Germanica

CHAPTER 9

The man they brought in to be interrogated was so malnourished and skeletal that Tanner wondered just how he was able to stand and walk. Yet somehow he had summoned up the strength and had traveled a ways to get to them. He was still wearing his tattered striped prison suit and there was a group of numbers crudely tattooed on his left forearm. His head had been shaved bald by American medics to get rid of lice and he had gratefully taken a bowl of broth. A medic had told them to feed him very, very slowly. Too fast and he could easily cramp up and die.

Not only did they not want him to die as a matter of humanity, but they thought he was trying to tell them something, something he considered important. It was frustrating for all of them that no one could understand him.

The former prisoner looked around at the bustle in the schoolhouse that had been taken over by the 105’s command. “American?” he asked with a terrible smile. Most of his teeth were jagged and broken.

“Yes,” said Tanner. “Do you speak English?” he asked and got a puzzled response. “Deutsch?” he asked. The man’s expression turned to fear and then anger. He spat on the floor.

Tanner grabbed the man’s skinny arm. “No, no.” The man seemed to understand that spitting on the floor was bad.

Tanner had an idea. “Somebody get me a map of Europe, please.”

“But only because you said please,” Cullen said, handing him an atlas. It was turned to Europe.

Tanner pointed to the man and then to the map. He had to do it a couple of times before the man understood. He pointed at a place on the map. “Ah,” he said and smiled again.

“Czechoslovakia,” said Tanner helpfully.

“Czech,” the man insisted. “Czech, Czech, Czech.”

Tanner patted the man on the arm. “I understand,” he said. “Yes, ja.” And the man has something important to say? What the hell. He stood. “Does anybody here speak Czech or whatever they speak in that country?”

“I do,” said Lena.

* * *

Lena could not contain her shock on seeing the nearly dead refugee. He was the right age to have been her father. Two American officers were beside the man. She knew who both of them were although she had never been introduced or even spoken to them.

She spoke in Czech to the man in a gentle, soothing tone. He responded quickly and began chattering away. Finally, he took a deep breath and began to sob. Lena put her arms around his shoulders and comforted him.

When she finally turned to Tanner, her eyes were glistening. “He says he was assigned to a small factory about five miles from here. Their job was to repair rifles and machine guns. He said that at one point there were a couple hundred prisoners, slaves. Now there are about fifty. The rest either died of starvation or were worked to death.”

Cullen was confused. “What the hell are they still doing hanging around. Didn’t anyone notice that the American army had arrived?”

Lena asked the refugee a few more questions. “He said that the manager is a fool. He felt that the Americans would be driven back so he made no effort to move the factory or the prisoners. Thus, they are still there, but not too much longer. The manager recently got orders to pack up and move. What could not be moved was to be destroyed.”

“And we all know what that means,” Cullen said bitterly.

“Yes, the prisoners are to be murdered,” said Lena and this time tears did run down her cheeks. “You have got to stop them.”

Shit, thought Tanner. They had to do something. “How many guards at the site?” he asked the man.

No more than six came the answer. And all of them were Volkssturm who were poorly trained and equipped. “We can handle that with a platoon,” said Tanner. “Cullen, why don’t you wake up Sergeant Hill and tell him we have a job for him.”

“I will go with you,” said Lena.

Tanner blinked in surprise. “Out of the question. Women do not go on combat missions.”

“Then it’s time to make an exception. I have to go with you or you’ll never find the place. This man’s instructions were vague. You need me to translate and guide you. Otherwise the prisoners might be dead before you stumble on it.”

They might already be dead, thought Tanner. But the girl was right. He hadn’t really noticed her in the few days she had been assigned to help with clerical duties. She was really intense and could be pretty if she could get some food in her and some meat on her bones. She was wearing old olive drab fatigues that someone had cut down to fit her smaller frame. Her shoes looked like old worn tennis shoes.

“We could be going into an ambush,” he said.

“I have other reasons for going with you and they are important and personal.”

“Should we explain this to the brass?” Cullen asked.

“Of course not,” said Tanner. “They’d just turn it down. Let’s just go and ask forgiveness later.”

* * *

It was late afternoon and shadows were getting long when they got to within a mile of the suspected prison site. It was off a dirt road and in a heavily forested area. Lena had been right. It might have taken them a week to find the place, and it was no wonder that the American army hadn’t discovered it.

Tanner and Lena were in the second jeep along with the Czech whose name was Vaclov. He was only forty years old but looked eighty. He said he’d been a watchmaker before the Nazis had imprisoned him and made him a slave laborer. His crime was being a communist. He had a wife and two children and hadn’t heard from them since being arrested. When he began talking about them, he started to cry. Lena tried to comfort him but wasn’t successful.

Sergeant Hill was in the first jeep. Behind them in a short column of trucks and jeeps was a full platoon of infantry. It should be more than enough to overwhelm a handful of Volkssturm. If their calculations were off and there were too many more Germans, they were screwed.

The closer they got to the factory site, the more agitated the former inmate became. Lena kept talking to him and calming him.

She tugged on Tanner’s arm. “He says it’s just over this hill.”

The column halted and all but a squad left behind to guard the vehicles began to move up the hill. “Now you can stay behind,” Tanner told Lena.

“No,” she said and continued on. Damn it, he thought.

From over the hill they could see the factory. It was really little more than a very large wooden barn. What gave it away was the barbed wire enclosing it and the guard towers and machine guns looking down and inwards. They were clearly intended to keep people in, rather than keeping intruders out. Tanner was puzzled. The towers were empty and the main gate looked like it was ajar. Jesus, he thought, had they gotten there too late?

A side door on the building opened and a couple of men came out. They looked up into the sky as if it was something unfamiliar. They were wearing prison garb and looked as bad as Vaclov. A few more followed and Tanner was surprised to see that a couple of them were carrying rifles.

“Miss Bobekova, Lena, any idea what has just happened?”

She started laughing and crying. “I think the inmates have taken over the prison.”

She called out to them in Czech and then in French. A prisoner responded in French. “He wants us to show ourselves.”

“Nuts,” said Tanner. “It could be an ambush.”

The former inmate, Vaclov, stood and walked slowly towards the compound. He kept his hands in the air while he yelled at them.

Once more, Lena interpreted. “He’s telling him who he is and that he’s with a bunch of Americans. They want to see an American to believe him.”

Tanner took a deep breath. “I think this is where I earn my pay.”

He slung his rifle over his shoulder and walked with Vaclov to the gate. He became aware that Lena was a few paces behind him. More inmates had emerged and they had no weapons. They looked at him in disbelief as if he were something from another planet. Vaclov was recognized and they peppered him with questions.

An older man came out. He was leaning on a cane and appeared to be their leader. “So, you do not speak Czech,” he said in German. “What the hell, who does in this bitch of a world?” he said sarcastically. He told his people to lay down their weapons, which they did. With that, several dozen American soldiers came out of hiding and took charge of the inmates who were now elated by their deliverance. They had begun hugging each other and sobbing. Surprised American soldiers were hugged and kissed as well. They asked so many questions in Czech that Lena was overwhelmed. Those who spoke French and German got quicker answers. To their astonishment, a couple of inmates spoke English.

Tanner saw Lena moving around and talking to the inmates.

“Where are the guards?” he asked.

The man on the cane laughed harshly. “In the back and in a ditch, which is more than they deserve. When they heard that Hitler was dead, they got drunk. They were very easy to confuse and overwhelm. And now they are all dead. And I don’t care if they were elderly Volkssturm. They were going to follow orders and butcher us as soon as they worked up the courage the liquor was giving them. I only regret that the piece of shit Nazi who ran this place managed to escape.”

Tanner didn’t care if the warden had escaped. He had a bunch of liberated prisoners to get back to the camp. Sergeant Hill was doing a superb job of getting people ready to go back to the base. Hill also reported that he’d been shown the guards’ bodies. They had been pounded and stomped to pulp. They would not take the time to bury them.

American soldiers and liberated slaves gathered about the vehicles. It would be crowded with all the inmates, but they’d manage. It had been a good day, Tanner thought. But where was Lena?

He found her sitting on a fallen tree. He wanted to tell her that she should be helping to get the inmates moving, but quickly changed his mind. She had her head in her hands and was sobbing bitterly. He sat down beside her. “Tell me,” he said gently.

“My father,” she said. “They came one night and took my father and it wasn’t the Nazis. They were Czechs who sympathized and collaborated with them. They never gave a reason why and I never heard from him again. I’ve always hoped he survived and was in a place like this where I could come and rescue him. When I heard there were Czechs here I just hoped and prayed, and it’s been a long time since I prayed. I always hoped but I’d forgotten how to pray.” Her body convulsed. “Damn the Nazis. Damn them.”

Tanner took a deep breath and sighed. There were no words. He put his hand over hers and let her continue to cry. Finally, she shook her head. “Enough. We should get these people to a hospital.”

* * *

Ernie Janek decided that getting Winnie Tyler out on the boat again would be good therapy. They were now working close together and he could tell that she was withdrawn and haunted. The beating she’d taken from the Nazi, Hahn, had deeply affected her and it was more than physical. She looked frightened, and sudden noises startled her more than they should.

She hadn’t changed into her swimsuit. Instead she wore slacks and a long-sleeved blouse. She said the bruises were too ugly. She didn’t want him to see them, and she didn’t want to look on them and be reminded of her ordeal. He disagreed but kept quiet. From what he could see, the marks were going away but it would be a long while before they faded entirely. He was afraid it would take even longer before they faded from her mind.

“I’m stupid,” she said after lying on the deck and soaking up the sun for a while. “I guess I knew that danger was always present, but it was always in the background and something that happened to somebody else. Now I know better and I’m not too sure I like it and I don’t know what to do about it.”

Ernie sat down beside her. “Everybody goes into battle thinking they’re invincible. I know I sure did. Even after a couple of my buddies got killed, shot down by the Germans, I still felt it wouldn’t happen to me. Getting my butt shot down was my big epiphany. First, the canopy stuck for a few seconds, so I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to get out of the plane. Then I prayed that my chute would open and when it did I whimpered like a baby when I landed and saw men with guns staring at me. I really thought I was going to die. Now I know it can happen to me. It can happen to anyone.”

“And to me,” she said softly. She rolled onto her elbow and looked over his shoulder. “Am I seeing things or is that a Swiss patrol boat headed towards us?”

It was and it came directly alongside. A grim-faced young ensign hopped on board. He was armed with a pistol holstered at his waist and two other crewmen had German-made submachine guns. He wasn’t certain, but they looked like MP34s. Since they weren’t pointed at him, it wasn’t important. True to the rules of neutrality, neither he nor Winnie was armed.

“Papers,” the ensign said in English and in a firm voice.

“Say please,” snapped Ernie.

“What?”

“I said say please. We are diplomats and you are supposed to treat us with courtesy and respect. Therefore, you should have said please,” Ernie said as he handed over his and Winnie’s passports. The man glared at him and muttered please while the two crewmen looked puzzled. Apparently they did not understand English.

The ensign looked over their papers and handed them back. “You do not look like diplomats.”

“And some of those Nazi thugs you permit to walk around Arbon do? Please do not insult me.”

“The Germans across the water, the ones you are pretending to not look at, have informed my country that they are annoyed by your continued presence. For some reason they think they are being spied on.”

“Then tell them to go away,” Ernie said. “We have as much right to be on this lake as they do. Let them come out in an unarmed little boat and maybe we’ll drink some schnapps together. We could even toast the fact that Hitler is rotting in hell.”

The ensign smiled tightly. “I would drink to that, although some of my countrymen would not. However, I do have my orders and they were to check you out. Having done that to my satisfaction, I will leave you to your sunbathing or fishing or whatever you’re pretending to be doing. I would warn you, however, that Germanica is now an armed camp filled with thousands of very nervous German soldiers. If someone should get in his mind to stop you from watching them, they have cannon that can easily reach this little boat.”

“Point taken, Ensign. When we’re through we’ll head back and stick much closer to the Swiss shore.”

“Then let me also remind you that the Germans are even more nervous than usual since some American units have made it to the northern shore of Lake Constance. While you might have diplomatic immunity, the Germans can’t see that and might think you are scouting them for an invasion.”

With that, the ensign stepped back on his own boat and went his way.

“That was interesting,” Winnie said after the patrol boat had departed. She ducked into the cabin and emerged in her swimsuit. “If the Germans are watching through their good Zeiss telescopes, they can see what they did to me.”

“You look great, Winnie, and I mean that.” He had not seen all of the bruises on her body, but even he could tell that they were healing. Still, she had taken one hell of a pounding. This Hahn son of a bitch hadn’t missed too much while he was kicking and punching her. It was a wonder that she had been able to walk, much less wait a night in German territory for him to show up and save her. Jesus.

She dived into the water and swam for a few strokes before climbing out. The water glistening on her body made her look like a goddess. “You know what they say, Ernie? That which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I can’t recall who said it, but I think it might have been a German. Let’s go back and you can buy me dinner while I quit feeling sorry for myself.”

* * *

This time George Schafer and Bud Sibre were part of a much larger force of American fighters and bombers flying over what the United States insisted was Germany, not what the State Department referred to as the pirate state of Germanica. Several dozen fighters were escorting an equal number of American bombers. There was little concern regarding the Luftwaffe. The German air forces had been almost totally destroyed. The real danger to the planes would come from the countless antiaircraft guns that covered the Brenner Pass and other parts of Germany’s Alpine Redoubt.

“Hey, Bud, try not to lose another plane.”

“Go to hell, Georgie.”

Bud had managed to nurse his wounded P51 until he was less than ten miles from their airfield. He’d bailed out and landed in a farmer’s field. The farmer and his wife had confronted him with a pitchfork and an ax. He had returned the favor by covering them with his.45 caliber pistol. The standoff had continued for about two hours until a truck with American soldiers in it showed up. The farmer and his wife had then become cordial and pro-American, professing that they had only tolerated Hitler because it was necessary to survive.

Bullshit, Bud thought.

At any rate, he’d been driven back to his base where he’d been subjected to some serious questioning. The fact that so many well-hidden guns were in the area was a problem. The German 88mm antiaircraft could hit high-flying bombers while the high-flying bombers could not hit small targets with precision unless they flew much lower. Flying lower, however, could prove fatal.

He’d been given a new plane with instructions that he was to take better care of this one. He’d endured too much ribbing from his so-called friends, although he understood that they were glad he’d made it.

This bombing run would involve no bombs. To the disgust of most of the pilots, they were to escort the bombers who would drop tons of leaflets on suspected German positions. The Allied command had even informed the Germans that this would be a paper run and not a bombing run. It was hoped that this would keep their superb 88s from killing them. The fighters were along to keep the Germans honest. Germans honest? They’d all laughed at that.

As they approached the scenic resort town of Innsbruck, bomb bay doors opened and a flood of papers fell out, falling downward like millions of white feathers, or snowflakes.

“Wow,” said George. “That’ll show the Krauts we’re serious about ending this war.”

“I am just stupendously impressed,” Bud said sarcastically. “It just kind of makes me want to surrender myself. With all that paper, they must know how desperate we are to go home.”

In the background, other pilots were making similar comments. They did not like endangering themselves in a propaganda run of dubious merit. Normally, their squadron leaders would be carping at them to shut up the idle chatter, but even they were silent. Let the troops bitch all they want. The next time it might not be so easy.

* * *

Leaflets covered the ground several sheets thick in some places. Wolfgang Hummel and Martin Schubert clambered out of their two man foxhole and ran towards a pile of papers. They scooped them up with both hands and ran back to their dugout and then returned for more.

“What the devil are you doing?” screamed Lieutenant Pfister. “If the Gestapo sees you reading that American propaganda, you’ll get a bullet in the back of the head.”

“They’re probably picking up their own,” laughed Schubert. “Just feel how soft this is.”

The lieutenant grabbed a couple of sheets and squeezed. “By God, you’re right.”

“Not even the Gestapo can complain if we wipe our asses with American reading material,” added Hummel. “Let’s face it, Lieutenant, Germany has been short of so many things and toilet paper has been one of them. My ass is raw from using whatever sandpaper they send us or whatever we can find.”

“Good point,” said Pfister as he reached for some himself. “If anybody asks, tell them that I gave you orders to keep the area clean and to keep this sick propaganda from contaminating younger soldiers.”

The men returned to their little fort where they divided the paper into two scrupulously equal piles. How much each man used each time would be up to him. They jokingly reminded each other to wipe with the inked side out so it wouldn’t run. When they were done, they sat down and read the sheets of paper.

Hummel spoke first. “This one says we’ll get plenty of good food, clothing, and shelter, and we’ll be sent back to our families within a few weeks. Do you believe it?”

“The Americans always have enough food, more than enough if you ask me. So yes, I believe we’ll get better food than we’re getting now. Of course,” he laughed harshly, “I’m not too sure how it could get any worse.”

“But what about getting us back to our families?” asked Hummel. He could not keep a sense of longing from his voice. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? We have no idea where our families are or even if they’re still alive. We may never see our families again. The cities have been destroyed and the roads are no longer there. How would we even make the trip?”

Schubert agreed. “True, but how much chance of finding out do we have while we’re sitting on our asses in a dirty hole in what used to be Austria?”

“Then we will continue to try to surrender without getting shot by either the Americans or some Nazi fanatic like Pfister.”

Schubert shook his head. “I’m beginning to wonder about Pfister. He has to make a lot of Nazi noises because he’s an officer, but I wonder just how sincere and devout he is.”

“Are you confident enough to let him help us try to surrender?”

“Hell no,” exclaimed Schubert. “I think it’s more likely that we’ll have to kill him than it is that he will help us.”

“A shame,” said Hummel, “but we’re much more important than he is.”

There was more than one version of the leaflets. A second one was titled “Are These Your Leaders?” and showed photos of various high-ranking Nazis either dead or in captivity. They laughed at the picture of Goering in a chair with an American MP beside him. “I wonder if he knew where he was?” laughed Hummel. Goering’s problems with drugs and alcohol were common knowledge. Additional photos showed Admirals Doenitz and Raeder and Field Marshals Jodl and Keitel. The most shocking photo was of a very dead Heinrich Himmler.

“But no pictures of the Fuhrer’s body,” said Schubert. He spoke softly. Even in a foxhole he did not want to be overheard. “Does that mean he might not be truly dead or is it that no one would recognize his body?”

Hummel shook his head. “Once upon a time I worshipped the ground he walked on. Now I don’t know. And I don’t think it matters if he is alive or not. Germany has been well and truly defeated, and I just want to get out of here and go home.”

“Wolfgang, don’t you wonder how many others feel like we do?”

“Are you thinking of planning a mutiny, then go someplace else. I trust you and you trust me, but we can’t possibly talk to anyone else about our feelings. The SS or the Gestapo would be on to us in an instant.”

* * *

SS Colonel Hahn had been unable to discover any Jews in Germanica. Indeed, as he told Goebbels, he would have been astounded to find any. “Any Jew fortunate to remain alive in Germany and with even a fraction of a brain would have headed across the Swiss border and sanctuary.”

“But the Swiss did not always admit Jews,” said Goebbels. “Although I think they would have in this instance. Once again the Swiss are caught between two powers. If they toady to us and turn back or return Jews, then the Americans will be outraged. Open up their borders and we will be angry. Frankly, I would let them take any Jew who wants to leave. After all we’ve done to chase them and capture them, there just can’t be that many Hebrews still remaining within a hundred miles of Germanica.”

“I totally agree, sir, which is why I am focusing on this kind of danger to the new Reich,” he said as he handed over several sheets of paper. “Our soldiers are being bombarded, literally, with this kind of filth. American planes fly overhead with impunity and drop these pieces of propaganda on our soldiers.”

Goebbels examined them carefully. “As propaganda minister, I must admit that they could be fairly effective. Has there been any indication that the men are reading these?”

Hahn laughed and told him that many soldiers were using them as toilet paper, which Goebbels thought was hilarious. “Perhaps, Colonel, we should issue toilet paper with the pictures of Truman, Stalin, and Churchill on them. But first, of course, we have to start production of toilet paper. It is just one item in the very long list of things that are either in short supply or not available at all. More important is whether or not any of our soldiers are taking these inducements to surrender seriously.”

“Indeed, Minister, which is why I wish authorization to suspend any searches for Jews in the Redoubt area. If there are any left, and I doubt that there are more than a handful remaining, I believe they should be ignored and our efforts focused on searching out malcontents in the army.”

Goebbels stood and paced his office. Once again he was annoyed that it was so small. He made a mental note to get Speer’s people to create something more suitable for the head of the state of Germanica.

“Hahn, you are absolutely correct. Instead of searching for phantom Jews, we must totally and ruthlessly suppress any signs of discontent. Our situation here is very fragile and I am well aware that most of our army does not consist of people who would die for us. Therefore, you must show no mercy. Don’t let anything distract you from that goal, not even your wish to punish the spy who escaped from you in Bregenz.”

Hahn winced. “I didn’t know that you were aware of that little incident.”

Goebbels could not help but smile. “I believe just about everyone in Germanica has heard about it, Colonel.”

Hahn smiled tightly. This would be all the more reason to make the little bitch suffer.

“Minister, I do anticipate soldiers either trying to surrender to the Americans or trying to cross the border into Switzerland. I request permission to greatly strengthen the border fence and send some small boats of our own out on the lake to stop soldiers from either trying to get to Switzerland or to the Americans who are also on the lake.”

“Do it. And make sure our ships are armed and that the crews have permission to shoot to kill.”

* * *

Since shooting that sick old Jew, Werewolf Hans Gruber hadn’t had the opportunity to kill anyone. He didn’t even like to think of that Jew with his brains splattered all over the floor of the cave. What he had done sickened him. He understood what the SS officer who was now a brigadier general was trying to do. He’d been trying to toughen young Hans Gruber and mold him into the kind of fighting man who would bring pride to the Werewolves. The more he thought about it, the more Gruber still didn’t like killing the man even though he had been a Jew. He was proud to be a German soldier and even prouder to be a Werewolf, but he wanted to kill real enemies, not sickly scrawny kikes. His parents were proud that he was a Nazi but he wondered if they would have approved of the murder-and that’s exactly what it was, a murder. He wanted to go after the Reich’s real enemies, the Americans.

One of his problems was that he just wasn’t a very good shot. He’d had several chances but none had panned out. He’d twice fired at Yanks and missed. For his troubles he’d had to run for his life. Now he was in a clump of small trees near a road the Americans frequently used. He wanted to find a solitary vehicle, and preferably one with only a driver and no passengers. He wanted to fight for the Reich but he was not suicidal. He would die if he had to, he thought nobly, but he didn’t want to rush things.

Gruber heard vehicles moving down the road. He would not attempt a kill. There were doubtless too many Americans to do so safely. Still, he wanted to take a peek. He had made a wise decision. At least a dozen trucks were headed towards him and they were filled with soldiers.

He had to pee. One of the less glamorous sides of being a Werewolf was finding a place to relieve one’s self. He stepped a few paces deeper into the woods and laid his Mauser against a tree. He opened his fly and, with a contented sigh, solved his problem.

Suddenly it was dark and he was on the ground. There was a bag or something on his head. He couldn’t see and he could only breathe dust. He felt helpless and had wet himself. Strong arms pinned his hands behind his back and he was tied up. The bag on his head was quickly replaced by a blindfold. He felt himself being thrown into the back of what he assumed was an American jeep and felt the jeep driven down a road. He had been captured. He was a prisoner of war and no longer a Werewolf. Hans Gruber was ashamed. He had been an utter failure as a warrior for the Reich. His only kill had been that old Jew and he now deeply regretted that.

Worse, he heard people laughing, laughing at him.

* * *

Neither Bud nor George liked hospitals and couldn’t think of anyone who did. Part of it was the medicinal smell and part was the sight of people in distress. They hated the apparent impersonality of hospitals but knew it had to be.

This evening, however, they had to go. Angelo Morelli was in there and he was one of them. He was a young lieutenant who’d only been in their unit for a couple of weeks before getting badly wounded. They’d had a couple of beers to strengthen their resolve, but it hadn’t worked very well and the medicinal smell almost made them nauseous.

Morelli had landed his plane early that morning, if you could call what happened a landing. He’d radioed that he was in trouble. His landing gear wasn’t functioning and there was a fire in the cockpit. He’d been hit by some flak. When he was told to get out he said that he couldn’t get the canopy to move. Bud and George had listened in horror as he got closer and closer to the ground. The fire spread and his last few seconds were spent screaming that he was burning, burning and howling for help and for his mother.

In what was either superb piloting or dumb luck, he’d landed the plane and it had skidded down the runway, finally coming to a stop only a short way from the emergency vehicles that were trying desperately to catch him. By the time they got to him, the screaming had stopped but precious seconds were lost trying to pry open the canopy. When they finally succeeded, they used extinguishers, and got Morelli out. Bud and George were close enough to see that his flight suit was smoldering.

Later they got word that he was alive and in a hospital only a few miles from where they were based. They borrowed a jeep and drove to the collection of tents that housed the facility.

Bud glared at the middle-aged nurse who was assigned to guide them. “How come our boys are in tents while the krauts are in real hospitals?”

The nurse was not fazed. “Because there are so damn many injured, both civilian and military, that no amount of so-called real hospitals exist that can hold everyone. Actually, we are under capacity right now since there is not that much real fighting going on. Don’t worry, we’re taking good care of your friend, at least as good as we can possibly do under the circumstances.”

“What are you saying?” asked Bud.

“I’m saying that he was terribly, horribly burned. So badly so that it’s a miracle of sorts that he’s still alive.”

“Is he going to make it?” George asked.

She gazed at them firmly but with compassion. “It is highly unlikely that he will survive the night. And even if he should survive and begin to recover, he may not wish to live.”

The comment stunned them. If you were hurt and got to a hospital, you got well, didn’t you? Now they knew better. She led them down rows of cots to a separate section. Many were empty but enough held casualties who were swathed in bandages. It was unnerving the way that they followed the two pilots with their eyes. Even more unnerving was the fact that some of the wounded had their eyes covered. They couldn’t help but wonder if the men were blind.

“This is where we put the burn patients. Lieutenant Morelli is the first one who is a pilot. Most pilots don’t survive what he’s gone through. He gets his own area, not only for privacy but so that his screams don’t terrify the others.”

Bud thought that he would again be ill. “Tell us what to expect.”

“Have you seen anybody who’d been burned to death?” They nodded. They had seen violent death. She continued, “In many cases the body looks like a very large overcooked steak or roast. Well, that’s what he looks like. The only difference is that he is still alive. His feet are gone and he might have a couple of fingers left. When the nerve endings in his body try to repair themselves his pain will be even more intolerable than it is right now. He is heavily sedated, but the pain still gets through after a while. If we give him too much, it might kill him, although that might not be a bad thing. His eyes are intact, but much of his face simply doesn’t exist. Now, do you still want to see him?”

“Can he hear us?” Bud asked.

“We doubt it, but don’t take a chance and talk about his condition. And don’t even think of touching him.”

They didn’t. They approached the thing on the bed. They had never seen a mummy before and now wished they hadn’t. The rise and fall of Morelli’s chest was the only indication that he was alive.

They leaned over him and told them who they were and that they were so glad he’d made it. They said that others would be visiting him as well and that he should stay tough. They added that the government was going to bill him for ruining the plane, but not even that got a rise out of him.

They left, but not before thanking the nurse who had turned away and was sobbing. “What would happen if he got far too much morphine?” George asked.

She smiled knowingly. “He would go to sleep peacefully and never wake up. He would never have to go through the unendurable agonies that would be his future.”

The two pilots shook her hand and went back to the officers club where they ordered more beers for themselves. Nobody joined them. It was obvious that they wanted to be alone.

“I guess there’s no good way to die,” said Bud. “The life of a pilot is glamorous until you get shot out of the sky or burned like Morelli. Of course we could have joined the bloody infantry and run the risk of being shot, bayonetted, or blown to atoms by artillery or by pilots just like us.”

George agreed. “Of course, we could have gotten into the navy but their pilots run the same risks as we do. And our base here is not likely to sink. Did you ever wonder how many sailors lived for how long in the bowels of the Arizona or the Oklahoma until their oxygen ran out? How many ships do you think went down with living crewmen screaming for help they were never going to get?”

Bud lit up a cigarette. “They say these’ll kill you too. I guess there’s no real good way to die, just some that are worse than others. What’s the old joke? Oh yeah, I want to die of a heart attack while getting laid at a hundred and ten. Only problem is, nobody wants to die. So what do we do?”

George smiled grimly. “I suggest we have another drink.”