James Shipman - Task Force Baum

“Jesus Christ,” said Stiller.

“What is it?” asked Hall.

“Look at them.”

“What? They’re happy?”

“Not that, boy, look at the numbers. There’s gotta be a thousand or more.”

“So?”

“So we have transport for a couple hundred, maybe three at the most. We can’t take more than a quarter of them.”

Hall realized with shock the major spoke the truth. “What will happen to the rest?”

Stiller didn’t answer. He watched for a few moments, his face pale, his jaw crushing a plug of tobacco. “It’s in God’s hands. I’ve got a mission. Let’s go find our boy.”

“How are we going to find him in this throng?” asked Hall.

“Just stick with me. It will take a little longer now, but that’s okay. Baum’s got a real mess on his hands, and he’s not going anywhere for a long time to come. Let’s get searching.”

Hall followed the major and streamed into the crowd. Stiller looked this way and that, searching the faces. They milled around with the captives for about fifteen minutes, but he didn’t find who he was looking for.

“Damn it, where is he?”

“Maybe we should check the barracks, sir?”

Stiller stroked his chin. “Not a bad idea. Let’s do it.”

They moved down the line of buildings, walking rapidly now. They searched door after door, but the bunks were abandoned. In less than a half hour, they’d looked in every building.

The major was frustrated now. He started back toward the POWs. “I don’t understand it. We know he’s here. Where the hell is he? I must have missed him the first time around.”

They searched back through the POWs again, Stiller turning men around now to look into their faces. Another twenty minutes passed, but they didn’t find him. Finally, he stopped, looking out again over the crowd, his face showing anxiety and confusion.

“Maybe he wasn’t here after all?” said Hall.

“No way that’s true,” said the major, but his face belied the statement.

“What if something happened to him?” said the lieutenant. “What if he died?”

“You don’t know the man. I’m not sure you could kill him.” He snapped his fingers. “You might be on to something, though, Hall. There’s one building we didn’t check. Let’s head over to the hospital. He could be sick, I suppose.”

They inquired about the infirmary, and an emaciated prisoner pointed out past the barracks to a solitary building. They headed in that direction and reached the door in less than a minute. Hall went first, Thompson drawn, and opened the doors.

The hospital ward was empty except for a single prisoner lying on a cot about halfway down. Hall saw what looked like splashes of dried blood on the walls in many places. He wondered what the hell had happened in here, but there was no time to consider that right now. The prisoner was on his side, facing them. When they entered, his eyes brightened, and he raised a feeble hand. They rushed to his side.

“Who are you, son?” asked the major.

“I’m Captain Jim Curtis, sir. Who are you?”

“Major Alexander Stiller. What the hell happened in here?”

“They killed all of the sick and wounded. A few days ago. Executed them. My friend was here. I failed him.” Curtis’s voice shook and wobbled weakly as he said this. Out of fatigue or pain, Hall didn’t know.

“You’re the only one in here?”

“All but Lieutenant Colonel Waters.”

Stiller drew in his breath sharply. “Where is Waters?”

“In surgery,” said Curtis. “In the next room over.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was shot by a guard when he was trying to get the Germans to surrender.”

“Damn it,” swore Stiller. “Is he hurt bad?”

“Real bad, I think,” said Curtis. “He was bleeding something terrible. It just happened an hour or so ago. They brought him in here straightaway, even before they carried me over.”

“How do you know any of this?” asked Hall.

“I saw the whole thing happen. Waters and I were close. He’s been like a father to me.” Curtis looked up at them. “I know he’ll be all right now that you’re here. We all will be.”

Stiller grunted. “You get some rest, son. Hall, let’s go.”

The lieutenant followed the major to the end of the ward and through a set of double doors into an operating room. This second, smaller room was as bare as the first, with a couple of uncovered light bulbs dangling from the ceiling. A single operating table rested in the middle of the room. Several men stood over a patient, working frantically, a set of bloody instruments resting near them. As they came through the door, one of the men looked up in surprise.

“Get out of here now!” the doctor demanded. “You’ll expose him to germs and kill him.”

“Who is that you’re working on?” asked Stiller.

“It’s Lieutenant Colonel Waters.”

“Is he going to make it?” asked the major.

“I don’t know for sure. I think so. Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Major Stiller. I’m on General Patton’s staff. I’m here to fetch him.”

The doctor shook his head. “He won’t be going anywhere for a very long time.”

Stiller nodded as if he expected the news. “Any chance he could be transported? If we kept it smooth and slow?”

“No way,” said the doctor. “At best it will be weeks, probably a month before he can go anywhere, even in an ambulance. Now, get out of here before you make it worse!”

Stiller watched the man work for a few moments longer, then turned and stormed out of the operating room.

“How’s he doing?” asked Curtis.

“They think he’ll make it.”

“Thank God.”

“Yes,” said Stiller. “Thank God for that at least.” He turned to Curtis. “Anything we can do for you?”

“Not just now. When will we be leaving? I’ll need help getting out of here.”

“Sit tight, Captain. Someone will be here to help you soon.” The major paused for a second and then drew a .45 he’d picked up from a wounded task force member. “Here, son, take this and hide it. Just in case.”

Stiller walked out of the hospital, and Hall followed. When they reached the porch, the major began swearing loudly, stomping back and forth. He stopped for a second to shove another plug of tobacco in his mouth, then began his cursing anew.

“That was Patton’s son-in-law, wasn’t it?” asked Hall.

“That’s real sharp of you,” answered Stiller sarcastically.

“What are we going to do?” asked Hall, ignoring the statement.

Stiller didn’t answer for a moment. He spat on the ground and looked up. “Not a damned thing, Hall. Not a thing to do. We can’t make things worse by taking him. He’d be dead in an hour bouncing along those roads in an open-air half-track. We’ve done everything we can. He’s going to have to wait for the real army to get here.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe it. After all that shit, we’ve failed. Well, nothing to be done about it. We’re going to make the most of it. We’ll grab as many POWs as we can and get the hell out of here.”

“The POWs?” repeated Hall. “There isn’t room for hardly any of them. What’s Baum going to do?”

“Same deal as Waters. We’re going to do what we can. This raid is FUBAR. We’ve got to grab what we can and try to make it back.” Stiller shook his head. “Useless waste of men. Patton’s hardly ever been wrong, but he screwed the pooch on this one, sure enough. No sense standing around doing nothing, Hall. Let’s get back to the convoy and see who we can take along.” The major turned and headed back toward the vehicles and the milling mass of prisoners.

Hall turned back toward the hospital for a moment, thinking of that poor bastard inside waiting to be rescued. He shrugged his shoulders, turned and followed Stiller. Not really his problem. Task Force Baum was heading home, and he was sure as hell going with it.