James Shipman - Task Force Baum

Curtis chuckled to himself. Did it matter? Die in the yard outside or in here tonight or tomorrow. The camp had been evacuated. The hospital patients were the last POWs left. They would be in danger even without Knorr, and the sergeant had sworn his revenge. Waters was right: a fraction of hope was better than no hope at all.

He managed to work the rope free around his ankle, and Waters pulled the line away a few seconds later. He was free. Curtis worked his legs around to the floor, twisting his ankles and stomping his feet a few times to restore circulation. “Keep it down!” warned Waters.

“What’s the plan?”

“We make it to the door first and crack it open as little as possible. If there are no guards, then we sneak out and tiptoe our way across the yard.”

“And if there are guards?”

“We find something to neutralize them with.”

“I’ve got a pistol.”

“What?” Waters asked, forgetting his admonition on noise.

“What are you talking about?”

“When you were out, a couple of the raid members came in. A major and a lieutenant. You were in surgery. The major left me a pistol. Come to think of it, he was asking for you, specifically.”

Waters’s eyes narrowed, and he became thoughtful. “A major, huh? Fifty, medium height, and a leathery face?”

“I was pretty out of it, but that seems about right.”

“I wonder if it was Stiller? That sounds like him.” Waters’s face paled. “Jesus, I hope the old man didn’t send this whole thing in here just to get me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Patton.”

“Why would Patton send a raid after you?”

“I’m married to his daughter.”

Curtis widened his eyes in surprise. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

“Nobody’s business, and that’s not the kind of thing a real man brags about. Goode knew, and a few others.” Waters shook his head. “It would be just like my father-in-law to sacrifice a bunch of men on my behalf. Christ, I hope I’m wrong.”

“The pistol…”

Waters shook his head as if driving out the thoughts. “Yes, that’s more important right now. Where is it?”

“It’s right over here,” said a voice from across the room.

Curtis’s blood froze. He looked up, and through the semidarkness, he made out the form of Sergeant Knorr, standing near the doorway, holding the .45 pistol aimed at them.

“Imagine my surprise when your good doctor brought me this. He said he found it in your cot, Curtis. Tsk, tsk, that’s very poor behavior for a POW, don’t you think?” The sergeant took a few steps toward them, a sadistic smirk flooding his face. He looked at Waters. “ Und Sie , Lieutenant Colonel. Out of bed so soon after surgery? You’ll catch a nasty infection.”

“We’re not going to play your game, Knorr,” said Waters. “You’re in a room full of witnesses. You can’t do anything to us here.”

“A room full of witnesses can easily be dealt with, Waters, as you are well aware. Don’t you worry about them. They will be well taken care of. It’s yourself you should be concerned with.”

Waters spat. “Do what you will, Knorr. I’m not going to mince words with you. Do your business or shut your mouth.”

The sergeant took another step forward. “I’ll certainly take care of my business tonight, but I would like a little more privacy and some space for the fun.” He motioned with his pistol. “Let’s step into the operating room, shall we?”

“And if I refuse?” asked Waters.

The sergeant pointed his pistol at the head of one of the patients. “Then I’ll take steps to assure that this room is fully private, immediately.”

Waters hesitated a moment and then turned, stepping toward the operating-room double doors. Curtis could see now just how frail the lieutenant colonel was, as he dragged his feet and shambled slowly away.

“You too, Curtis. I told you I have something special in store for the two of you.”

The captain turned and followed Waters. Despite the frosty room, he could feel driblets of sweat rolling down his forehead. He wanted to talk to Waters, to try to figure out what they could do, but the sergeant was close behind him, digging the barrel of the .45 into his back.

Waters reached the doors and pushed his way slowly through. Curtis followed and entered the operating room. There was nobody else inside. A set of bloody instruments lay unwashed over a crimson-stained towel on a tray near the operating table. A little light emanated from a window set high up to the left. As they entered, Curtis was struck in the back of the head, and he went reeling forward, crashing to the ground near the base of the operating table. He nearly passed out but clung desperately to consciousness.

“On the table, Waters,” he heard Knorr command.

“I won’t do it.”

Curtis heard the .45 hammer cock back. “Now, or I’ll shoot you.”

There was silence for a moment, then Curtis saw Waters step up to the table and lower himself down onto it. His feet swung up and disappeared over the edge.

“Now, Waters, a moment I’ve been looking forward to for a very long time. Have you seen my SS dagger? I showed it to Curtis earlier, but I’m afraid you were indisposed during my presentation. However, we’ll have the opportunity to resolve that right now. Where are your stitches? Here they are. What a poor job the doctor did. We’ll have to fix that.”

As Curtis watched in horror, Knorr drew his dagger from his belt. The steel weapon flashed, and Waters gave out a dreadful moan. His feet kicked up and down on the table. The captain couldn’t stand the sound. He had to do something. He looked up. Knorr had the pistol in his left hand, still aimed at Waters. The knife was in his right.

Closing his eyes and muttering the briefest of prayers, Curtis spun himself over, rolling until he crashed into the sergeant’s legs. He hit Knorr hard, and the German fell backward, toppling to the floor. Curtis continued his momentum, both hands grabbing for the pistol. He grasped the barrel with one hand and Knorr’s wrist with the other. He struggled with all his might, trying to dislodge the weapon.

A fire burned his back, then another. Knorr was stabbing him with the dagger. He could feel the knife ripping through his flesh, in and out. He screamed in agony, but he refused to let go. With superhuman effort, he tore the pistol out of Knorr’s hands and reversed it, struggling to aim. He felt the dagger plunge into his back again. He was losing blood rapidly and was terrified he would lose consciousness. With a final effort, he pressed the trigger, and the weapon bucked. Knorr’s head snapped back, and a froth of blood exploded on the ground behind him, splattering him with hot liquid and brains. The sergeant went limp below him.

“Curtis, are you okay?” Waters called weakly from the table.

“I got the bastard,” said the captain quietly. He felt an almost dreamy sleepiness. He lowered his head onto the sergeant’s stomach, the light already dimming around him. As he watched, the door of the operating room ripped open and German guards blazed in, machine pistols at the ready. One of them took in Curtis and Knorr, a look of terror in his eyes. Curtis pulled his weapon up to aim. It didn’t matter. He’d fought his enemies. He’d saved his friend. There was a flash, and he was gone.

Munich, Germany

July 2, 1945

Major Stiller sat in the back of the room watching as the reporters barraged Patton. Nearly every hand in the room was up, but any semblance of order had fled as the journalists lobbed their demands for answers at the general.

“Why didn’t you announce the raid ahead of time?”