James Shipman - Task Force Baum

Finally, when it seemed they could not possibly wait any longer, Hall heard the Shermans coming to life. The tanks were covered with POWs hanging on to every corner of the turrets. Hall looked back. The half-tracks had come up, and they too were covered in men. Hall cursed silently. The column would have to move slowly to allow the weakened soldiers to hang on. If they were attacked, they would not be able to fight back quickly because the prisoners would have to clear off the tanks. He shook his head. With the significant delay and the slow retreat they would now have to make, he had no idea how they would ever return to their own lines. He thought of raising this issue with Stiller, but he knew it would merely draw a sharp rebuke. The “Lone Ranger” would never leave a man behind if he could help it. What was wrong with these people? The purpose of the mission was clearly to get Waters. They’d failed in that, so why endanger the rest of the force with these POWs crowded on the tanks? They should only take what the half-tracks could manage—or, better yet, nobody at all. Well, there was nothing he could do about it. He was along for the ride.

The tanks in front of Hall lurched into motion. The column was on the move again after hours of wasted time in the camp. As they moved out, Hall watched two distinct groups of POWs with very different intentions. Small groups of men carrying food and weapons were heading out into the hills in various directions. Hall knew they had little chance of making it to the American lines. They would have to avoid the roads, and the terrain from here to the front was dotted with hills and forests, then open farmland, where every house held a German family that might turn them in.

Regardless of the safety of the last option, Hall couldn’t help but feel the collective hopelessness of the remaining group. About five hundred men were shambling back toward the camp. They either had fought for a place in the task force and lost, or simply did not have the strength or courage to try to escape on foot. These men were headed back to captivity, to hope and pray that the Americans would liberate them again soon. Hall kept his eyes on them as his jeep rumbled away from the Oflag. Soon the men and the camp were lost behind the hilltop as the convoy rumbled back down the winding forested roads toward Hammelburg.

As they rattled along, Hall’s worst fears came to the forefront. The group was barely moving faster than the pace of a light jog. The men clutched any part of the tanks that they could reach or held on to each other as they bumped and jostled along in the growing darkness. As they entered the deep forest, visibility was reduced to a few feet, and Stiller hunched forward behind the wheel, trying to keep up with the nearest Sherman without crashing into the back of it.

The force crawled along that way for more than an hour, darkness growing and the stillness of the landscape broken only by the dull rumbling of the machines as they sought their way out of the crisscrossed, narrowly winding roads between the camp and Hammelburg.

Hall had given little thought to their escape route and hadn’t asked Baum which way they were headed. Would they try to come out the same way they’d come in? That seemed suicide to him, but he had no idea if there was another way to reach the American lines. At this speed, it would hardly matter. It would take a full day to get back. His only hope was that Baum would reach the same conclusion and halt the column, ordering the POWs to break out into small groups and try to find their way back on their own. He was tired after twenty-four hours without sleep. He’d existed on adrenaline until now, but in the darkness, as the column crawled along, he felt weariness overcoming him. He longed for the last few pulls from his flask. He wondered in the growing blackness if he could sneak a drink without the major seeing him. He toyed with the idea but finally dismissed it. He was too close to getting everything he wanted to gamble it all for a few swigs. Opportunities had opened up several times along the way to sneak a drink. Perhaps another would appear before they reached the lines. If not, he’d have plenty to drink to celebrate his accolades. Maybe he could even get Stiller drunk, he thought. That might be amusing.

The column crept to a halt. “What the hell is it now?” asked the lieutenant.

“Not sure,” said Stiller.

Behind them, they could see the flashes of a few lights. “Let’s go see what’s up,” said the major.

Hall jumped out and followed his commander back toward Baum’s jeep. The captain’s vehicle was surrounded by flickering lights like so many fireflies. Baum was hunched over a map, discussing their location with Nutto.

“What’s the deal?” asked Stiller.

“Just a second,” said Baum.

“Captain—”

“You’re not in charge, Major. Remember that.”

Hall could see Stiller balking at the comment. He smiled to himself. It was entertaining to watch the proud Texan groveling before a younger officer.

The captain looked up. “What is it, Major?”

“What’s the situation?”

“The situation is, we are lost. We’ve crossed so many of these damned roads in the past hour, I’m not quite sure where we are. We should be out of the hills by now, but all I can see in the darkness is more damned trees. I’d hoped Nutto here had seen more from the front, but he reports the same deal. Any ideas, Major?”

Stiller shrugged. “I wasn’t paying attention. What are we going to do?”

“We’ll keep going the same way. We’ve got to reach the end of this crap soon. Worst case, we’ll wait until it’s light.”

“That’s hours away,” said Hall, exasperated. “We’ll never make it out of here if we delay any longer.”

As if confirming this comment, a whisking rip filled the air followed by the sharp detonation of an explosion. A tank up the line exploded in a fiery conflagration. Hall could see men burning, trying to escape the tank. He couldn’t tell from this distance if they were POWs, crew, or both. It didn’t matter. They were dead, and the task force was in peril again.

Oflag XIII

March 27, 1945, 2000 hours

Captain Curtis woke with a jolt. The lights were on in the hospital ward. His back still burned with pain, but he felt refreshed by sleeping for a spell. He was surprised by his surroundings. When he fell asleep, he’d been the only person in the room. Now a dozen cots were filled with injured and wounded men, their groans and cries an agonizing symphony. A doctor and several orderlies worked with the men, hunched over and administering to their hurts. Where had they all come from?

These must be men hurt during the attack, he realized. But where were the liberating soldiers? His mind fought through the fog. Something didn’t make sense. There should be new soldiers. Fresh American faces. He remembered talking to a couple of American officers from the relieving force. Where had they gone? His eyes walked down the row of wounded and stopped near the door. A German guard stood there, a machine pistol in his hands, watching over the room. What in the hell had happened while he was asleep? Why were the Germans back in charge? The prisoner next to him was unconscious. With effort, he rolled over until he faced the other direction. There was a POW here too, a bloody bandage over one of his eyes. Fortunately, he was awake. He knew the man slightly. Another of Goode’s runners.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Why is there a German in here?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Those bastards only brought a few trucks. They didn’t have room for a quarter of us, and they couldn’t hold the camp. They took a couple hundred kriegies and left the rest of us to the Germans.”