by Ellen Butler
“It’s a Panzer Tiger. You got those mortars ready, Sully?” someone called out.
“Working on it.”
The top hatch opened and a white piece of cloth tied to a rifle rose out of the turret.
“Hold your fire,” the machine gunner called.
The rifle continued to rise, followed by a hand and then a hatless head. “Amerikaner? Ich gebe auf,” the German called.
“What’s he saying?” the machine gunner holding the shell rounds asked.
“He said, ‘I give up,’” I translated. “Don’t shoot.” I got to my feet.
“Who’s the dolly with the great gams?” one of the soldiers mumbled from behind me.
“Wie viele Männer sind im Tank?” I called out.
“Nur ich,” the tank driver replied.
“He says he’s the only one in the tank.” The camera still hung around my neck, and I pulled it up to snap a shot of the surrendering soldier.
The machine gunner with his finger on the trigger stared over his shoulder at me. “Tell him to throw down his weapon, exit the tank, and come forward with his hands above his head.”
I repeated the message in German.
The tank driver did as he was told. Once he was a few feet from the tank, five men scrambled forward. One held the German at gunpoint while the others surrounded the vehicle. A private moved up from the rear and took a knee beside me, his weapon at the ready.
The German looked at the men, then at me. “Nur mich,” he assured me and continued with a spate of German.
As the soldiers checked the tank, I explained to the machine gunner what the German said. “He says he traveled across Czechoslovakia and Germany on his own so he could surrender to the Americans and not the ... untermensch. Um, I think he’s referring to the Russians. It means something like subhuman ... pigs, maybe?”
The gunner’s gaze shifted to the private beside me. “Janssen?”
“Yeah, she got it right, Sarge.”
“I’ll be damned. I guess that means we just got ourselves a new Kraut Tiger, boys. Load the prisoner in the back of second squad’s truck.”
The machine gunner and his partner retrieved their weapon while a pair of soldiers climbed into the green-and-brown camouflage-colored tank. Three more soldiers mounted the vehicle, and one straddled the large gun. The tableau was so perfect I couldn’t help dashing up to take another photo. The soldiers smiled and cheered as though they’d won the homecoming football game.
“What paper are you with?” a private perched to the left of the gun asked in a thick New England accent while he lit a cigarette.
“I’m freelance. I have pictures appearing in The Boston Globe, Iowa Dispatch, and others. I hitched a ride with two Czechs who are on the hunt for a Nazi guard from the Buchenwald concentration camp.” I indicated with a thumb over my shoulder.
“Boston, huh? I’m from Boston, the North End. What about you?”
“Sorry, I’m from Washington, D.C.”
“Um, I hate to tell you this, D.C., but I think your ride just left without you,” the soldier said, pointing with his cigarette.
Sure enough, I looked back to find my bag, with my limited worldly goods, dumped on the side of the road. “Hey,” I called to no avail. Jiri zipped away, steering the jeep down the shoulder past the troop trucks. I took a few half-hearted steps before realizing the uselessness of my actions.
“Where are you headed?” The machine gunner stood over six feet tall, with the heavy weapon slung over his shoulder.
“Trying to make my way south, to Bavaria.”
“We’re headed to a town outside of Nuremberg.” He glanced uneasily around at the dense trees lining the road. “Lieutenant,” he called over his shoulder.
A lieutenant who’d been speaking with the driver of the front truck came over to where we stood.
“What’s up, Gunny?”
“The lady’s ride took off without her. It’s not safe around here. The Ruskies aren’t far off.”
I licked my lips and shot the young lieutenant a toothy smile. There were no lines in his round face, and he looked like a ninety-day wonder from West Point. “I’m a freelance photographer. My credentials are in my bag if you want to see them. I’m headed south. Would it be possible to catch a ride with you boys as far as you’re going?”
He didn’t hesitate. “No problem at all, ma’am. You can ride up front with me.”
“I’d be honored.”
The machine gunner grabbed my bag and the lieutenant assisted me into the cab. I was more than relieved the boys from the Twelfth Infantry hadn’t left me behind to fend for myself. The Red Army was close, and rumors of their ghastly treatment of the local women had been discussed by the journalists one evening over a bottle of schnapps. It wasn’t a pretty story and one that had chills running up my spine.
Chapter Thirty
Solomon
It took me four days to catch up with the 101st. They were heading southeast into the mountains of Bavaria toward Berchtesgaden when I finally tracked down their convoy. The trucks lined the road as they waited for the Army Corps to rebuild the bridge over the Bischofswiesen River, a little present left by the retreating SS. The mount I’d acquired in Prien am Chiemsee, a lovely chestnut thoroughbred named Solomon and nothing like the hulking Franziska, ambled lazily past soldiers relaxing along the riverside. I knew I’d found what I was looking for when, instead of catcalls and comments like, “look at the dame on the horse,” I heard my name.
“Lily Saint James! Can it be?”
I pulled Solomon to a halt. “Tank?”
“In the flesh.” He held a new tommy gun in his hand, and the ever-present stogie shifted upward as his lips curled.
“Heavens, it’s good to see you. Hold Solomon’s head so I can get down?” I slid off the horse’s back and was scooped, laughingly, into a bear hug the moment my feet hit the ground. When Tank let go, I found myself surrounded by soldiers. Some I recognized, Whiskey and Peterson, and there were a few new faces interested to find out who the lady on the horse could be.
“Looking stunning as ever.” Tank grinned.
“Look at you. None the worse for wear, I see.”
“What are you doing here?” Peterson asked.
“Why, I’ve been searching for you handsome fellows.”
“Are you on a mission?” Whiskey whispered.
I whispered back, “Yes, I’m on a mission to find the 101st. I’ve just accomplished my mission objective.”
The men whooped and Whiskey got a slap on the back.
“She wouldn’t tell you if she were on a mission,” Tank guffawed. “The boys scrounged up some fresh eggs this morning and are making helmet scramble. Would you like to join us?”
I wanted nothing more than to continue moving forward until I reached the battalion staff. However, the entreaties to remain for lunch ballooned into a rowdy chant of “stay, stay, stay,” and I gave in.
Whiskey dusted off a rock for me to sit on, and I searched the faces, looking for one in particular. “Where’s Feinberg? Didn’t he move out with you?”
The jovial voices went silent.
“What happened?”
Tank removed the cigar and shook his head. “Took a shot to the neck. He didn’t make it.”
No. My lips moved, but the denial turned into a simple gasp of disbelief. I pressed fingers against my temples and shook my head. After everything we went through to retrieve Nigel, and then at the hospital in Switzerland.
I cleared my throat and swallowed the lump that arose. “He was a good man who knew how to keep his wits about him.”
“Here, here,” a soldier behind me murmured.
Whiskey handed me a metal mess kit bowl with a small pile of scrambled eggs and what looked to be a charred slab of Spam.
“Thanks.” Feinberg’s death seemed to have turned my appetite, and I simply held the meal in my lap.
Tank patted my shoulder. “He had a great respect for the work you two did
together.”
“I held him in high regard as well. His skills saved our butts more than once during the mission. Did he ever tell you how he got injured?”
Tank shook his head.
The men gathered closer as I told them about Nigel, the SS soldier, and our wild ride through the mountains of Germany. When I finished, I knew Feinberg’s reputation had increased tenfold and his story would become legendary among the men. It was the least I could do for him.
“Tell us what you’ve been doing since we saw you last.” Whiskey hunkered down at my feet, with his own meal in hand.
I told them the story of Jiri and Ludvik and soon had them laughing over the German who’d hightailed it across Czechoslovakia in his tank so he could surrender to the Americans.
“And then the Czechs took off in their ‘borrowed’ jeep without me, so I hopped a ride with some boys from the Twelfth Infantry.” I didn’t mention that it had been a good thing I’d hooked up with the Twelfth, because we soon ran into a ragtag group of Russians who looked rather savage. I don’t think it would have gone well for me had I been alone.
“Sounds kind of dangerous, traveling alone these days. You never know who you’ll come up against,” Tank drawled.
“True. It’s why I carry this”—I pulled a fully loaded Walther PPK out of my coat pocket—“wherever I go.”
“Very nice.” Whiskey whistled. “Can I see it?”
“I assume you know how to use that?”
I gave Tank an arch look, shook my head at Whiskey, and returned the weapon to its place.
“What were you doing with a couple of Czechs?” Whiskey asked.
“POWs at Buchenwald concentration camp. They had gotten a line on an SS guard and were pursuing him for execution.” My comments effectively shut down conversation.
The men shifted uncomfortably and wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“We came across one of those camps outside Landsberg,” Whiskey murmured.
“Like nothing I’ve ever seen.” Tank’s cigar shifted and he glanced away.
“I heard Dachau was bigger. Worse.” Whiskey picked at a hangnail.
“What were you doing at Buchenwald?” another soldier asked.
“Freelance photography for a couple of newspapers. They estimated twenty-one thousand prisoners lived there.”
Someone from behind let out a low whistle.
“Patton forced the locals to march from miles away to witness the depravity.”
Tank nodded. “General Taylor made the locals dig graves for the dead at the camp we saw.”
“Buchenwald too.”
“I heard the Russians found one even bigger. With gas chambers.” Peterson joined our group, sitting on a tuft of grass across from Tank.
“Miss Saint James.” My head rotated to find Lieutenant Glassman standing with hands on hips. “Your presence is requested up front.”
“Glass!” I hurried over, threw an arm across his shoulder, and kissed his cheek. “You are a sight for sore eyes.” I echoed the same sentiment from when he first found me.
He took a laughing step back and wrapped a hand around my waist to keep us from toppling over. “It’s good to see you too, ma’am.”
It took a few minutes for me to untether Solomon and say my farewells to the men. Glassman and I walked shoulder to shoulder along the roadside, passing DUKW boats, jeeps, and troop transports. Solomon snorted and shook his head.
“Nice horse,” Glassman said.
“Thanks. How did you know I was here?”
“Grapevine. Good news travels fast.”
“Do you think he’s angry that I’m here?”
“He doesn’t know. Captain Devlin overheard the men and sent me to find you. But if you ask me, I think he’ll be pleased to see you.”
“How much farther?”
“Just around the curve there.”
“Wait. Hold up a moment. Here, take Solomon’s reins for me.” My duffle bag lay slung across the front of the saddle; I unclasped the front pocket that held a comb and other toiletries.
Glassman watched in patient amusement as I primped. The brown slacks I wore were dusty and smelled of horse, and the jacket wasn’t in much better shape. I slapped away as much of the dirt as I could and plopped my hat between Solomon’s ears. “Lieutenant, do you have a sweetheart back home?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. A fiancée.”
“What’s her name?” I combed out a snarl.
“Melly, short for Melanie.”
A few swipes of lipstick and I smacked my lips together. “She’s lucky to have you.”
“Well, ma’am—”
“Lily.”
“Lily, I’d have to argue with you there. I’m the lucky one.”
A smattering of purple wild flowers on side of the road caught my eye, and I plucked a few to place behind my ear. “Will I do?”
“As pretty as a picture.”
“Always the gentleman. That ... is precisely why your Melly is lucky to have you.” I tapped the brim of his hat. “Lead on, Lieutenant.”
We rounded the corner; the shade from the trees broke into shimmering sunlight. Its rays flooded the landscape and my heart. He stood with his back to me, but I would recognize that figure anywhere. One foot rested on the jeep’s running board, his elbow on the windscreen while the other hand held a pair of binoculars to his eyes. I only vaguely registered Jake sitting in the passenger seat of the jeep.
“Major,” Glassman called.
Charlie lowered the glasses and turned. His face initially registered surprise and then turned to delight. I surged forward into his embrace. I was home.
“How can this be?”
“I’ve been searching for you for days.”
“I don’t understand. You said you were going back to Switzerland.”
“You understood the message?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve been with the press corps in Buchenwald and decided to take a vacation.”
He laughed. “A strange place to go on vacation.”
“Are you kidding me? Berchtesgaden is supposed to be one of the premier vacation resorts.”
“Lily”—he held me at arm’s length—“the war isn’t over. We don’t know what we’re going to find over this bridge.”
“I imagine you’ll find a bunch of empty houses. You must be a member of the Nazi Party to live here. They’d be fools to remain.”
He didn’t argue and his hand slipped from my upper arms down to my palms.
“Why did you come?”
“I thought I’d take Jake up on his offer to become his secretary.” I grinned at the captain, who unabashedly watched our reunion.
“You’re hired. It’s good to see you.”
“You too. Have you been staying out of trouble, or are you still losing your paychecks in poker games?”
“I only lose when you’re in the room. You’re the opposite of a good luck charm when it comes to poker.” His gaze slid past me. “Where did you find that fine specimen, Glass?”
“That is Solomon, and he’s mine.” Glassman passed the reins and I laid a cheek against his roan and white muzzle. “Isn’t he a beauty? I liberated him from an abandoned stable up the road. I think he belonged to an important Nazi or military officer.”
“An interesting choice of transportation.” Charlie ran a hand down the horse’s neck.
“How much longer before you can cross?”
“The engineers tell us another hour.”
“Are you expecting trouble?”
“Probably not. The district head of the local Volkssturm turned in his weapon and officially surrendered to Third Infantry yesterday in Winkl. But we can’t be too careful. We’re too close to the end to make mistakes.”
My predictions proved correct. An hour later the men entered the ghost town of Berchtesgaden. The sun had dipped below the mountains when Charlie tracked me down. I’d tethered Solomon to a tre
e and set about taking pictures of the town.
“I see you’re back to using your photography cover again. What’s the assignment this time?”
As usual, my body filled with a heightened sense of well-being whenever Charlie was around, and I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face. “Actually, I wasn’t joking when I said I was on vacation. I’m not on assignment. To be honest, I turned in my resignation. Although I’m not sure they accepted it.”
“What happened?”
“I didn’t feel there was much more I could provide to the OSS. My last mission was abruptly cancelled and the opportunity to go to Buchenwald fell into my lap.”
His brows knit. “Are your press credentials phony?”
“No, they’re real enough. I thought I could get permission to stay and get some photographs for the papers.”
He grinned. “I’ll see what we can work out.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Berchtesgaden
Berchtesgaden—a soldier’s paradise. Once the Allies crossed into Germany, the conquering army kicked civilians out of their homes and billeted soldiers under warm roofs. However, as I overheard Whiskey say, “the houses didn’t compare” to the lavish resort Minister Speer conceived and built in the Obersalzberg for Hitler and his high-ranking officers. In late April, some of the complex had been bombed; however, much of the town and its buildings were still intact, and the 101st took no time settling into the Alpine Village. Checkpoints were set up, patrols still ran shifts throughout the day and night, but hot showers, three squares a day, and comfortable beds lifted everyone’s spirits.
I requested and was granted permission to remain with the 101st as a member of the press corps after assuring the colonel, who had luckily never heard of me, that my reporter colleague would be joining me as soon as permission was granted. Immediately following that conversation, I phoned to beg Maggie, my roommate at Buchenwald who’d moved on to Dachau, to come to Berchtesgaden. It didn’t take much to convince her to leave the tragedy of concentration camps for the beauty of the Obersalzberg for a few days. She promised to arrive as soon as she could.
