James Shipman - Task Force Baum

Curtis couldn’t believe it. “How can that be? Why would they do something like that?”

“Search me, buddy, but they’ve left us in a hell of a fix. The Germans are hopping mad. They killed a batch of them. The krauts already marched off most of the POWs who came back. I figure the only ones left are the people in here. There’s a bunch of badly wounded and hardly anyone left to deal with them.”

Curtis was shocked and betrayed. How could they have been left behind again? He had been sure the worst was over. He was badly injured, it was true, but he’d expected an influx of doctors, equipment, and the safety of American troops. Instead, he was in the custody of the Germans again, and things were even worse. The enemy had been harmed, and most of the POWs were already out of the camp. Surely, the remaining guards would want to take revenge on the wounded.

He clutched his .45 under the blankets. There was only one guard in here. Perhaps he should shoot the man and take his weapon. He realized the action was desperate and would likely lead to the death of them all. He had no idea how many Germans were still in the camp. The enemy was well armed, and the only POWs nearby were medical staff and the wounded. They could never hold the hospital with a couple of weapons against the enemy. No, he would have to keep his weapon secret, a last defense to be used only in a moment of desperation.

Curtis leaned his head back, closing his eyes. Why was everything he was involved in a complete disaster? He thought of Waters. His friend and commander was not in the ward. He was probably still in surgery—or, worse yet, dead. Without his wisdom and strength Curtis wasn’t sure he wanted to go on. All he’d wanted at this point was to be rescued. It was too late to fight, too late to redeem himself against the Germans. He had reconciled himself to that fact—that he would return home merely a former POW who lost his company in the Ardennes before they’d hardly fired a shot. Now even liberation was being denied him.

The Germans had killed all the wounded here only a few days ago. They might very well do the same again. There would be no home, no reprieve for him. Perhaps it was for the best. He was a failure, and he wasn’t sure he deserved to live anymore. It might be for the best that he be killed here. At least his family would never know how he had let his men down at the Bulge.

Another part of him refused to accept this. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to give up. He would fight so long as there was any chance to do something. Feeling a renewed courage, he pulled himself up to a sitting position and stood, battling through his pain. He tucked his weapon under the blankets of his cot and stumbled over to the doctor, offering his assistance, such as it might be.

The next several hours passed in a blur. He worked with the doctor and the orderlies, changing dressings, cleaning wounds, holding down men while the doctor poked and prodded. He expected a squad of angry Germans to arrive at any moment, ready to spray them all with machine-gun fire. That would be the end of them. He didn’t care. He was doing what was in his control, battling against the enemy in the only feeble way he could manage.

The double doors swung open at the end of the hall. Several men carried a wounded POW in on a stretcher. It was Waters. He was still alive but unconscious. Curtis moved as quickly as possible over to the XO, assisting them in gingerly moving him onto one of the available cots.

“How is he?” asked Curtis.

“With luck he’s going to make it,” said one of the orderlies. “He took a hell of a shot. The damned bullet rattled around all over the place inside him. Tearing up hell. The doctor thinks he patched up all the problems, but if he missed anything, Waters could bleed to death, and we’d hardly know it until it was too late.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a new visitor to the ward. “Ah, Captain Curtis. I see you stayed behind for our party. How nice.”

Looking up in surprise, he saw Sergeant Knorr standing near the operating doorway, a cat’s grin unfurling across his face. His right arm was bandaged in a sling, and his uniform was streaked and dirty.

“Are you surprised to see me?” asked the sergeant. He walked leisurely along the row of cots, the fingers of his good arm sliding across the forehead of one of the unconscious men. He continued until he stood directly across from Curtis. Looking down, he stared for a moment and then whistled in mock surprise. “Well, well, what have we here. Is that Lieutenant Colonel Waters? The brave man of the hour is wounded? How can he protect you if he is asleep, Herr Captain? How can he protect himself?”

“You leave him alone,” threatened Curtis in a whispered voice. “The Americans will be back any moment. You’ve missed your chance.”

Knorr threw his head back and laughed. “Do you think me a fool, Curtis? Your friends have come and gone. They nearly finished me off, I must admit, but fortunately I made it through. Imagine my surprise to wake up and realize that our little ceremony had been interrupted and you were nowhere to be found. I was rather miffed and concerned I would be taken into custody by the invaders. Imagine what stories you could have told them. Very unpleasant stuff, I am sure.” The sergeant took a step around the cot, placing his good hand on Curtis’s arm.

“ Gott , it seems, however, is still on my side. What a parade of gifts I’ve been given. First, I survive, then I avoid capture. Next, the Americans leave again, assuring I would escape your justice. Finally, I find a whole new hospital full of wounded, and greatest of all, Curtis and Waters are gracious enough to remain behind.” He patted the captain’s arm. “Now don’t you worry, Curtis. You’ve got a little time. I want to wait until Waters is awake. I’d hate to deprive him of the chance for a little chat before we settle all our differences.”

“You’ll never get away with that.”

“What do you mean, Captain? Do you mean the Kommandant? He’s already given me permission to sort out the last few details of the camp. We must tidy up, of course. We don’t want any loose ends tugging at our minds while we evacuate farther into Germany.” He took another step closer, whispering into Curtis’s ear. “You should have escaped while you had the chance, Captain. I was going to finish you mercifully before, but now I have a more extravagant conclusion for you. Of course, I’ll let you watch me finish things up with Waters first. Have you ever seen my SS knife?” He released Curtis and moved his hand down to his waist, where a black handle with intricate runes protruded from an onyx sheath. “Every SS man gets one, you know. I’ve only experimented a little with it, but you won’t believe the results. After we’ve dispatched the rest of the riffraff in here, we can enjoy Waters with it. I wouldn’t deprive you of the joy of watching your mentor take his leave. Then, it will just be you and me. I wonder how long I can keep you alive? We shall have to explore that together, mein freund . For now, I can’t have you running all around.”

Knorr reached out again and grabbed Curtis by the shirt. He dragged him with one arm and threw him down on a cot. The captain tried to fight back, but he was too weak, and his back burned and clawed at him as he wrenched his injury again. Knorr straddled him, sitting on his chest. He placed his good hand on Curtis’s neck and started to choke him. The captain fought back, trying to push the sergeant off. He couldn’t breathe, and he struggled in a panicked rage. There was nothing he could do. Knorr held him in an iron vice. He struggled, trying to free his arms, battling for a breath, but the fingers constricted his airway until he knew no more.