The Elegant Lie

…

When Major Wharton stepped in out of the rattling hail that had begun to fall on Rocherath, hissing and bouncing and stinging the knuckles of the men who darted through the muddy streets, he found Lieutenant Carter sitting in the front room of the house. ‘Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?’ asked Wharton, irritated to find this cop from New Jersey making himself comfortable in his chair.

‘Why didn’t you tell me that the stolen fuel truck was spotted heading down the road to Wahlerscheid?’

Wharton removed his helmet and placed it on the table. He smoothed the hair back on his head. Then he removed his leather gloves and tossed them into the bucket of the upturned helmet. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Is it true or not?’

‘I don’t know,’ snapped Wharton. ‘Trucks come through here all the time.’

‘But they don’t all vanish into the forest in the direction of the German border.’ Carter stood suddenly, his chair skidding back across the floor. ‘You didn’t think that it might be relevant?’ he asked, struggling to contain his anger.

‘Look,’ said Wharton, ‘there are three divisions strung out along this section of the Ardennes: the 1st, the 2nd and the 99th, as well as a tank destroyer battalion and support personnel from all over the damned place. One thing you learn pretty quickly out here is that anything short of a total logistical nightmare is the absolute best you can hope for. If I tried to chase down where that truck came from and where it was headed, it would have taken me a week of phone calls. Make the calls yourself. Be my guest. Just try it and you’ll see.’

‘Why didn’t you at least tell me about it?’

‘Because I didn’t want to have the conversation we are having right now. And I knew that we would, if I told you.’

At that moment, their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a woman screaming just outside the house.

‘What the hell…’ muttered Wharton.

Both men walked out into the hailstorm to see what was causing the commotion.

Four soldiers stood in the street. One of them was German. He was young◦– sixteen or seventeen at the most. He looked exhausted, his eyelids rimmed with reddened flesh. He wore a dirty grey-green tunic made of poor-quality wool, worn through at the elbows and cuffs. On the left side of his collar was a plain black rectangle of wool and on the right, two crooked lightning bolts. Stitched to his left sleeve at the level of his bicep was a small spread-winged eagle in greyish-silver thread on a black background. His baggy wool trousers were tucked into canvas gaiters and his ankle boots were slick with grease. He wore no belt or cap and the forelock of his dirty blond hair hung down over one eye. He was bleeding out of one of his ears and more blood had splashed from his nose, which had just been broken with a rifle butt whose imprint was still clear on his cheek. The boy seemed terrified and, looking at the soldiers who surrounded him, Carter thought he had good reason to be frightened.

In front of them, a woman was picking herself up from the ground, her dress plastered with half-frozen mud. Seeing Wharton, she pointed at one of the American infantrymen and began to shout, gasping and crying as she made her accusation.

Carter had no idea if the woman was speaking French or German. It sounded like a mixture of the two.

‘How did she end up on the ground?’ demanded Wharton.

‘I put her there,’ said the soldier who was out in front, with no trace of regret in his voice.

‘And why did you do that?’ asked Wharton.

‘Because she spat on me.’

The woman continued to rant at the Americans, clawing at the air with her fingers, teeth bared as she cursed.

‘I can’t understand you!’ said Wharton. Then he turned to the soldiers. ‘Can anybody tell me what she is saying?’

It was the German who answered. ‘She is asking for the soldiers not to kill me, because that’s what she thinks they will do.’

‘You’re SS,’ said the soldier. ‘Why the hell wouldn’t we?’

‘Shut up,’ barked Wharton. Then he turned to the boy. ‘Where did you come from?’ he asked.

The boy pointed back towards the forest.

‘We found him walking down the middle of the road,’ said one of the soldiers.

‘Was he armed?’ asked Wharton.

‘No, sir,’ replied the soldier. ‘Looked like he was trying to surrender. He had his hands up and everything.’

‘Is that right?’ Wharton asked the boy. ‘Were you giving yourself up?’

‘I came to warn you,’ said the boy.