by Len Levinson
“Well,” said Colonel Simmons, “we’ll get to it as soon as we can. I don’t suppose you’re ready to return to duty yet?”
“The doctor says I have to take it easy for a few days. I’ll be at battalion headquarters on light duty until I can return to my unit.”
“Very well,” said Colonel Simmons. “I have work to do now. Somebody from the Adjutant General’s Corps will get in touch with you shortly.”
Woodward stood and saluted. “Thank you very much, sir.”
Chapter Ten
It was night in Comblain. Claire sat beside the wood stove in the bedroom of Richter’s headquarters building, waiting for him to arrive. A sentry was standing guard outside the window, and Franz was posted on the other side of the door. She’d just taken a bath, and wore a civilian dress that one of Richter’s aides had brought her. She smoked a cigarette and tried to gather the courage to kill Richter because she knew that’s what she had to do. The plan was detailed in her mind. All she had to do was carry it out.
They’d given her a pack of cigarettes, and she chain-smoked them as she sat beside the stove. She still wore her U.S. Army combat boots and had her army topcoat thrown over her shoulders. She kept thinking about the wounded GIs that Richter had killed. Some of them had been married with children, and others had girls back home. They were defenseless and nearly dead, and that beast had finished them off.
She heard footsteps in the corridor and the door opened. Richter entered the bedroom, his nose bandaged and a sorrowful look in his eyes. She laughed at him.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Your nose,” she replied. “It makes you look like a parrot.”
“Take off your clothes.”
“Let’s do something different,” she said with a lascivious smile.
The light came back to his eyes. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. A new position maybe.” She took off her topcoat. “C’mon, get undressed.”
He smiled. “You’re in an awfully good mood tonight. Is there any reason why?”
“Well,” she said brightly, “I thought if you’re going to rape me again, I might as well make the most of it.”
He unstrapped the black belt that held his pistol and knife, laying them on the dresser. “Now you’re getting smart. You women always wake up sooner or later.”
She unbuttoned the dress. “Have you had many women?”
“I’ve had my share.”
“I’ll bet you have. You’re a very experienced lover.”
“How would you know?” he asked. “You haven’t had that many men.”
“No, of course not.”
“You Americans are so unsophisticated. You lack the complex culture and traditions of us Germans.”
She pulled the dress over her head and stood before him in her underwear. “You really excited me last night,” she said.
“I know I did. It’s because I was made for you and you were made for me. We are cosmic lovers, like Tristan and Isolde, Romeo and Juliet, Lancelot and Guinevere, and all the others.”
“I want to do wild, incredible things with you tonight!” she said.
He smiled. “I’m not surprised. How wonderful that you’ve seen the light so quickly.”
He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, but she said, “Wait!”
“What is it now?”
“Could we have something to drink, sort of to loosen us up?”
“Why, yes,” he said. “I have a flask in my office. I’ll get it and be right back.”
Richter stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him. She heard his footsteps move away in the corridor.
Quickly, she walked to the bureau where he’d laid his uniform and removed his dagger from its scabbard. She carried it to the bed and hid it between the mattress and box spring, where she could reach it easily. The door reopened. Colonel Richter returned.
“I’m afraid I don’t have suitable glasses,” he said with a debonair wink, “so we’ll have to drink out of the flask.”
“That’s fine with me,” she said, taking the flask from his hand. “Here’s to tonight.” She raised the flask to her lips and took a drink, feeling it burn her mouth, throat and innards.
She passed the flask back to him, and he took a swig. Then he set the flask down and continued to undress. She removed her bra and underpants, and then cupped her breasts in her hands, tantalizing him.
“You’re so lovely,” he said passionately. “You make my blood boil. Get into the bed.”
She tiptoed to the bed and slipped beneath the covers. He stepped out of his trousers and followed her, his heart pounding with lust, and crawled in beside her, feeling her warmth and smelling her delicious feminine fragrance.
“Ah, my dear, you’re lovely,” he said burying his face in her neck.
Her skin crawled with revulsion, but she caressed his back and bided her time. He had a boney muscular body that had thrilled her last night, but now that foolishness was past: ten GI prisoners were dead, and this murderer was going to pay for it.
He placed his fingers between her legs. “You’re dry tonight. Why is that?”
“Perhaps because I’m nervous,” she whispered. “Why don’t you wet it yourself, with your tongue.”
He crawled down her body, kissing her neck, breasts and stomach. Finally his tongue found the sweet little crevice between her legs, and he licked it delicately, caressing her gumdrop with his lips.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“I love it,” she replied, and her mind was tumultuous, because he stimulated and disgusted her at the same time. She spread her legs wider, raising one knee in the air.
He became more excited, gobbling between her legs. He held her thigh with one hand and rubbed his face in her vagina, while masturbating himself with his other hand. In the darkness she reached down and withdrew the SS dagger from underneath the mattress. He drooled and groaned as he devoured her, murmuring words of endearment in German, his hand pumping up and down on his penis.
She poised her arm and prepared to strike, steadying herself as he sucked her little gumdrop. She rested her leg on his shoulder to hold him in position and brought the knife down with all her strength.
It plunged to the hilt into his back, and his head jerked up, his eyes wide with surprise. He made choking sounds as he tried to cry out, but no sound would come. Claire sprang up from the bed and tried to pull the knife out, but it was deeply imbedded in the ribs of his back and wouldn’t come loose. He fell onto his stomach, making choked, strangled sounds. She was afraid he might scream, so she grabbed him from behind and covered his mouth with her hand.
“That was for the wounded soldiers you had killed, you pig,” she whispered into his ear.
He made a few pathetic struggling movements, then went limp. She let him go and felt his pulse. He still was alive. Only a small dribble of blood leaked out from around the knife because if was jammed in so solidly. She wanted to stab him until he died, but somehow the knife wouldn’t budge. She hadn’t counted on that, and she didn’t want to shoot him with his gun because that would attract too much attention.
Quickly she dressed in his clothes but wore her own boots because his were too big for her. She put on her wool fatigue shirt, then his black tunic, and finally strapped on his leather belt with the pistol in its holster. Taking the pistol out of its holster, she tiptoed to the door and opened it a crack.
“Franz,” she said. “There’s something wrong with the Colonel. You’d better come in and have a look.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stepped back into the darkness, and he entered the room, turning toward the bed, where Colonel Richter lay sprawled on his stomach.
“Turn on the light,” Franz said.
Claire gritted her teeth and slammed him over the head with the pistol. He moaned and fell to the floor. She didn’t want to look at him because he’d been kind to her, but war was war. Slipping out of the bedroom, she tiptoed
down the corridor to the office, where Hendl snored on his cot and Colonel Richter’s leather topcoat and helmet hung on hooks behind the desk.
She put on the topcoat and helmet, raising the collar so that it covered her face. Pausing, she took a deep breath to clear her head and focus her energies. Then she stepped softly down the corridor, opened the outside door, and slipped into the night.
~*~
“You wanted to see me, sir?” Mahoney asked.
Captain Anderson sat on the floor of his latest dugout, wrapped in a blanket. “Yes, Sergeant. Come in and have a seat.”
Mahoney crouched in front of Captain Anderson. A candle burned on top of an empty C ration can between them, providing the only heat and light. Mahoney held his big gnarled hands near it to thaw them out.
“Well,” Captain Anderson said, “I might as well give it to you fast and straight. It looks like you’re going to be court-martialed when things settle down.”
“Woodward?” Mahoney asked.
“Yes. Did you really hit him, Mahoney?”
“Are we talking on the record or off the record?”
“Off the record.”
“Yeah, I hit him.”
Captain Anderson shook his head. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“If I had it to do over again, I’d do the same thing,” Mahoney said. “He’s a scumbag and everybody knows it.”
“What’d he do to make you hit him?”
“The usual shit. He wanted to get everybody killed so he could grab some glory.”
“Were there any witnesses.”
“One, but he’ll testify that he didn’t see anything.”
Captain Anderson nodded. “So it’s your word against Woodward’s. You’ve got a fifty-fifty chance—maybe better than that because you’ve got a lot of friends in this division. But still, you hit an officer, and everybody knows you hated him. If a lot of outside people get involved, you might have a problem.”
“What outside people?”
“People from Third Army or even from SHAEF. People who don’t know you so well.”
“There any chance of that?” Mahoney asked.
“You never know. Woodward’s awfully determined. You shouldn’t have hit him, Mahoney.”
“It’s too late for that now,” Mahoney replied. “He’s been hit.”
Half an hour later, Mahoney walked back to his foxhole. The temperature had risen above freezing, and the snow was getting slushy. If the temperature dropped again, the slush would freeze and tanks might be able to move on it.
Mahoney reached his foxhole. Cranepool huddled inside, his head covered with his blanket. Mahoney dropped in beside him.
“Guess what?” Mahoney asked.
“What?” Cranepool replied.
“Looks like I’m gonna get court-martialed.”
“For what?”
“Clobbering Woodward today.”
“Shit, they oughtta give you a medal for that,” Cranepool chortled. “Don’t worry about it, Sarge. If they court-martial you, the worst thing they’ll do is put you in front of a firing squad.”
“Fuck you.”
“Personally,” Cranepool said, “I think you should have killed the son of a bitch while you had the chance.”
~*~
Claire kneeled beside a tree and took a rest. She’d been trudging through the woods for two hours and expected to reach the American lines soon. Richter’s cigarettes were in the pocket of his tunic, and she wanted to smoke one, but didn’t dare. She was ferociously hungry and thought she’d faint unless she ate some food soon.
After a few minutes, she stood and adjusted Richter’s steel helmet on her head. It occurred to her that a GI guard might shoot her on sight, but she’d worry about that later. Right now her main problem was that the Germans might get her. Checking her position with the North Star, she moved out again in a westerly direction.
~*~
On the floor of the bedroom in Comblain, Franz picked himself up off the floor. His head felt as if it had been split open. Staggering to the electric lamp, he switched it on.
His eyes bulged at the sign of Colonel Richter sprawled on the bed, a knife sticking out of his back. Franz blinked and rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t dreaming.
“SERGEANT OF THE GUARD!” he shouted. “SERGEANT OF THE GUARD!”
~*~
Mahoney opened his eyes. “I heard something out there,” he whispered.
“I don’t hear anything,” Cranepool replied. “It must be your imagination.”
“No, there’s something out there. At first I thought it might be the wind, but it’s not. Somebody is walking around out there.”
“You sure it’s just one person?”
“I’m sure.”
“Must be a kraut.”
“I’m gonna go see,” Mahoney said. “I’ll be back in a little while.”
Cranepool didn’t say “Be careful” or “Watch out” because he knew Mahoney knew how to take care of himself. He watched Mahoney moved away in a crouch, setting his feet down silently, holding his rifle ready. In a little while, there’d be a shot, and that’d be the end of one kraut. Cranepool watched Mahoney disappear into the night and then dropped down into his foxhole again, covered his head with his blanket, and closed his eyes.
~*~
Mahoney paused and listened. He heard a twig break, then the rustle of branches. The succession of sounds gave him an idea of the direction in which the kraut was going.
Mahoney moved to intercept. He crept along like a forest creature, keeping his head low, making little sound. The kraut made a lot of noise; he evidently wasn’t skilled in moving through the woods at night. Soon, he’d pay for that lack of skill.
The half moon cast a ghostly glow on the trees and branches. The forest appeared enchanted, and Mahoney would not have been surprised to see a unicorn or an elf. He maneuvered himself toward a spot where the kraut would pass him by.
Stopping beside a bush, he peered through it in the direction of the kraut, who was moving toward Mahoney’s right. Mahoney angled in that direction, and then he caught a glimpse of a German helmet in the moonlight. The kraut was only thirty feet away. He was travelling at a fast pace, and it would be difficult to hit him in the dark. It would be better to ambush him.
Like a panther, Mahoney moved so that the kraut would have to pass near him. The kraut came closer slowly, stepping cautiously but too noisily. Mahoney stooped behind a tree and lay his rifle on the snow. Slowly, he pulled his bayonet out of its scabbard. He glanced around the tree and saw the kraut in his black leather topcoat and steel helmet. He looked like an SS officer. What the hell was an SS officer doing out here alone?
It was a strange situation, and Mahoney didn’t know what to do. He didn’t have much time to think, but something told him to try and take the SS officer alive, because maybe he was trying to desert and had important information with him.
Mahoney lay down his bayonet and picked up his rifle again. The SS officer came abreast of him, and Mahoney sprang up behind him.
“Don’t move!” Mahoney shouted in German.
The officer shrieked like a woman and ran. Mahoney dropped his rifle, ran three long steps, and leapt through the air, grabbing the SS officer by the shoulders and dragging him down.
Mahoney and the German fell to the ground, and Mahoney threw the German onto his back. The violence of Mahoney’s movement caused the SS helmet to fall off the German’s head, and Mahoney found himself staring at a beautiful blonde woman with hair to her shoulders. Their eyes locked onto each other. She was terrified, and he was astonished.
“What are you doing here?” he asked in German.
“Are you a GI?” she replied in English.
“Yeah, I’m a GI,” he told her.
“I’m an American nurse,” she said. “The Germans captured me a couple of weeks ago, but I escaped tonight.”
Mahoney helped her up and looked her over. The moon glow surrounded her face.
She was pretty in a healthy, all-American way.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Claire.”
“I’m Mahoney.”
Her eyes darted around nervously. “Am I safe now?”
“Except for some trigger-happy GIs you are. Let’s go, and try not to make too much noise.”
Mahoney got his bearings and led her back toward the foxhole he shared with Cranepool. He wanted to drop her in the trench with Cranepool and see what he’d do.
She stumbled, and he put his arm around her waist to steady her. “Are you all right?”
She didn’t answer. He looked at her face and tears ran down her cheeks like pearls. She sobbed, and her legs gave out underneath her. Mahoney swept his big left arm under her knees and picked her up. She cried in his arms like a baby.
“Take it easy,” he said soothingly. “You’re all right now.”
She covered her face with her hands, and her body trembled as she cried. Mahoney felt sorry for her. She must have had a real tough time.
“HALT—WHO GOES THERE!”
“SERGEANT MAHONEY FROM THE FIRST PLATOON!”
“Hey, whataya doing out there, Sarge?”
Mahoney carried Claire forward and saw the outline of the sentry. It was Private Ferrara from the second platoon.
“You got a kraut with ya, Sarge?”
“Keep your eyes open and shut up,” Mahoney replied.
Ferrara leaned forward. “Hey, is that a broad, Sarge?”
Mahoney walked past him and carried Claire to Captain Anderson’s dugout. He ducked down with her and entered the dugout. Sergeant Futch stirred. “Who’s there?”
“Mahoney and a female, so watch your language.”
“A female?” Sergeant Futch turned on his flashlight and stared at Claire. “Is she a kraut?”
“She’s an American nurse who was captured by the krauts, but she escaped tonight.”
The canvas flap separating Captain Anderson’s quarters from the rest of the dugout was pushed aside. “What’s this I hear about a female?” Captain Anderson said.
Mahoney pointed to her. “Here she is.”
“Good God!”
Mahoney held out a cigarette to her. “Want one?”
