The Hazards of War

by Jonathan Paul Isaacs

  “Yes, sir,” Krauss said. He was a buzz with nervousness.

  Tiedemann put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “No one gets out. If anyone sees Eppler, shoot him on sight. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Springer,” he said, then gestured upstairs. “And the two of you up there. You come with me.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmführer!” all men shouted in unison.

  Krauss disappeared out the front door while the two infantrymen came down the stairs to join Tiedemann and Springer. The foursome hurried through the adjoining corridor and into the kitchen. As they neared the spiral staircase, Tiedemann held up his hand to slow his comrades down and be silent. He couldn’t hear anything out of the ordinary from where they stood.

  A stray image worked its way into Tiedemann’s memory, one of moving from house to house in the abandoned streets of Russian towns, wondering where the next ambush would come from. There was one place in particular—a nameless village that had been shelled to rubble—through which as an Obersturmführer himself he had led his troops looking for partisans. Tiedemann remembered coming to a crumbling wall at the edge of a city block with an exposed staircase much like the one he looked at now. There had been death around that corner; Soviet snipers had cost him half his squad. He had had to withdraw and call in artillery. Now he wondered what waited for him and his men here. Another ambush? Should he withdraw, burn the entire manor to the ground, and shoot anyone trying to escape the flaming deathtrap?

  Not this time. Tiedemann was not going to leave anything to chance.

  The heard a tiny click behind him as Springer flipped his safety off.

  Tiedemann put his foot on the top of the staircase and took a first careful step. The iron creaked with his weight, then that of Springer and the others following several meters behind. They reached the bottom landing with weapons drawn. The small space between the pantry and the corridor was very dim and in all assessment made a favorable place for an ambush. None came. Tiedemann proceeded slowly down the hall, brushing the back of his shoulders against the cracked plaster and brick so that he made the narrowest target possible.

  The squad of men approached the outside of the archway forming the entrance to the wine cellar. To the right the tunnel continued on to the large barrel cave. Tiedemann remained pressed against the wall and used hand signals to direct the infantrymen to the opposite side. The men carefully crept up until they flanked the archway. Springer held his pistol down low, Tiedemann up high, while the soldiers had their Mausers shouldered and ready to bring up. Finally, on a silent count of three, Tiedemann waved his troops into the cellar before following himself, ready to shoot anything that was not made of glass and grapes.

  What Tiedemann saw made him catch his breath. No Englishman. No Eppler.

  All that remained was a dark stain of blood where the Englishman had been sitting during his interrogation. The blood… the knee. Tiedemann was sure Cartwright couldn’t be walking on his own. From what the guards had reported, he’d been borderline conscious for most of the night.

  “Herr Hauptsturmführer! Look!” Springer rushed to the far corner. Two bodies wearing SS uniforms lay piled atop one another. A blood trail stretched back to Cartwright’s corner.

  “Who are they? Are they alive?”

  Springer pushed the motionless forms around with his free hand. “Gohler. And Peterson, on the bottom. Peterson looks like his throat was cut.”

  Kneeling down next to Springer, Tiedemann could see the ugly gash that separated the young infantryman’s neck. There was no such wound on his sergeant, however. Tiedemann reached over and felt for a pulse.

  “By God, he’s still alive. Gohler!” Tiedemann hissed, gently but firmly batting the man’s cheeks. “Gohler! Can you hear me? Get up!”

  No response. Tiedemann rolled the sergeant over to his back. He couldn’t find any wounds, but it was clear Gohler wouldn’t be much help in tracking the prisoners.

  And his Luger was missing.

  “Peterson’s weapon is gone, too,” Springer said. He was watching from over Tiedemann’s shoulder.

  “What did he carry?”

  “MP40.” A machine pistol. Eppler—or the Contis?—would be well armed.

  Tiedemann remained kneeling and thought. How had this happened? Eppler had been under armed escort by a careful and seasoned warrior. Cartwright was severely wounded and under guard. To find the tables turned seemed fantastical.

  “Sir?” Springer said with urgency.

  Tiedemann’s joints popped as he stood upright. He didn’t like this. Four soldiers might seem like an effective tracking force against a lone renegade or a crippled enemy, but none of his men had automatic weapons. They’d be following Eppler into the maze-like, ambush-ready expanse of the barrel cave, the only logical place that he could have fled. And as for Cartwright, who had helped him? Surely not the Contis from all the way upstairs? Was there some new element in play? The Maquis?

  If he waited Krauss arrived with more armed troops, they could encircle and destroy the fugitives. But there was another factor Tiedemann knew was also vital for battle, and that was initiative. It was rapidly diminishing. Every moment that he and Springer delayed was another second that Eppler had to run through the cave and escape through the barn. Krauss might take five minutes to arrive with his SS. That was time that they did not have.

  “It’s up to the four of us, Herr Springer. We’re going into that cave with the barrels. It’s the only logical place Eppler or anyone else could have gone.” He looked at each of his men. “Be careful.”

  “Jawohl,” the two soldiers replied. Their voices betrayed a measure of trepidation.

  Springer took over the tactical. “Knappe, Kohl. Just like Russia. Keep to cover and shoot first.”

  Tiedemann readied his pistol again. “Let’s go.”

  The four SS soldiers proceeded out the archway towards the barrel cave.

  30

  Only two or three minutes had passed since Cartwright and Gabrielle heard the bang and dove for cover at the end of the row of barrels. Cartwright felt like they’d been hiding for an eternity. If his own movement hadn’t been so clumsy and noisy, hiding wouldn’t have even been an option—they’d have kept on running, as fast and as far as possible from what was obviously a gunshot. But with his wounded leg it was a miracle they had even reached the end of this particular row of barrels, and even that had been accomplished only in a continuous stumble.

  Now they both were leaning against the edge of a dusty barrel, trying to see the passage back to the wine cellar while simultaneously staying out of sight. Cartwright had his shoulder propped up and the German machine gun ready in both hands.

  They heard running. But instead of a crowd of troops streaming into the cave behind them, Cartwright saw a lone silhouette moving briskly down the corridor until it reached the cave. Then the figure turned left and continued without interruption. Not the behavior one would expect from someone conducting a search for fugitives.

  “Well, that’s odd,” Cartwright whispered.

  “Oui,” Gabrielle replied. He looked at her, and her expression showed she understood.

  “Let’s get going, shall we, Gabby?” Cartwright said. “No telling where that bloke went, but it won’t help matters just sitting here and letting him stumble across us. Are you up to helping me a bit more?”

  Gabrielle had had her hands against the back of his shoulders before Cartwright began talking, and now she was leaning forward with her face close to his. Cartwright could feel the brush of her hair on his neck, the warmness of her breath. What a beautiful creature God had chosen for his guardian angel.

  “Je ne comprends pas, Stefan.”

  Cartwright frowned. “Right.” Thinking for a second, he pointed first to her, then himself, made a walking gesture with his fingers, and finally jerked his finger out into the blackness of the cave. “Yes?”

  She understood. Nodding her head, Gabrielle wrapped her arms tightly unde
r his shoulder and hauled him up to his feet with surprising strength. Pain shot through his bandaged knee and he shoved his knuckle into his mouth to keep from groaning. Desperately trying to think of anything to distract himself, Cartwright concentrated on the feeling of Gabrielle’s breasts pressed against his arm.

  * * *

  With a soldier in front of him and Springer close behind, Tiedemann kept pressed against the limestone wall of the corridor until they reached the barrel cave. The space before him was enormously dark and vast, filled with enough stacks of wine barrels that it could take a squad of men the better part of an afternoon to find someone who didn’t want to be discovered. Tiedemann cursed silently to himself. What were they up against? Was he doing the right thing, pushing a poor position into battle? A small enemy number could pin them down in a place such as this, or possibly ambush and kill them all. What were they rushing into?

  They were pursuing a traitor and an escaped prisoner, Tiedemann reminded himself. Time was of the essence before they slipped away. There wasn’t any alternative.

  Tiedemann waved Springer close with his empty hand.

  “Ja, Herr Hauptsturmführer?”

  “I’m going to shout out to Eppler. I want you to take Kohl, head that way, to the right, and loop around. Don’t put too much distance between us but stay out of sight. I’m going to try to get him to move towards Knappe and myself. I want you to flank him and kill him.”

  “Sir, are you sure you want to give your position away? You’ll make yourself a target.”

  “We’ll never find him in here, Springer,” Tiedemann said. “He has a head start and a lot of cover.”

  “What if there are others in the cave?”

  “We’ll accept those risks.” Tiedemann looked levelly at his lieutenant. “But if you see someone else, shoot them, too.”

  “Jawohl.”

  Tiedemann pointed his finger and directed Springer to go. Then he turned and explained the plan to Knappe. The soldier understood and indicated he was ready to follow any order he was given. Finally, Tiedemann himself darted out into the openness of the cave and proceeded to the left. After he had walked past several rows of barrels, he stopped and took cover. He heard Knappe slinking up quietly behind him and cleared his voice to make sure he would be heard.

  “Eppler, you cowardly pig! I have men waiting to shoot you at the exit of the cave! You are surrounded and cut off from escape. If you really want us to believe you’re innocent, give yourself up and step into the open!”

  Then he waited. There would be no reply, of course, at least, not right away. But that wasn’t the goal. All Tiedemann needed was to put enough doubt in Eppler’s mind that he would be distracted from escape. Then Krauss would arrive with ten more SS troops and the game would be over.

  * * *

  The oak barrels were stacked three high, with curved supports in between so that they didn’t teeter from the instability inherent in their rounded shape. Cartwright could feel their weight and how solid they were with his left side. Even had they been empty the barrels would have been formidable. Behind him was Gabrielle, who helped hold him in place as he kept the machine gun ready.

  A minute passed before the voice shouted out again. “Kommen Sie heraus, Eppler! Wir haben den ganzen Zug hier im Kellar. Sie koennen ein Mann sein und sich stellen oder abschlachten lassen wie ein Tier. Kommen sie heraus!”

  “What the hell is that bastard saying?” Cartwright muttered under his breath. Kommen heraus sounded like it was an invitation to give themselves up. Not bloody likely.

  He considered which direction to go. Straight ahead was the first, obvious choice. That route led all the way to the ramp underneath the barn. The problem, however, was that that route was a straight shot from the other entrance to the cave. The visibility back to the cellar corridor was too good, even in the dim light. It was too risky despite the promise of being the quickest way out of the cave.

  The machine pistol shifted slightly in Cartwright’s sweaty palm. He realized he was gripping it so tightly that his fingers were beginning to ache. As he forced himself to relax his hands, the weight of the heavy weapon seemed to pull his arms into the ground.

  “Gabby,” he whispered. Cartwright waited until she was looking at him before he jerked his head to the side. “Time to take a little detour.”

  The girl’s expression made it seem as if she understood. She presented herself to him so that she could shoulder his weight again, and he wrapped his left arm behind her neck. Together they turned away from the giant wine barrel and stumbled towards one of the other aisles farther away from the center row of the cave.

  * * *

  The electric bulbs wired into the ceiling were underpowered and spaced far apart, so they did very little to illuminate the aisles formed by the towering rows of barrels. It was amazing that the vineyard even had electricity this far out in the country. But Tiedemann’s eyes were well adjusted now to the dim light and he could finally see, more or less, down the long rows of the barrel maze.

  Each cask had a year stamped on the end to identify which harvest it contained. Tiedemann subconsciously glanced at the nearest one and noted it had been sealed in 1940. He didn’t know how long wine was aged in barrels rather than bottles, but two years seemed like it ought to be about the limit. Most were dirty from long periods of storage. What a place to find connections to the Resistance, he thought. War turns even the most normal and innocuous settings into a bed of conflict.

  Out of the corner of his eye Tiedemann saw movement. He snapped his head around but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Had it been imagined? He looked back at Knappe but the soldier didn’t acknowledge any threat. Tiedemann turned back, dashed to the other side of the row, and listened. There was only silence. Slowly he stalked around the corner and raised his pistol, ready to shoot.

  He was now in a four-way intersection of barrels, with the cross path about four or five meters wide and extending out of sight in either direction. If the movement he had seen had been a person, he or she could have run in any direction. Tiedemann heard Knappe raising his rifle to provide cover as he flanked to the side. Again Tiedemann listened for a clue. There was nothing. With no leads to go on, Tiedemann walked two rows over and crossed the cross path to enter another aisle formed by the rows of wine.

  Another long, empty corridor. Tiedemann automatically pressed his back against the wood to minimize his profile. The wine barrels were providing too many spots for an ambush, and he reminded himself his prey was armed. Butterflies fluttered in the pit of his stomach as he crept forward. Tiedemann wasn’t scared at the prospect of danger, he was far too much the old soldier for that and had the matter-of-factness about death that one developed after seeing many people die. But he was not pleased about the odds he was subjecting himself to in order to catch Eppler.

  Another flash of movement some distance down the aisle. Tiedemann leveled his pistol and came within a hair of pulling the trigger tight enough to release a bullet even though he had no target. No one was visible. He looked back at Knappe and got a quick, knowing glance in return. The soldier’s cheek was plastered against the stock of his raised rifle. So they both had seen it. Was it Eppler darting to a new hiding place and preparing an ambush? Tiedemann crept slowly forward.

  A meter above him, a cat walked nonchalantly from barrel to barrel, following them. A damn cat.

  A few seconds passed before Tiedemann felt his heart beat again. He lowered his pistol. The animal above him sat down and watched him curiously. Tiedemann wanted to shoot it.

  * * *

  Carwright’s head was starting to spin as the aching in his leg became more demanding. The pain. It had grown from a dull thumping to sudden, massive convulsions which washed up from his toes to his stomach. The flashes of torture threatened to incapacitate him completely. He had already lost his bearings now that they were no longer able to see the dim light from the wine cellar corridor behind them. It was up to Gabrielle now to guide them wh
ere they needed to go. For all Cartwright knew, they could have been headed back towards his former cell rather than the unguarded exit of the wine barn.

  After another forced stagger he could take no more. Cartwright’s legs buckled and he very nearly brought Gabrielle down to the hard ground with him, except that she managed to ungraciously shrug him off of her shoulder before it was too late. The impact made a loud smack and left the Englishman’s cheek pressed against the back of his hand on the floor.

  “Eppler! Wo sind Sie?” the German voice shouted again. This time it was much closer.

  Cartwright felt his shoulder being pulled in short, forceful jerks. He twisted his head to see Gabrielle trying to get him back on his feet, but she wasn’t able to do much more than rock him back and forth where he lay. He could see the furrows of fear on the girl’s forehead, and in his own mind he knew he should be running. But somehow he didn’t think he knew how. Behind her Cartwright saw a wall of barrels that all looked the same, great barriers of rounded oak with wooded blocks interspersed in the matrix. They extended another fifteen feet or so until the next crossing where the edge cut sharply into blackness.

  Or was it blackness? Maybe it was just a trick being played on his eyes from the pain, but Cartwright thought that it was lighter here than what he remembered from traveling so far through the cave. There seemed to be more brightness that made the planks in the barrels a little bit more detailed, the contours of the ceiling a shade sharper.

  “Partons!” Gabrielle hissed. She was still trying to pull him into a sitting position. He looked at her and she pointed past her shoulder to the edge of the barrels. “La sortie est exacte là. Regard! Partons!”

  Partons… that sounded like “parting.” Did she mean the exit was near? Was that what she was yelling at him in words a poor lad from Birmingham had no chance of understanding?