by James R Benn
“Listen to me,” Flint said, leaning forward, focusing his gaze on the German’s eyes, getting him to see this was more than another of his endless encounters with grubby Americans. “I can tell you a whole lot more than how long I’ve been dodging artillery shells in the beachhead. But first, I need a doctor for my arm. I think my wrist is broken. One of those Force men did it, the bastard.”
“And why did he do that, Sergeant?”
“We got into an argument. I mentioned my family name had been Mueller, and that they had changed it to Miller during the last war, on account of my dad getting beat up for being German. He said he’d deserved it, and one thing led to another.”
“Commendable that you defended your father’s honor. But foolish that you had your wrist broken.”
“The other guy was more foolish. I broke his damn neck. That’s why I took off across the canal.” Flint knew he needed a story. He’d been captured minutes after he went across, and this officer probably knew that. Still, it could work to his advantage if he didn’t go overboard with the Kraut stuff.
“You killed a comrade?”
“He was no comrade of mine. Those guys think they run everything. I risk my life every day bringing stuff from Nettuno and returning their reports to HQ. You’d think they’d say thanks, but no-”
“Headquarters? What headquarters?”
“General Lucas’s headquarters. In Nettuno. Every day I make the trip, and let me tell you, it ain’t easy with all that firepower you’re throwing at us.”
“Tell me about your work at headquarters, Sergeant Miller.”
“Here’s the deal. I’ll spill plenty, once you take care of my arm, and find some officer’s uniform for me. I don’t want to go to an enlisted man’s POW camp. I want medical attention and a promotion. Then we sit and talk, one good German boy to another. Ja?”
“I have another idea. I will have you taken out and shot.”
“Hey, suit yourself. Go ahead, and lose the services of a sympathetic German-American who’s seen General Lucas every day since he landed.” Flint could see the man’s eyes flicker, as he calculated what he might gain if the story were true. He knew he could spin tales of HQ long into the night, made up from bits and pieces of gossip, scuttlebutt, and even a bit of truth. Like most GIs he knew which units were where along the line in the beachhead. It might not be news to the Krauts, but it would make the rest of what he told them sound real.
“Very well, Herr Mueller. We will attend to your arm, and find a more suitable identity for you. I take it you do not care how we do so?”
“God’s honest truth, I don’t give a damn.”
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-821376-4e77-9f4f-79b3-14b3-a298-d0e670
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 06.01.2012
Created using: Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
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