The Elegant Lie

…

‘You came to warn us?’ asked Major Wharton, glaring down at the German soldier.

The young man sat at the table in the command post, perched on the edge of a dining chair, his hands pressed together and clamped between his knees. His shoulders were hunched and he breathed in short, whistling breaths through his broken nose.

Carter was sitting against the windowsill, arms folded, watching.

The boy kept glancing at him and then looking away again.

Carter left his perch by the window and set a pack of cigarettes down on the table in front of the boy. Then he took out his lighter and set it on top of the pack.

The boy looked at the cigarettes and then at Carter, but he made no move to help himself.

‘Go ahead,’ said Carter.

The boy reached out and took a cigarette. After fumbling with the lighter for a moment, he managed to get it to spark. Then he lit the smoke, inhaled and settled back into the chair.

‘Warn us about what?’ demanded Wharton.

‘There is going to be an attack,’ said the boy.

‘When?’

‘I do not know exactly,’ he replied. ‘Soon. Maybe very soon. Everything has been prepared.’

‘What kind of attack?’

‘A big one.’

While the boy and Wharton spoke, Carter studied them both.

Wharton’s hands were constantly in motion, now clasped into a double fist and resting against his mouth, now resting on the table.

The boy was clearly in a lot of pain, since Wharton had not offered him any medical attention. From time to time his eyes glazed over and he blinked rapidly, as if to return them to focus.

‘Big?’ asked Wharton. ‘You mean like a platoon? A company. A battalion?’

‘Divisions,’ said the boy.

Wharton exhaled sharply. ‘What divisions?’

‘The 1st SS. The 12th SS. A division of Volksgrenadier. Fallschirmjäger. Those are the ones I know about. There may be more.’

‘And you’re sure about all this?’

‘Why else would I be here?’ replied the boy.

‘All right,’ Wharton said quietly, his tone almost gentle. ‘I think you’ve told me everything I need to hear.’ He twisted in his chair and called out to the two soldiers whom he had ordered to remain in the hallway.

The soldiers appeared, peering around the room as if they had forgotten that such luxury as tables and chairs still existed in the world.

‘Get him out of here,’ said Wharton.

‘You think I am lying,’ asked the boy.

‘Young man,’ said Wharton, ‘I know you are. The 12th SS was destroyed in Normandy. I’m one of the guys who destroyed them! And the 1st SS is reported to be somewhere out in Russia right now. The only thing you may be right about is the Volksgrenadier◦– a bunch of wheezy old men and teenagers like yourself, freezing their asses off in the woods outside of Wahlerscheid.’

The boy looked as if he had not understood everything that Wharton had been saying. But some of it had clearly sunk in. ‘No,’ he protested. ‘No, that is wrong.’ He pointed to the lightning bolts on his collar. ‘I am SS.’ Then he reached a hand inside his shirt and pulled out his dog tag; a grey zinc disc perforated down the middle. He held it out. ‘I am from the 25th Panzergrenadier Regiment of the 12th SS Panzer Division Hitlerjugend.’

Wharton turned to one of the soldiers. ‘You don’t usually find them so eager to confess a thing like that.’

Now Carter spoke. ‘Did you see a truck?’ he asked the boy.

‘What kind of truck?’

‘An American one. It might have come past you the other day, up by Wahlerscheid.’

‘No,’ replied the boy.

Wharton clapped his dirty hands together. ‘There you go,’ he said.

‘But I heard about it,’ added the boy.

‘You lying sack of shit,’ said Wharton. ‘Now I know you’re just playing with us.’

‘What did you hear?’ asked Carter.

The boy shook his head slightly. ‘Only that there was a truck, that it was driven by Belgians who had stolen it.’

‘Anything else?’

‘That’s enough!’ snapped Wharton. ‘Just get him out of my sight.’

One of the soldiers slapped the cigarette out of the boy’s mouth. It spun away across the room, trailing smoke and sparks. Then he took hold of the boy’s arm, hoisted him to his feet and led him out of the room.

Carter waited until he and Wharton were alone again. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.

‘Do?’ Wharton got up from his chair, walked over to where the cigarette butt still smouldered on the floor, and ground it out with the toe of his boot. ‘What is there to do? I’ll send him over to divisional headquarters in St Christophe and, if he ever makes it, they can ask him all over again.’

‘If he makes it?’ asked Carter. ‘You mean they’re going to kill him?’

‘You don’t understand,’ said Wharton. ‘You didn’t fight those little bastards back in Normandy. I can tell you one thing for sure. If you’d walked into their camp, there is no way you’d get out of there alive, no matter what news you were bringing. So is he going to make it back to headquarters? I don’t know. And I don’t particularly care, especially since I didn’t believe a single word that came out of his mouth.’

‘Why not?’

Wharton banged his fist against the wall, sending a crack zigzagging across the plastered surface. ‘Because his whole division got destroyed in France! Somebody over there on the other side of the border’◦– he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the woods◦– ‘thought it might be a good idea to scare us with some story of a big attack. Get us all running around like chickens with our heads torn off. It’s just like those damned recordings we keep hearing.’

‘What about the truck?’ asked Carter. ‘Why would he lie about that?’

Wharton shrugged. ‘So maybe a load of gasoline got across the border. Maybe it happened. So what? You think that will win them the war?’

Carter walked out into the street to get some air. It was dark now and the night was cold and clear. He passed by the church, whose doors were open. Inside he saw the flicker of candles. Outside the house that had been converted into a field kitchen he spotted Riveira, lounging in his jeep with his heels up on the dashboard, reading a magazine with a flashlight.

‘Hey, Lieutenant!’ he said. ‘Looks like it’s going to be a cold night.’

‘They’ve all been cold,’ said Carter.

‘I saw them drive that German kid away.’

‘Which way were they going?’ asked Carter.

‘Back towards St Christophe.’

‘At least they were headed in the right direction.’

Riveira understood the meaning of his words. ‘I wouldn’t go too hard on them, Lieutenant. Out here, the rules are different.’

‘The rules are the same,’ Carter told him. ‘It’s just how they’re followed that’s different.’