James Shipman - Task Force Baum

“What are you doing?” asked Hall, his eyes darting behind them, expecting the Germans to arrive any second.

“I gotta piss. Jump in the driver’s seat, Hall. I’ll be right back.”

Hall climbed over the seat, putting both hands on the wheel. His mind was reeling. South, north, west. They’d been blocked in every direction. They were trapped. The Germans were going to kill them all. At best, they’d be captured, and he’d spend the rest of the war as a POW. All he’d wanted was one patrol. A safe jaunt into the countryside followed by a promotion. So many staffers had done it. His father had assured him that Patton would give him the same. How in the hell had he ended up in the middle of this? He felt his panic rising. He looked over. Stiller was turned away, doing his business. Hall reached into his jacket, pulling out the flask. He unscrewed the top and tipped the metal to his lips, gulping deeply, finishing the rest of the schnapps in a couple deep pulls. He needed this warmth, the courage to go on.

“Hall, what the hell are you doing!”

He turned and saw Stiller striding rapidly back toward the jeep. “Give me that damned flask.” Hall handed the empty container to the major, who sniffed it, his face in a deep furrow; then he tossed it into the field. “Where the hell did you get that?”

“I pulled it off a dead German. There wasn’t much in it,” Hall lied. “Just a swallow.”

“Jesus Christ, Hall. What did I tell you before we came on this mission?”

“Sir, it was just one drink. Surely that doesn’t matter anymore.”

“You bet your ass it matters!” shouted Stiller, pointing a finger. “I’m a man of my word, Hall. I told you, you’d done well, and that you’d be rewarded. But I also told you before that if you ever took another drink on duty, that’d be the end of you.” He shook his head. “I don’t get you, Hall. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before. I figured you’re above all the rest of it. Smarter and better somehow. Well, I’m sorry to tell you that you’re just like the rest of us. And you have to follow the same rules. I have no choice but to…”

“I’ll tell.”

Stiller’s forehead creased. “You’ll tell what?”

“I’ll go to the press about Waters. About Patton.”

Stiller took a step back. “You wouldn’t think of it. Have you no honor?”

“I don’t give a damn about honor or about your sacred secret. I’ll tell everything to anyone who’ll listen. I’ll bring Patton down and you with him.”

Stiller was speechless. He moved closer, and Hall thought for a moment that the major might strike him. His face was a splotchy red, and his hands were balled into fists. He stood there for a few moments, then he spat on the ground. “Fine, Hall. You can have it your way. I’ll keep your secret if you keep Patton’s. You’ll get your precious promotion.”

Hall smiled. “That’s all I ever wanted. You keep your word, and I’ll keep mine.”

“Don’t you worry about me, Hall. You worry about yourself. You’ve lost something today. Something maybe you never had. You think you’re getting your way, but all you’ve done is sell out your last chance for salvation. You did something out here. Something maybe you don’t even realize. You took one step toward becoming a man. A real man. Now you’ve given all that up. You’re going to go on being the little worm you’ve always been.”

Hall laughed. “You can keep your honor, Stiller. You and Patton. I want what’s mine, and I’ll be on my way.”

“You’ll get it. Not that it will do you any good.”

Stiller walked around the front of the jeep and stepped into the passenger seat. Hall was surprised at the major’s movements. He seemed an utterly beaten and defeated man. Was he mourning Hall’s loss of honor? Or was he angry that Hall had defeated him? The lieutenant didn’t care. He was getting everything he wanted.

He shifted the jeep into gear and moved forward, returning to the task force. They made contact within a few minutes, and Stiller passed on the news in a quiet voice. Baum waited for the last Sherman to return, but it did not. It must have been destroyed or captured like the other two.

Major Stiller said nothing to Baum about the flask, Hall’s threats, or the deal they’d made. Baum gave new orders, and the task force turned to the northeast, making their way up a hill where the task force could regroup and await the coming dawn.

Hill 427

March 28, 1945, 0700 hours

“Fire!” screamed Hauptman Koehl. His Ferdinands belched into action, pouring shells into the midst of the American task force, lying helter-skelter on the lower hill to the southwest. The captain watched the attack through his field glasses. The first volley hit a half-track and a light tank, exploding them in a roaring blaze of flames and onyx smoke.

“Keep it going!” he commanded. The second volley flew, then the third. The Americans were sitting ducks hit by a murderous barrage from multiple directions. Another tank exploded, then another. Koehl could see the green figures scrambling for cover, abandoning their vehicles as they sprinted for safety among the trees. A Sherman got off a shot, firing wildly, but then was hit and blew apart. The scene before him was one of annihilation. One of the half-tracks made it into motion, driving clear of the convoy and heading toward the trees. Koehl thought it might make it for a moment, but the Tigers must have tracked it, as shells fell around the fleeing carrier, and then a direct hit stopped it cold, burning everyone alive within. Koehl could only imagine the curdling screams as the men writhed in their death throes below him.

“Infantry forward!” Baumann’s voice crackled over the radio. The two companies of ground troops were moving now, spreading out in the trees, sprinting down the hill, and beginning to engage the enemy. In a matter of minutes, he could hear the ripping chatter of small arms as their forces laid fire on the retreating American soldiers. His Ferdinand rumbled down the side of the hill to the base of the lower prominence. There were no more targets above; they had decimated the armored component of the task force, but he might lend the weight of his 88mm cannon to the firefight that was now developing in the woods before him.

Koehl could feel the thrill of victory and revenge coursing through him. These bastards had killed his sister and his best friend. They’d taken away the last two cords of sinew holding him to the world, to a future life after the war. He was left with nothing now but hot hate and the humiliating specter of defeat. For this one last, blazing moment, he was victorious, he had control over his destiny, he was a warrior and a man. He relished the last bright burning flames of his service to the fatherland.

His Ferdinand came to rest at the edge of the woods. Visibility was low here, and he struggled to see the combat at the edge of his vision, even with his field glasses. He realized immediately that his cannon was useless here. He could not make out targets easily, and if he ordered the weapon to fire, he was as likely to hit friend as foe. He stared out at the trees for a few moments, then started to climb out of the turret.

“Sir, no!” shouted Jaeger.

“You stay here in charge!” he ordered, not looking back. He climbed out of the Ferdinand and hopped down to the cold, hard grass of the field. Outside the steel blanket of his vehicle, he felt vulnerable and out of place. Still, the thrill of combat embraced him. He didn’t want this moment to leave him, and his revenge was not yet complete. He fastened a Stahlhelm to his head, drew his pistol, and moved in among the trees.