James Shipman - Task Force Baum

“When you go back and tell the boys, have them keep their mouths shut. No celebrating! No talking in the yard. Last thing we need is for the Germans to find out we are on to them. Any other questions?”

There were none, and the men started to disperse.

Waters stopped Curtis as he passed by. “How you holding up, son?”

“I’m doing okay.” Curtis tried to inject a little spirit into his response, but his emotions warred inside him.

“I know you better than that, Captain. What’s wrong?”

“This whole damned thing is wrong.”

“Aren’t you happy about the news?”

“I am. I’m grateful. But at the same time—”

“At the same time, you don’t feel like you ever fought? Is that it?” Waters watched him with shrewd eyes.

How did he know? He nodded, not responding.

“Is that all?” said Waters, chuckling. “Hell, Captain, we hardly did any better in North Africa. I zipped out with a few tanks, and the next thing I knew we were up to our armpits in panzers. Before you could snap your fingers, we were all blown up and surrendered. Damn Germans swatted us away like a bunch of annoying flies.”

“Yes, sir, but it’s not the same. You did fight for a while. Besides, that’s when the Germans were still really in the war. Back in forty-two. By the time we arrived, the whole thing was supposed to be over. Instead, we were clobbered and wound up here… or dead.”

Waters put a granite hand on Curtis’s shoulder. The lieutenant colonel was as emaciated as the rest of the kriegies, but he retained an iron strength.

“Now, don’t you worry yourself about that. Nobody is going to say a damned thing to you when you get home about this war. If they do, to hell with them. You fought the Germans, and you did your best. You served your time in this camp. The war is over for us. What we need to worry about at this point is surviving, and getting home to our families. You go back to the barracks and put your best face on things. We’ll get through this and get you home.”

Curtis nodded again and shook Waters’s hand. He left the building and started back to his barracks. He did his best to lift his spirits, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that had haunted him over and over these past months. He’d failed to protect his men, and he’d never fought the Germans, never had a chance to prove his mettle in combat. Now he’d run out of time.

Curtis briefed the barracks, answering questions and assigning tasks to the men. He passed on the warnings too, although he was worried the Germans would know everything they planned. There were stoolies somewhere in the camp, and the Ferret was never far away. The men had flushed out a couple of these spies and taken care of it quietly—just another dead body found in a bunk. However, there still must be more out there. The Germans always seemed a step ahead of them.

After he was finished, the captain left the barracks and headed to the hospital building, another larger rectangular structure, a football field past Goode’s headquarters, toward the German portion of the lager. Before he entered, he pulled a wrinkled cardboard box out of his pocket and drew out his last cigarette. He looked down at the paper cylinder wistfully. Should he have it now? Once this one was gone, how long before he could find another? Screw it, I need this . He fired the stick up and took a deep drag, closing his eyes and steeling himself for what would come next.

Stepping into the hospital ward, he found Lieutenant Hanson in a cot halfway down the row of beds. His friend was covered by a sheet and a coarse brown woolen blanket. Curtis stifled a shiver. The temperature in the room was barely above freezing. Men moaned and coughed, surrounded by the drab stone walls of the hospital. A couple of male orderlies and a doctor filtered among the beds, checking wooden charts as they went.

The lieutenant was propped up by a couple of pillows, reading a wrinkled letter. His dark hair swam across his eyes, a bushy roof protecting his gaunt features from the bare bulbs above. Hanson looked up and smiled grimly, a pale ghost.

“How are you, Tim?” he asked, forcing his own artificial grin.

“I’m alive.”

“What are you reading?”

The lieutenant looked down. “The same thing I’ve looked at every day since the Bulge. My last letter from home.”

“You haven’t had anything since we were captured?”

“Have you?”

“Nope, not a one.” Curtis chuckled. “But don’t complain too much. At least you have something. The damn krauts took everything off me when I was captured. Letters, pictures, rations. Worst of all, my smokes. I had a carton of Lucky Strikes, and they didn’t leave me a pack. Waters gave me a few he salvaged out of a Red Cross parcel, but overall I’ve had a bare handful the whole damn time I’ve been here. Just finished my last one before I came to see you. I’d give my soul for a letter from home—and some tobacco. Frankly,” he said, chuckling, “I’m not sure which one I’d take over the other.”

Hanson nodded but didn’t respond. His eyes were glazed over, and he was staring up at the ceiling, not really listening.

Curtis knelt down and leaned near his friend’s ear, keeping an eye on the German guard at the end of the hallway who was looking his way. “Hey, buddy, I got some news,” he whispered. Hanson still didn’t respond.

“Freedom,” whispered Curtis. “Rumor has it we might be out of this place in the next few days.”

“Freedom,” said Hanson, repeating the word mechanically. His lips pressed upward a fraction, but then a darkness seemed to envelop him. “Don’t see how that’s going to do me much good at this point.”

“Nonsense, Tim. Think about it for a minute. Hot food and showers. New uniforms to replace these lice-ridden rags. Hell, no lice. Medals, promotions, and a boat ride home to our families. No more war, no more camp, no more army. Just life in our hometowns with our families again.”

His friend smiled a little. “At least it’s nice to think about those things. I’m happy for you.”

“It’s not just for me,” he said, his heart wrenching a little. “It’s for you too. It’s for all of us.”

Hanson didn’t answer.

Curtis put a hand on his friend’s chest. “Think about getting home for a second. What will you do first? When I walk through the door, I’m gonna kiss my wife like she’s never been kissed before. Then we can sit down to a homemade dinner of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, biscuits and warm apple pie. To the end of my days, I swear I’ll never be hungry for a minute again.”

“Tell me about your wife’s pie again.” Hanson closed his eyes, listening.

He was getting through to him, at least a little. He spent the next half hour describing in minute detail each moment his wife spent preparing her pie. The flaky crust, hand-kneaded and brushed with generous strokes of liquified butter, browned to perfection. The fresh apples, sugar, and cinnamon composing the filling. The homemade ice cream scooped on top of the piping-hot pie. He never could wait for it to cool. He could taste every bite as he told the story to his friend.

“Thank you,” said Hanson. “I needed that. That’s something I’m still good for. I can still eat pie.”

“There’s a hell of a lot more to home than just food. Baseball and football will be starting up again—what with the war over. Who do you follow on the diamonds? My family is split right down the middle between the White Sox and the Reds.”

“What about the Cubs?”

“Hell no.” He was about to ask Tim about his own team, but he was interrupted. An orderly had stepped up behind him. “Could you help me, sir?”