The German Triangle

by Carl Messinger

  “It’s been a long week,” thought Matthews. “Hell, it’s been a long six weeks.”

  The crew had been flying almost every day for the last six weeks, and while Matthews loved to fly, even he had to have a rest now and then. So when the Operations Officer told him the day before yesterday that he would have the rest of the weekend off, he was very happy.

  The flight that Saturday morning had been a routine hop to Munich and back. It was booked as a mail run, but in reality, it was a shuttle to allow some of the other pilots a chance to spend the weekend there. Munich was one of the favorite spots for the Americans. Besides the many clubs and breweries located in the city, it was only a short hop to Garmisch and the German Alps. Being early April, the snow was still plentiful and the skiing great. Since none of that interested Matthews, he was only too happy to make the short flight and get back home by noon.

  The ground crew secured the wheels with the wooden chucks as Matthews and Robson went through their post-flight shutdown. By the time they were done with that, Smiley had put away the maps, locked up the fold-down table, and was already opening the door and handing out the ladder. He looked toward the cockpit as though asking permission to disembark. Matthews gave him a thumb’s up, and Smiley scurried down the ladder and sprinted for the Operations building.

  “Most have a hot date,” thought Matthews. He envisioned the rest of his own day; a hot shower followed by a well-deserved nap, followed by a leisurely dinner at zum Rose.

  “Perhaps Tom and Jim will be there and we can swap lies,” he chuckled, thinking about the good times they have together.

  The post flight check done, the pilots left the cockpit and walked through the cargo compartment to the open door. Matthews exited first and waited at the foot of the ladder as Robson stepped out and closed the airplane door behind him. As they walked past the other planes toward the Operations building, Smiley came darting out.

  “I already did the debriefing,” he yelled to them excitedly. “We’re free till Monday morning! Have a great weekend!” With that, he turned and started jogging toward the billets, leaving the pilots surprised but happy that they were also done.

  “Have a good weekend, Ron,” said Robson. “As for me, a cold brew at the club is in order,” he said miming the drinking of a frosted mug of good German beer.

  Matthews chuckled as he walked away toward the waiting jeep. He had arranged that morning to have it ready when they got back so he did not have to waste any of his precious free time. The driver was standing there waiting and started the engine when he saw the pilot head his way. Matthews threw his flight bag in the back and climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Let’s get the heck outta Dodge, Sonny,” his New York twang barely disguised by the bad Texas accent.

  “Yes Sir,” said the smiling driver. He pulled away from the Operations building and headed toward the front gate.

  The trip to the village was a quick one and in no time Matthews found himself standing under a warm stream of water, some GI soap in one hand and a washcloth in the other. The shower felt good and he stayed in it a little longer than usual, mindful of the need to conserve the warm water, but luxuriating in its soothing caress. Feeling a little guilty, he stepped out of the shower and turned off the water. He dried himself off and wrapped the towel around his waist. He opened the door slightly and peered down the hall. Seeing no one, he grabbed his dirty uniform and quickly walked down the hall to his room. His bed had been freshly made and some colorful flowers in a vase placed on his dresser. He smiled as he thought of how much of a hostess Frau Schlegal was.

  “If only she was forty years younger,” he thought with a smile. And with that thought, he collapsed on the bed and fell asleep.

  Matthews’ eyes opened to a completely dark room. The sun had long set and the stars had taken its place. He could hear some movement downstairs in the kitchen and figured it was Frau Schlegal just cleaning up after dinner. He got out of bed, switched on the lamp on the nightstand and stretched to loosen the tight muscles that were reluctant to function. As he got dressed, his stomach growled as if to say it was its turn to get sated.

  He went downstairs and walked to the kitchen door. His knock startled Frau Schlegel and she quickly turned to see what or who it was.

  “Essen, Essen,” he said. “Zum Rose.”

  She nodded knowingly and Matthews turned and walked down the hallway to the front door.

  The gasthaus was empty except for an elderly couple sipping a couple glasses of wine. Matthews went to his usual corner table and sat down. Herr Kurtz saw him, waved, and went behind the bar to get him a beer. Ingrid walked out of the kitchen, glanced his way, and continued toward the elderly couple with their check. She said something to them, smiled, and went back into the kitchen, this time not even glancing at Matthews.

  “Danke,” said Matthews as Herr Kurtz set the mug on the table. He knew exactly what he wanted so he ordered a salad, cordon bleu, and French fries without looking at the menu. Herr Kurtz nodded in acknowledgment and walked back to the kitchen, returning in a minute with the salad.

  He was finishing up his salad and the elderly couple were putting on their coats, ready to leave, when two young men walked into the restaurant. They wore tight pants tucked into high black boots and brown shirts under their worn leather jackets, imitating what had been the traditional dress for the now disbanded Hitler Youth. Their hair, short on top and almost none on the sides was definitely military and their manner was more like the police than someone looking to get something to eat. The leader appeared to be the taller of the two, his short blond hair almost invisible. The shorter one had dark hair and a scowl on his face that looked permanent.

  Matthews looked at the two young men but thought nothing about it. Meanwhile, the elderly couple hurriedly put on their coats and walked to the door. As they passed the men, they lowered their eyes as if by not seeing the men, the men would not see them. The door slammed as the couple left, leaving Matthews alone in the room.

  The two men looked around the room, the taller one saying something to the other, and finally chose a table close to where the elderly couple had been seated. Ingrid walked out of the kitchen and saw the two leather jackets at the table. She turned around and went back to the kitchen, followed by whistles and words that Matthews did not understand.

  Herr Kurtz carried the cordon bleu as he walked from the kitchen and sat it down in front of Matthews, most of the time starring at the two visitors. Matthews looked questioningly at Herr Kurtz, as if to ask who the men were.

  “Hitler Junge,” said Herr Kurtz with contempt. “Schieze,” the German word for shit.

  Matthews had heard of the Hitler youth, but thought that they had been disbanded and outlawed. Apparently this was the case in larger cities, but in some of the smaller villages, the group or what was left of it, still existed. Judging from the reaction of the elderly couple, the movement in Oberstdorf was still a threat.

  Herr Kurtz turned and walked back toward the kitchen, starring again at the two men. Stopping halfway there, he looks them straight in the eye and spits on the floor.

  “Schieze,” he says to them and spits again.

  The two young men jumped out of the chairs and rushed toward Herr Kurtz. The elderly German turned and faced his attackers like he was 30 years younger, but he was no match for them. The leader got to him first and shoved him in the chest with both hands. This caused the owner to lose his balance and stumbled backward with a yell. The small man saw the wooden leg and lashed out with his boot to strike it just below the knee. With a groan, the struggling owner was shoved back against the bar and the two men started beating him with their leather clad fists. He struggled to protect his face with his arms but he was not being successful.

  Matthews quickly got up out of his chair and rushed the two men. The element of surprise allowed him to almost tackle the smaller of the two attackers and push him into one of the tables on the other side of the room. Out of the corner of
his eye, Matthews saw Ingrid emerge at the kitchen door and quickly run to the other end of the kitchen. The taller attacker had stopped the barrage of blows on Herr Kurtz and was taking aim on Matthews, the gloved fist shot toward his head, but a quick parry with a forearm prevented it from landing. A second blow landed harmlessly on his shoulder.

  Matthews stepped forward and jabbed with his left hand, hitting the offender on the right cheek and staggering him a little. A second jab caught him a little more squarely and sent him backward. Matthews cocked his right arm to finish the job, but before he could unleash his fist, powerful arms grabbed his arms and pulled them behind his back.

  Realizing this must be the smaller thug, Matthews shoved backward with his body hoping to push the assailant into a wall, knocking his breath out and freeing himself from the iron grip. Crashing backward through the tables and chairs, he had almost reached his objective when a gloved fist crashed into his stomach, causing him to bend over in pain while he tried to regain his own breath. A second blow caught him on the left side of his face. He could hear the crunch of cartilage as his nose reacted to the punishment. His left ear was ringing.

  The leader said something in German which Matthews did not understand, but when it was followed with another blow to the face, he decided it was not a pleasantry. A second blow to the stomach doubled him over and a punch to the back of the head dropped him to the floor. His face was bleeding now and he was coughing blood, doubled over to protect himself from the black boots kicking at his groin and face.

  The rain of punishment stopped as the ringing in his ears turned to sirens. The two attackers stood still for a minute, then turned and rushed through the kitchen and out the back door. Seconds later, the half dozen police crashed through the front door and surveyed the situation.

  Matthews was laying on the floor curled up into a ball. Blood was all over his face from his broken nose and he was moaning and clutching his stomach. Herr Kurtz was leaning against the bar, trying to catch his breath, not able to say anything. Ingrid came running into the room, right to her father, and helped him to one of the few chairs not broken. As she turned to the police, she saw them pulling Matthews to his feet and trying to put handcuffs on him.

  “Nein,” Ingrid yelled angrily as she left her father’s side and rushed to Matthews.

  Quickly she explained to the police what had happened, describing the two attackers and telling them that the thugs had escaped out the back door. Two of the policemen quickly ran into the kitchen and out the back. A third one ran out to the cars to radio in the situation. While Ingrid continued to talk to the head policeman, the remaining two helped Matthews to a chair.

  One of the policemen who had ran out the back door came back in a rush. He said something to the head policeman who in turn said something to the two remaining cops. He turned and headed to the door followed by one who had helped Matthews. The other policeman watched as they left, apparently remaining in case the attackers came back.

  Herr Kurtz was breathing regularly now and was able to stand. Matthews was still hurting and Ingrid went into the kitchen to get a wet cloth. The older German walked over to Matthews and stuck out his hand.

  “Danke,” he said wearily. “Danke.”

  The coldness of the cloth felt good against his torn skin as Ingrid gingerly wiped the blood off his face.

  “Yes, thank you very much,” she said in perfect English.

  Chapter Five

  Two tiny elves with wooden sledgehammers were taking turns hitting a huge tree stump inside of Matthews’ brain. He pulled the covers up over his head, hoping that the darkness would cause them to stop their incessant pounding, but all it seemed to do was to increase their vigor as the pounding grew harder and harder. His eyes opened.

  “Herr Matthews,” said Frau Schlegel in her frail voice as she knocked on the door. “Bitte kommen. MP’s, Herr Matthews, MP’s.”

  “I’ll be right there, Frau Schlegel,” he said as he struggled to get out of bed.

  He slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed, his body resisting every movement which dragged it away from the horizontal position in which it so desperately wanted to remain. Being unsuccessful, it retaliated by achingly reminding Matthews of the beating he had put it through the night before. Sore all over, Matthews nevertheless managed to get semi-dressed and, slowly walking to the door and past the mirror, glancing at a visible reminder of the evening’s activities. The left side of his face was black and blue, with his left eye swollen and almost shut. His nose seemed to have taken a right turn and was pointing 30 degrees to starboard. If it had not been so painful, it would have been comical.

  Matthews stepped down off the last step and turned into the living room. Two military police had been sitting and now stood up at his approach.

  “Sir,” said the ranking Sergeant, “there was a report of you being in some kind of a fight. Guess the report was correct. The CO told us to check on you and bring you back to talk with him about the situation.”

  “Understand,” nodded Matthews. “How did he find out?”

  “Guess the Polizei filed a report this morning, first thing. It appears you may be some kind of a hero or something, Sir.”

  Matthews glanced down at his wrist where normally his watch would have been.

  “What time is it, Sergeant?”

  “Almost noon, Sir.”

  “Give me a couple of minutes to get properly dressed and I’ll be right down,” said Matthews as he turned to go up the stairs.

  “Yes Sir, we’ll wait right here.”

  The ride to the base seemed longer than usual as the bumps and ruts in the road deliberately jumped in their path. Compared to the ride, the meeting with the CO was relatively short. He had received the report from the Polizei about the fight the night before. Based on the statements by Herr Kurtz and his daughter, Matthews had been exonerated of any wrong, and in fact, had been portrayed in the report as the one who had protected both of them. The CO, interested in the well being of his men, wanted to see Matthews first hand and make sure he was all right. Seeing he was alive and was going to be all right, but needing some medical attention, Matthews was ordered to the Flight Surgeon for an examination and whatever treatment the doctor deemed necessary.

  The Flight Surgeon gave Matthews a thorough going-over, cleaning up the cuts on his face and even repositioning the nose, though that was painful. A quick snap and it was back in place and a piece of tape across the bridge of the nose attempted to hold it in place; the tape was more of a reminder, as the nose would stay in place unless, of course, it came across a gloved hand again. Matthews hoped that would not happen.

  Before leaving the Flight Surgeon’s office, Matthews was informed that he would be off flight status for a week until his eye swelling went away. Though he protested, the doctor refused to change his order and Matthews left the office carrying a “no flight status” notice to the Operations building and some pain medicine. Before that notice could be canceled, he would have to make another appointment with the doctor to get his blessing. The military was strict about that.

  The MP jeep was waiting at the Operations shack to take him back to Oberstdorf. They dropped him at the front door, saluted, and headed back toward the airfield. He walked in the front door and saw Frau Schlegel sitting in the living room.

  “Alles Gut?” she questioned.

  “Ja,” replied Matthews heading up the stairs, “Alles Gut.”

  His bedroom door was slightly ajar and entering he found that the bed had been made, the window cracked to let in some fresh air. With the pain medicine beginning to take hold, he laid back down on the bed he had so reluctantly left a couple of hours earlier and fell asleep.

  The body, whether due to the return to the horizontal position or to the pain medicine, let the tired pilot sleep. Even the elves quit banging on the stump.

  Chapter Six

  By the time that Matthews’ body allowed him to tortuously stand up again, the whole day had gone
by. The sun had run its course and the moon shone brightly down from the star-filled sky. “That is a good thing,” Matthews thought, “because squinting in the strong sun would just cause his face to ache.” The medicine the doc had given him had done its job, causing the body to rest so as to self-heal. While the remnants of the fight could still be seen on his face, his body reacted less strenuously when he asked it to resume the vertical position. A quick jerk and the tape across his nose was gone, replaced with a slight bump which would probably never go away.

  Matthews, clad in his olive drab army-issued boxers, grabbed a soft towel that Frau Schlegal had left in his room and slowly made his way down the hall to the shower. The hot water eased more of the pain, as the muscles reacted to the soothing touch of the warmth. Carefully, Matthews allowed the stream of water to wash over his face, mindful of the need for caution in seeing how his injured nose would react. The damaged cartilage twitched when the heat touched it, then seemed to slip into a state of euphoria, relishing both the massage of the stream of water and the heat it brought along with it. Matthews closed his eyes and allowed his body to absorb all there was to absorb.

  The exterior of the body now sated, Matthews quickly changed into civilian clothes, gingerly walked down the stairs, smiled briefly at Frau Schlegal, and made his way to zum Rose. Spotted by Herr Kurtz as he entered, Matthews found himself the center of attention of all diners in the restaurant with hands reaching out to shake his and pat him on the shoulders. Herr Kurtz escorted him to his standard table, shouted something over his shoulder to the kitchen, and made sure that he was comfortable.

  Looking up from the table, Matthews saw Ingrid walking toward him, her right hand carrying a cold mug of local beer, and her left hand holding a vase of flowers. She approached him and placed the flowers in the middle of the table, the cold mug in front of him. A smile, not well hidden, adorned her face.