by Dean Hughes
Some of the people there—a grocer, a woman sweeping her front walk, a farmer in a cart—greeted Alex and Otto. Alex was reminded of his days in Germany as a missionary. There was no sign of war here, with common folks going about their business as usual. A little boy walked from his house, shut the door behind him, and stepped through a trellis that arched over his front gate. The limbs of a climbing rose, still bare of leaves and blooms, covered the trellis. As the boy walked away, Alex noticed a lightness in his step, as though he might start to skip at any moment. He was wearing a satchel on his back to carry his schoolbooks. It was astounding to think that at least here, life could continue so placidly.
Alex and Otto made it through the village without incident and hiked on down the road toward Brünen. The morning was cool and misty, with fog hanging in the valleys, but the skies promised a lovely day. Alex didn’t like to think why he was here; he wanted to enjoy the pretty countryside and listen to the birds. The reality was, however, that this area would become a war zone before long, and the village Alex had just seen would almost surely be caught in the combat. That lovely little boy with the satchel on his back wouldn’t see the Allied paratroopers as saviors but as invaders, killers. Alex hoped the boy wouldn’t be hurt.
In the next few days Alex and Otto had to gather information from contacts, locate artillery positions, choose drop zones and landing zones for gliders, advise resistance groups on sabotage targets, and communicate all this information to army intelligence units through radio contacts. And then, one pretty morning like this one, hell would explode around these people.
As a missionary, Alex had promised never to be an enemy to the German people. In Holland, in Belgium, he had forgotten most of those feelings, but now, here in Germany, he knew that he didn’t hate Germans. He had only hated those moving targets, the figures out there in the snowy fields who wanted to kill him before he killed them.
“Where I lived, it was like this on a spring morning,” Otto said.
“But it’s colder there, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Spring comes a little later.”
Otto was from a village not far from the North Sea, outside Bremerhaven. He and Alex had talked about his family. Otto’s father had owned a small hardware store at one time but had been called away into the army in 1943. He had returned a year later with one arm blown off, his hearing mostly gone, and deeply changed by his experience. By then, however, Otto was already in the army himself. He had fought in the east, had been wounded with mortar shrapnel near Minsk, and had spent a summer and fall in a hospital in Munich. He had been released in time to be sent to the west, to the Battle of the Bulge. It was there that he had been trapped between the closing Allied forces and taken captive, and there that he had agreed to work for the American Office of Strategic Services. He had told Alex that he had become a communist during his time in a Munich hospital, that a fellow patient had convinced him that only a revolution would give working-class people a chance to live as they should. But even as he talked of such matters, Alex never felt any intensity or commitment. Otto’s father had been fairly well off, and Otto knew little, in truth, of the struggle of the classes that he spoke of.
“Is your village all right so far?” Alex asked.
“Yes, the village has been spared. No bombs have been dropped there. But the men are mostly gone—many of them dead.”
“What about Bremerhaven?”
“It’s like all the cities. Or worse. It’s been bombed over and over—especially the shipyards.”
“Don’t the people hate us, after all that?”
Otto laughed in that breathy manner of his. “Oh, certainly. They hate you. The last I knew, they thought I was a fine fellow.”
But Alex didn’t want to talk about that. He was still a little nervous that Otto might cut and run the first time he got a chance. That had happened before with some of the POWs who had been sent in to spy on their own country.
The two men were dressed in field-gray SS army uniforms. Alex wore corporal stripes, and Otto the V-shaped stripes of a sergeant. Both were carrying packs on their backs. Otto had hooked his thumbs through the straps, and he was walking along confidently. But then he glanced over his shoulder and stiffened. “Look out,” he whispered. “Trouble! Don’t look back.”
For a moment, Alex didn’t know what Otto meant, but he heard a vehicle coming up behind them.
“Let me do the talking,” Otto said.
“Who is it?”
“Military police.”
In a few more seconds, a German armored car—a roofless vehicle—pulled alongside them and stopped. Alex and Otto stopped too, and Otto greeted the soldiers.
Two policemen climbed from the car, one from each side. As the driver came around the front, he asked, “Where are you two going?” He didn’t sound all that concerned, but Alex knew the danger, and he felt almost rigid with fear.
“We’re soldiers,” Otto said. “We’re on leave for a few days. We’re heading home.”
“What’s your military unit?”
“Two Hundred Twelfth Volksgrenadier Division, Eighty-Fifth Corps, Brandenberger’s Seventh Army.”
“Who is your company commander?”
Otto answered without hesitation. He and Alex had memorized many names of leaders, but the fact was, a policeman of this sort would not know whether they were right. The trick was to answer confidently.
“Where is this unit?”
“We fought in the Ardennes offensive. Most of our men didn’t make it out. We’re being re-formed soon. We are to report not far from here, near Aachen.”
“Where did you fight in the Ardennes?”
“South of Bastogne.”
“Then you didn’t fight very well.”
Everyone knew the story. This was the area where Patton’s Third Army had broken through. But Otto didn’t hang his head. He raised his chest a little and spoke directly into the policeman’s face. “Our men fought with valor. No one can say we didn’t. Not you, not anyone.”
The officer nodded. Otto’s pride seemed to please the man, but he didn’t back away. For the next few minutes, Otto answered lots of questions, and he and Alex presented their papers. Otto’s cover name was Erhardt Becker, and Alex’s was Kurt Steinmetz.
Alex said as little as possible, but he knew better than to remain completely silent. Finally, the older man, the driver, faced Alex. “Why did you receive a leave at such a time? This is not common.”
“Our commander gave us a few days to go home, that’s all. Not many of us survived. As my friend told you, our unit is being re-formed. Many new soldiers will join us soon.”
“And where is this home of yours?”
“In Brünen—not far from here.”
“But you are not a native German.”
“My mother is an American. I lived in America as a child. I know both languages.”
“Perhaps you lie in both languages, too.”
“Only when my mother asks me what I did last time I had a leave.” Alex laughed.
The officer smiled just a little. “A mother’s boy, are you?”
“Oh, yes. That’s where I’m going—for some home cooking.”
“American cooking?”
“Yes. Sauerkraut and potatoes.”
The man laughed, but he said, “Get in the car. We’ll give you a lift to Brünen. I want to meet this American mother of yours.”
“Good. You’ll like her. With any luck, she’ll feed you, too—if she has anything to serve.”
“What weapons are you carrying?”
“We have our pistols in our knapsacks,” Otto said.
“Throw the knapsacks in the back of the car,” the driver said. “Then get in.”
As Alex got into the car, he looked about himself for a way to attack the officers and make an escape. He sat down in the back seat. Otto tried to follow, but the driver told the other officer to take the back seat, and he directed Otto to the front. He obviously didn’t trust them co
mpletely—not yet.
The driver was a thin man, and a little older than one might expect. His partner was stronger looking, more typical of most policemen in the German army. Otto and Alex had answered all the questions correctly, had known the right details about their unit and travel, and their papers were in good order. But Alex felt the suspicion, and that was probably based mostly on his accent.
Otto glanced back and gave Alex a barely perceptible shake of the head, enough to say, “Don’t try anything.” Alex wondered what he had in mind. Maybe Otto thought they could still bluff their way through this situation. He certainly was making an attempt to sound relaxed. He questioned the officers about the news, about the progress of the war, the weather. It wasn’t long until the policemen were talking in friendlier voices. Otto asked them where they were from, and when he learned they were both from southern Germany, he began to tell them about people he knew in Brünen, things he had done growing up there. It was an amazing performance, but Alex kept wondering where it would all end. Sooner or later, the bluff would be over unless Otto had some idea how to escape.
Just as the car was entering the village, Otto suggested they all stop for a beer at a Gasthaus he spotted, but the officers weren’t ready for that. The driver said, “We don’t have time for that. I’ll drive you to your homes.” Clearly, he was going to play this all the way out, but his tone suggested that he was pretty well satisfied that Otto and Alex were telling the truth.
“Yes, yes, you’re right,” Otto said. “I could use a good beer right now, but I should go home. I live just a little outside the village, on a farm. I’ll tell you where to turn.”
“I think we should take your friend home first. I want to meet his mother.”
“That’s fine,” Alex said. “Either way.”
“Actually,” Otto said, “we live fairly near each other. I’ll give you directions.”
And so the driver followed the instructions that Otto gave, and Alex was amazed at Otto’s confidence, as though he knew the village well. He guided the driver beyond the village, and then along a country road. “So, are you two farmers?” the younger man asked. He was actually just a big kid, Alex had decided. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen.
“Yes,” Otto said. “Our fathers both farmed at one time. But my father was killed in Africa—at Kassarine Pass. It seems long ago now. My mother rents out the land, but she keeps the house. This is the place—the one you see coming up here.”
“Your house?”
“No, no. Kurt’s. Mine is just beyond here a little way.”
The driver turned into the lane at the front of the farm. Alex looked for people, wondered what would happen next. But Otto was still talking. He chatted about the little hollow beyond the fields. “That’s were Kurt and I spent many a summer day—swimming down there in the little stream in that valley.” He got out of the car. “I’ll walk in with you. I want to say hello to Frau Steinmetz. Don’t go through the front door. No one does. Come around this way.”
Alex could hear his heartbeat, like a bass drum, pulsating in his ears. He knew now that the string was out, and Otto was about to make a move. Alex had been trained for the past two weeks on methods of killing by hand, but it was all training. He had never really expected to take anyone on, but once Otto made his move, Alex would have to help.
Otto waited for everyone to get out, and then he tried to hang back a little and let Alex and the officers walk ahead. But the older officer hadn’t dropped his vigilance entirely. He motioned for Otto to walk ahead of him.
Alex led the way, as seemed natural, and he didn’t look back. But that was terrifying. How would he know what was happening behind him? What would they do if someone came out of the house? Otto had obviously thought this out, and Alex was willing to let him make the move, but he wished there were some way for the two to communicate. He walked along the side of the house, but as he reached the corner he turned enough to glance back. “I’m not sure my mother is here,” he said. He saw Otto raise his hand, move his finger, seem to point forward. Alex looked ahead again.
“Ach, what’s this I’ve stepped in?” Otto said, from behind. Alex kept going. Perhaps one full second passed before he heard motion, then a grunt and a muffled but agonizing wail.
Alex spun around, saw the look of terror in the older policeman’s eyes, saw him sinking. Otto had stabbed the man in the ribs, it appeared, then stepped behind him. Now a knife was flashing through the air. There was a moment of realization, of stasis, when the knife hung before the officer’s face, about to slash at his throat, and in the same moment, Alex’s own reactions took over. The younger officer had turned back toward the commotion, his back now to Alex. Alex grabbed him, spun him around, then drove the heel of his hand directly into his nose. Blood spattered, and Alex felt the bone break. As the officer fell backward, Alex was about to follow through, to drive the bone of his nose into his brain, but Otto was on him. He grabbed the officer around the head and jerked his knife hard and deep across his neck. Blood sprayed in all directions—all over Alex.
The young man dropped, and Otto released him. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he told Alex. “Someone might be in the house.”
And so the two ran hard, back around the house. Just as they jumped into the car, Alex saw a man come around a shed at the back of the farm. He was looking toward Alex and Otto, but he showed no sign yet that he had spotted the policemen. Otto was trying to find the right key on the ring. He tried one that didn’t work, and Alex felt the panic. He grabbed the door handle and was about to take off running when the next key slipped in and turned. Otto seemed to know these vehicles. He hit the starter button; the engine barked once, then roared alive. Otto backed away quickly. Then he spun the wheel and turned back toward the village. Gravel sprayed, rattled under the car as the wheels dug into the dirt road and then caught and shot them ahead.
“We can’t be seen in town,” Alex yelled to Otto over the sound of the engine and the rushing air. “We’ve got blood all over us.”
“I know. I’m turning off on a side road I spotted down here. We’ll dump the car somewhere and get cleaned up. We still have to get into Brünen. Our contacts are the best people to hide us.”
Alex was astounded at Otto’s self-assurance, at the way he had already thought everything through. They drove toward the village until Otto spotted the dirt road he had spoken of. He turned into it and then drove too fast, the car bouncing and lurching through the rocks and deep ruts. They headed down into a little valley, at the bottom of which was a stream that was lined with trees. There was no bridge, just a crossing, but when Otto reached it, he turned upstream and drove into the shallow water. He gunned the engine and kept the car jostling and splashing through the water until he rounded a bend in the creek where the car would be out of view. Then he stopped, suddenly, and turned the engine off. For a few moments both of them listened, but they heard nothing.
“I couldn’t see anyone following us,” Alex said. He was out of breath, and his heart was still pounding against his rib cage.
“All right. We need to wash this blood out of our clothes. Then we might as well stay here until dark.”
“We shouldn’t be moving about town in the dark. Someone will stop us for sure.”
“We’re going to have people looking for us anyway, Alex. If we walk into the village in daylight, we’re dead men. Let’s get away from the car and get down this stream and into those woods we saw just outside Brünen. Then later, we’ll have to sneak in and not get ourselves caught.”
“Maybe we ought to head away from here.”
“If we do, our mission is destroyed. That farmer didn’t get much of a look at us. He just knows there were two of us in an armored car. Our papers are still good. Only those two dead men saw them.”
Alex didn’t know. The only thing he knew for sure was that he and Otto would be strangers in a small village, and he had an American accent. The farmer might have seen, too, that they were wear
ing army uniforms. He wasn’t sure that he and Otto had much chance of surviving in an area where they had just killed two military policemen.
But of course, he also knew what he had been sent to do. If Otto had said he was ready to give up the mission and run, he might have been tempted himself. But Otto was staying with the plan; Alex knew he had to do the same.
The two washed their hands in the stream, grabbed their packs, and then hurried downriver, walking in the water for a mile or more. Eventually they stopped and took off their uniform tunics, which they washed in the water. After that, they got out carefully, on a grassy bank, where they wouldn’t leave tracks. Then they moved into the trees. In the forest they both hung their tunics and pants and socks up to dry. The air felt cool to Alex now, stripped down as he was to his shirt and army underwear. But he and Otto found a clearing and lay in the sun, and from time to time they checked their clothes. The wool, however, dried slowly in the damp air.
None of this was easy. Alex tried to shut his eyes and relax, but the fear made that impossible. He kept thinking that someone might be able to track them, and he felt vulnerable out there in the woods without his clothes on.
All afternoon Alex and Otto heard vehicles moving up and down the main road, and at one point they thought they heard a truck on the dirt road they had used to get into the little valley. “They’re probably looking for us,” Alex said.
“Maybe. But you have to remember, everyone knows that the big Allied push is coming soon. People who live in this part of Germany have a lot more to worry about than two dead men.”
“Maybe. But we’ll also be a lot more noticeable than we would be in Berlin or Frankfurt.”
“Sure. And military police around this area will be upset. But everyone else has more to worry about.”
Alex told himself that was true. He had to believe he was going to find a way to get out of this mess and get home.
As night came on, he and Otto put their damp trousers and tunics back on. They waited, sitting next to each other. “Where did you get the knife?” Alex finally thought to ask.
