who was recovering from his wounds there. Unfortunately, he didn’t make it.”

“You killed him, you bastard,” said Curtis, taking the bait but not caring. Whatever happened to him, he would not let that pass.

“Bastard? That is a bad English word isn’t it, Captain?” The sergeant’s eyes were dangerous now. “But, of course, you are not yourself due to your injuries. You will be much better after a trip to the hospital.” He started to pull Curtis away from the gate, toward the German barracks.

Curtis was horrified. He searched desperately for Waters, but if that had been the colonel, he was no longer there. Most of the POWs were already out of sight, and he was heading in the wrong direction. “The hospital is the other way,” he said, trying to buy some time.

“I’m going to take you to our German medical center, Captain. Only the best for you. I’ve been waiting a very long time to make sure you received the treatment you deserve.”

“Help!” screamed Curtis, trying to pull away or at least get the attention of the other POWs. But they were too far away. The guards had already shut the gate to the main camp. He was trapped.

Knorr kept an iron grip on his shoulder, pushing him toward the buildings. Curtis looked around desperately, grasping for anything he could do to save himself. The barracks drew nearer, the roof filling the sky like an ominous monster reaching out to rend his soul. They reached a short set of stairs, and Knorr pulled him up them abruptly. Curtis cried out with the burning pain.

“You see, Captain. You tried to hide it from me, but you’re hurt. Don’t you worry; we’ll get you fixed right up here.” Curtis could taste the malice in the sergeant’s voice.

He was dragged through the doorway into a large rectangular room. The building was filled with a long row of bunk beds. The beds were wider than in their prisoner barracks and contained mattresses and pillows. After months in the POW camp, the interior looked like a luxury hotel to the captain. But it was certainly no hospital.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“This is a barracks, as you can see, Captain. I would have taken you to a hospital, but let us stop this game. We both know you won’t need a doctor soon.”

“Please,” begged Curtis. “Please just let me go back to the camp.”

Knorr reached out and stroked the captain’s cheek. “Don’t worry, mein freund . You won’t even feel it.” He reversed his hand and shoved down hard on Curtis’s shoulder. The captain hit the ground hard, his back wrenching again in renewed injury and pain. He writhed on the floor even as the sergeant drew his pistol, aiming carefully at the captain’s chest.

Between Hammelburg and Oflag XIII

March 27, 1945, 1230 hours

Steel rained down on Hall’s jeep. The thunderous detonations tore at his ears and penetrated his mind, the concussions jerking the jeep left and right as Stiller fought to keep the vehicle in control. A billowing funnel of onyx smoke ahead of him told the lieutenant that at least one Sherman was already destroyed. Hall tried to concentrate amid the chaos around him and the clanging ringing in his ears.

The lieutenant glanced quickly to his right and his left. He could see flashes emanating from above in both directions. They were in a perfect trap and could not hope to survive. He ripped his Thompson to his right and depressed the trigger, spraying the barrel wildly at the unseen targets on the incline. The weapon jerked and bucked. He pulled the trigger in a few short bursts, and the magazine was exhausted. He had no idea if he’d hit anything in the wild melee swirling around him, but firing the weapon gave him a fraction of control, the ability to do something, to fight back.