Souvenir

by James R Benn

  Hände hoch! Hände hoch! Hands up, in the shrill, excited tones of a soldier who’d be happy to shoot you if you didn’t obey him exactly. Clay knew that feeling too, the questions that gnawed at his gut when face to face with the enemy, his hands held high. Is this guy really giving up? Does he have a concealed weapon? A grenade? A knife? Is he going to kill me? Then the thought, why don’t I plug him, why am I taking a chance for this fucking Kraut?

  Surrendering or taking prisoners was never easy in the first few minutes, right after a fight. Everyone’s blood was up, everyone was nervous, twitchy, scared, and still in the tunnel vision of life or death combat. If you surrendered, you offered up your life to your captor, who may not yet have felt the killing frenzy pass. Fear, terror and rage collided in the air as men who couldn’t understand each other yelled louder and louder, going desperately beyond language, one pair of hands reaching toward heaven while the other gripped his weapon tighter. These voices sounded all of those things.

  The Kraut in front of Clay said something to one of his men and pointed. He took off to see what the fuss was. Then Clay heard a voice in English, an American voice.

  “Don’t shoot! I give up! Don’t shoot!”

  Cresting the other ridge, a GI with his hands held high stumbled along in front of a couple of Krauts. His coat was open and his helmet was gone. He looked back at his captors, who were prodding him with their rifles. Every time he did, he’d lose his footing and stumble. Then a poke with a rifle barrel or a swipe with a rifle butt would propel him forward again. If he used his hands to push himself up, it was hände hoch all over again.

  “Please don’t shoot, I give up, I give up.”

  Clay risked a look back at the replacements while the Kraut in front of him was turned away. He scanned their faces, taking a quick count. Fuck. One was missing. It was him, this one, begging not to be shot. Clay recognized the face, but didn’t know his name. Must’ve gotten lost, or got himself lost so he could surrender. Maybe he thought the Germans would take him away, far away.

  The Kraut in front of Clay took a couple of steps back, to get a better look at the prisoner being brought in. Clay could see him rest his hands on top of the submachine gun that hung by a strap around his shoulders. He looked nonchalant and patient. The prisoner was led straight to him, about twenty feet from where Clay lay hidden. Fuck. This guy’s a sergeant or officer. Pretty soon we’ll have a dozen of these fuckers within spitting distance.

  “Don’t shoot, okay? I surrender, okay?” The GI’s voice was calmer now. They hadn’t shot him, and now they’d brought him to someone in charge. His voice was friendly, as if he were trying to make a deal with them, show them how reasonable he was being. I gave myself up, so don’t kill me, okay?

  They came up to the Kraut with the Schmeisser and stopped. They were to his left, so Clay could see their faces. The GI was wide-eyed, smiling, a grin of fear to show how harmless he was. Clay heard one of the Krauts call the one in front of him Scharführer, what the SS called their sergeants, as he handed him something Clay couldn’t see and nodded his head toward the prisoner. By now there were seven or eight of them grouped around the prisoner and the Kraut sergeant. Clay spotted two more on top of the far ridge.

  Two squads. There had to be only two squads. If this sergeant’s in charge, then it had to be only two squads. Stands to reason, if there were three or more, he’d be in the middle somewhere, not out at one end of the line. But if there’s only two squads, then this makes sense. Bad news twice, two SS squads. Good news, no third squad.

  “Where are the others?” The SS sergeant spoke his English slowly, as if he were remembering a distant school lesson.

  “I’m all alone here, really, I’ve been alone since you guys hit us at the village…”

  “Langsam. Slow. Talk slow,” the sergeant said, with deliberate calmness.

  “Okay,” the GI said, nodding his head to show he understood.

  “Where are the others?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m alone. Since the village. I’m lost. I surrender.”

  “You have been lost all this time?”

  “Yeah, honest, I’ve been looking for anybody, I’m freezing, hardly had any food…” The sergeant gave a nod of his head and a rifle butt flew up and smashed into the side of the GI’s face. He fell to the ground, holding his cheek, cupping blood as it welled up in his hand.

  “Do not lie. Tell me, where are the others?”

  “No, not lying. I’m all alone.”

  Clay grimaced, waiting for the next assault to come. Boots whacked the GI in the ribs. He rolled over, curling himself up into a ball to protect himself. Clay thought of a dozen lies that would’ve sounded better, bought some time, maybe even a hint of mercy. But the GI kept on whimpering, as he was hit, alone, alone, alone.

  The sergeant raised a hand, and the kicks stopped.

  “So you were all alone?”

  “Yeah, honest.”

  “You were at the village, the village we attacked two days ago?”

  “Yeah, first fight I was ever in. I’m new, a replacement. I ran, I didn’t even shoot anyone.”

  The sergeant spoke to the two who had brought the G.I., asking them a question from his tone. The answer came in grim tones.

  “You did not have much ammunition left for someone who did not shoot.”

  “No, I mean yes, I shot but I didn’t shoot anyone, didn’t hit anyone. I’m a lousy shot.”

  “Where is your officer?”

  “Dead, back at the village.”

  “Have you seen any other Americans since the village?”

  “No, nobody. I saw your patrol and stood up, raised my hands and gave up. Ask your men.” He started to get up, still holding his bruised and bleeding cheek.

  “Where did you get this?” The sergeant held out a knife, as if he were handing it to the GI. Clay felt his stomach drop. It was an SS dagger, black ebony case with bright silver fittings, with a black and silver handle on the knife.

  “Back at the repple depple, in a card game.”

  “What? Where is that?”

  “Sorry, sorry, at the replacement depot. I won it in a card game.”

  “I think you took it from an SS man you killed.”

  “No, no, I didn’t kill anyone!” Terror rose in his voice. Clay wanted to bang his fist on the ground. Didn’t they tell these stupid fuckers anything?

  “My men do not like it when you Americans steal from our dead. Tell me where the others are and nothing will happen to you.”

  “No, please, all I did was play cards with a guy who had the knife. I won the hand, I won, you see?”

  Clay admired the replacement’s guts. He may have wanted to give up, but he wasn’t going to betray them. Clay doubted the poor guy even knew they were listening. He must’ve taken off earlier in the day and been wandering around, looking for someone to surrender to. Too bad he didn’t ditch his souvenir.

  “So you gamble for an SS man’s dagger. That is even worse. You are not even a soldier.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know, it was only a card game, please.”

  “All alone then? The last two days, you saw no one?” The sergeant stuck the dagger into his belt. Clay saw the arms continue to move, the shift of the Schmeisser, at the same time he saw the Krauts on either side of the G.I. step back.

  “Yes, I was alone, I don’t know anything, I just got to the front line.”

  A burst from the Schmeisser ripped through the air, followed by a gurgling scream as the G.I. flopped on the ground. A single shot ended the sounds.

  God damn it. Clay slid down a few inches and rolled on his back, risking that the Germans wouldn’t hear it as they focused on the shooting. He pulled a grenade from his pocket and held it up. Jake nodded and did the same. Tuck and Shorty followed suit. Miller kept his eye on their rear as Big Ned sat up, grenade in hand. Oakland too, along with one other replacement. The rest were huddled together, faces buried in the snow, paralyzed with fea
r.

  Clay gripped the safety lever and pulled the pin. He held it up, his hand over the lever, waiting for everyone else. Six other pins were pulled, six hands gripping live grenades, holding the safety lever in place. Opening his hand Clay let the safety lever fly off, starting the fuse burning. He saw the other levers flip off and counted, one, two, and then tossed the grenade towards the Germans. Seven grenades flew through the air, over the embankment they hid behind. Seven explosions cracked the air, sending shrapnel flying through the closely grouped Germans. Even veterans make mistakes. These Germans were good, but even they couldn’t keep from bunching up, knowing the G.I. was going to die. No one wanted to miss the show.

  Clay heard screams follow the explosions and gunfire all around him. He couldn’t tell who was still alive right in front of him but he was more concerned with the two Germans on the next ridge. He felt bullets whip through the air over his head. Trying to ignore them, he sighted in on the German farthest away. Squeezing the trigger slowly he fired, but the German didn’t fall. He went right and the other Kraut went left, trying to work their way around to their flanks. Clay followed the one going right, led him a bit, let out a breath, squeezed the trigger, and this time the bastard dropped.

  As he reached for a new clip, snow blew up in front of his face and he heard the submachine gun blasting away as if it were next to his eardrum. Was that fucking sergeant still alive? Clay buried his head in the snow and waited for the firing to die down.

  Jake saw the bullets hit all around Clay and yelled his name, but it sounded like a whisper among all the screams, curses and gunfire. He emptied his clip over Clay’s head, hoping to hit whoever was firing at him. Pulling a grenade out he threw it, unable to see where it landed. As he re-loaded he saw Shorty search his pockets for a clip and come up empty. The grenade came sailing back at them and Shorty dropped his rifle, catching it and flipping it behind them. He dove for the ground as it exploded in the air. Jake rolled around a boulder, getting up in a crouch, trying to see where the fire was coming from, bullets hitting the side of the boulder as he tried to find a spot that gave him cover.

  Shorty kicked one of the huddled replacements and grabbed his rifle. His arm was dripping blood but he didn’t look badly hurt. Jake saw a white blur above the embankment and squeezed his eyes shut as another bullet ricocheted off the rock inches from him. He leaned left and brought up his M1, seeing the SS sergeant above them, leveling his submachine gun right at him. He squeezed the trigger and nothing happened. The M1 was jammed. He looked into the sergeant’s eyes, not ten feet away. His helmet was gone and blood matted the hair on the side of his head. His bloody right leg was shredded but it held him there, above them, grinning, as Jake uselessly pointed the malfunctioning M1 at him. Shorty saw the sergeant too, and fired twice, quickly from the hip, missing both times. The empty clip ejected and the Schmeisser swiveled to aim at Shorty. The sergeant fired a burst that caught Shorty in the chest. As he swiveled his weapon towards Jake, who was slamming the receiver with the heel of his hand, Clay rose up from the snow and swung his M1 by the barrel, hitting the SS sergeant in the chest and sending him falling, a spray of bullets arcing up into the air. He drove the gun butt into his face, forcing him down, praying he wouldn’t gain control of the submachine gun for even a second. Faster than he ever thought he could, Clay swung the M1 again and again, smashing the butt against helmet and head until he couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended. Then falling into a heap, gasping for air, oblivious to bullets and explosions, he prayed for his lungs and heart to slow down, for the blood to stop pounding in his head, and for the screaming to stop. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, or do anything except let his lungs heave and stare down at the red-flecked snow. Seconds, maybe minutes passed. It didn’t matter.

  The noises lessened and Clay looked up. German bodies littered the ground. Standing with a grunt, he looked back down the embankment. Oakland was gone. The other guy who’d thrown the grenade was dead. He’d stood up to fire his M1 and took a bullet in the face. Miller was looking at Clay, then back down the trail, then at the dead Germans. His eyes couldn’t stop darting around, waiting for the next threat to appear. Big Ned let out a sigh, as if he’d been holding his breath the whole time, a long white plume of frosted air blasting out from his mouth.

  The other replacements untangled themselves and looked around, as if they’d been awakened from a nap. Skittering away from the faceless dead replacement they moved in a clump, each one trying to put another man between himself and death. They passed Shorty, two empty rifles at his feet, his helmet gone and his chest ripped open, four bullets grouped around his heart. The snow around him had turned crimson as his brown eyes stared up at the gray-clouded sky. Tuck knelt next to him, one hand on his shoulder, the other holding himself up by his M1. He hung his head as the replacements continued to edge away from him, guilt driving them from the reddening whiteness.

  Clay felt Jake help him up.

  “Shorty’s dead,” Jake said.

  “Yeah,” Clay answered, moving away from the dead German. He started to pick up his rifle, but the wooden stock was shattered. Leaving it in the snow he walked over beside Tuck with Jake.

  “He saved my life, Tuck,” Jake said, kneeling down next to him.

  “Yeah,” Tuck said, faintly.

  Jake didn’t know what else to say. It was the best tribute he could give. Saving replacement’s lives didn’t count, they didn’t even lift a finger. But saving a buddy’s life, that meant something. Funny thing was, it probably meant the least to Tuck. His life hadn’t needed saving, and now his best buddy was dead.

  “Yeah,” he said again, and touched Shorty’s head, running his hand through the unruly hair, as you would to sooth a child.

  “Tuck,” Jake said quietly. “We gotta move. I’ll get his dogtag, then we gotta get out of here, okay?”

  “I’ll do it, Jake. Give me a minute.”

  Tuck patted down Shorty’s hair some more. Steam rose from the holes in his chest, the warmth leaving his body, drifting out into the cold.

  “Okay.”

  Putting his arm around Tuck, Jake sat with him for a minute, watching as he gently pulled the dogtags out from under Shorty’s clothes. He unclipped one, wiped the blood off it, and handed it to Jake. Then he went back to smoothing Shorty’s hair as Jake got up and moved off to check the German dead. He prodded and kicked the corpses, making sure none were only wounded and still a threat to them.

  Clay handed Jake the dogtags from the two replacements and he dropped all three in his jacket pocket, a dull clink sounding as they mingled with the others.

  Jake closed his pocket flap, smoothing it down, feeling the metal tags beneath the fabric, thinking of the next-of-kin names on each. Mothers or wives, all waiting at home, not knowing their names no longer hung next to the warm beating heart of someone who loved them. He got the replacements going and told them to move towards the road. As they shuffled out of the gulley, he saw they had left behind a variety of German belt buckles, knives, watches, and a couple a Walther pistols. They were learning.

  Every G.I. wanted souvenirs. You just had to know when to carry them and when to get them to the rear. Hunting souvenirs was a good sign, actually. It meant you thought you had a future, could see ahead to a time when you’d be back home, showing off a Nazi flag or an SS helmet and telling stories. When guys got rid of souvenirs, it was either a sign that capture was likely, or that they’d given up any hope of ever getting home. The first was a smart move, the second almost inevitable.

  “Hey, I got one!”

  Jake looked up to see Oakland marching a prisoner towards them, an SS trooper, with his hände hoch. He pushed him with the barrel of his M1 towards Jake.

  “What the fuck is this?” Big Ned said, advancing toward the Kraut with his BAR raised.

  “I saw him trying to flank us, so I went over to those trees to wait for him. Sure enough, he came right along and I captured him.” Oakland sounded like
a kid who’d come home from school with all As.

  “Did you search him?” Big Ned said.

  “Best I could, alone. You guys should check him out.”

  Clay took the German’s helmet off and threw it in the snow. “First thing,” he said, “is never leave a prisoner’s helmet on. It’s a big fucking steel pot he could smash your head in with.”

  Oakland’s smile vanished. Clay and Big Ned searched the Kraut, coming out with one hidden grenade and a pistol. Not a German pistol, but an American .45 caliber automatic. Clay took the pistol and opened up the German’s coat.

  “Look at this bastard,” Clay said. “He’s wearing a shoulder holster. They shot a G.I. for a lousy knife and this guy’s sporting some officer’s sidearm.”

  Big Ned closed in on the German, looking down on him.

  “Take it off,” he said. The German looked at him with dull, vacant eyes. He knew he was dead. “Take it off!”

  Big Ned slammed the German with his fist, sending him to the ground. He pulled at the camouflage smock, ripping it off as he kicked the Kraut in the ribs. He may not have understood English, but the German knew what he was supposed to do. He unhooked the leather strap and let it fall to the ground. He stood, blood flowing from a cut lip, and stared at Big Ned, silent, unwilling to show the fear eating away inside him.

  Miller stood by Big Ned as the replacements gravitated back towards them, drawn to the drama unfolding just as the dead all around had been moments before. Not wanting to repeat the German’s mistake, Jake got the replacements moving in small groups up to the road to stand guard, as best they could. Watching the last of them head towards the road, he turned to see Tuck standing near the German.

  “Do me a favor, Tuck, head up to the road and watch those guys?”

  “Okay,” Tuck said, hesitating. “But if you want someone to take care of things here, just say the word.”