Gods & Snipers: A World War II Thriller

Chapter Four

Maybe Captain Norton didn't want to hear it, but Cole was right about someone just having to fight the Germans later on. The Germans who slipped away from Captain Norton's squad went down another road, eager to escape rather than fight. But when they heard a vehicle approaching, they quickly set up another ambush, knowing that it was more likely to be an American vehicle than one of their own.

In a Jeep rushing toward the unseen Germans sat Brigadier General Winston Bell Tolliver III, known to his friends and family as "Bean" Tolliver because he'd been the smallest and youngest in a family of large male relatives. It wasn’t really right to say that Tolliver was sitting in the Jeep. In reality, he held on for dear life in the passenger seat of the Jeep hurtling down the dirt road. Jeeps did not have seat belts, so it was either hold tight or get bounced out into the muddy road. The general kept banging his shins painfully against the metal dashboard.

Despite his nickname, Bean Tolliver was actually of average height and build, though starting to go soft in the middle. With fifty on the horizon, the general had a touch of gray around the temples, and the hair on top starting to go thin. His balding head was hidden beneath a pristine steel helmet emblazoned with a single star. Just last year he had started needing glasses to read fine print, but he kept those tucked into a pocket.

He was a staff officer assigned to Eisenhower's HQ, playing a key role in logistics. The bulk of his job was to oversee the ordering of supplies from tires to gasoline to spare parts for shipment to France. Once those tires and gasoline and spare parts arrived, it was someone else's problem to get them into the field. Here in Normandy, the Red Ball Express had mostly taken care of that.

Tolliver was good at this job, but it wasn't exactly the sort of role that left one covered in glory and bedecked with medals. Despite the stars on his collar, Tolliver sometimes felt that he didn’t quite measure up to combat officers.

His uniform had managed to maintain a few of its creases even after a couple of days in the field. Unlike General Patton, he was not armed with a pair of pearl-handled revolvers. He did, however, carry the standard issue Browning 1911. Tolliver rarely had need of a sidearm but thought it would be wise to take one along as he headed into Indian Country.

As the war seemed to be winding down — some claimed the Germans would be done by Christmas — anyone and everyone who could finagle it was trying to get some sort of field command, or to at least get close enough to the fighting to hear actual shots exchanged in anger. The desire to own some piece of the actual war also fueled quite a market in battlefield souvenirs. He’d even heard of a German Stalhelm bring swapped for a bottle of Kentucky bourbon.

Once peacetime arrived, there would be a lot of jockeying for the limited number of leadership roles, and those with some form of field command would be better positioned to survive the culling that was sure to take place once the war was over and the Army didn't need so many officers.

Tolliver, though, was thinking that he might be fine with getting out of the Army after this war. His brother-in-law had a large Ford dealership near Washington, D.C., and had already offered Tolliver a job as the general manager. Tolliver was mulling it over. It was strange to think that by next summer, he might be back in the States, ordering tires and gasoline and spare parts for civilian cars and trucks.

Maybe it was foolishness or curiosity, or equal parts of both, but he’d had a desire to see some of the war before it moved into its final stages. When the opportunity presented itself to get out in the field, General Tolliver had jumped at the chance. He had wrangled a trip into the field to check on the supply chain first-hand, instead of relying on the written reports typed by his clerks.

His was a military family in many ways, but Tolliver had never actually seen any combat. Hell, he thought, he’d scarcely ever been close enough to the fighting to hear artillery. The thought made him a little ashamed. And so he’d pressed this Jeep and young driver into service to see a little of the war before it was over.

Tolliver couldn’t help comparing himself to his grandfather, Confederate Colonel Amos Tolliver, who had been a real soldier, fighting at Pickett's Charge and Gaines' Mill, among other places, until he had finally fallen, mortally wounded, in an inconsequential skirmish known locally as "The Battle of Gifford's Field.” Tolliver was something of a Civil War history buff and he had visited the field, which he imagined had looked very much the same eighty years before. Back then, the field outside Richmond grew a ragged crop of cornstalks as Union troops closed in on the Confederate capital.

It was exciting to think of what he had seen through his eyes. Had he ever met General Lee or Stonewall Jackson? Colonel Tolliver was forgotten to most, and he certainly had not been famous in his day. There weren’t any mentions of him in most of the history books.

His grandson knew the feeling. As an obscure brigadier general working to supply the troops, Tolliver’s name would not have rung many bells with Eisenhower, who mostly dealt with the likes of Bradley, Patton and Montgomery. To be sure, they were a handful.

The Jeep caught the edge of a shell hole and bounced, forcing Tolliver to get a grip on the Jeep. Again, his shins whacked painfully against the metal dash. With just 60 horsepower, the four-wheel-drive Jeep wasn't fast, but it churned up the muddy road. As for the name, Jeep, nobody was sure where that had come from, but it had certainly stuck. The sturdy vehicle was helping them win the war, but it wasn't about to be confused with a Cadillac.

Like his grandfather, General Tolliver would have much preferred riding a horse, but that was modern warfare for you, all gasoline and gears rather than saddles and hooves. Tolliver knew what kept a modern Army going because he had written requisition orders for most of those supplies.

"Which way, sir?" the driver asked, coasting the Jeep to a stop at a crossroads that lacked any sort of road sign.

The young driver was clearly anxious, his eyes darting around at the woods and fields for any sign of Germans. Did the driver, who was hardly more than a teenager, know something he didn't?

The truth was, Tolliver didn't have a clue which way to go.

He wasn’t particularly worried — not yet, at least. The Germans were supposed to be done and gone, but they apparently hadn't gotten that particular memo. Already this morning, they'd had a close call when they had spotted a German tank in the distance. Fortunately, the tank either hadn’t seen them in turn or had not been interested in something as inconsequential as a lone Jeep. Still, the sight of the panzer had left them both shaken. That was a little too close for comfort.

In avoiding the tank, however, one wrong turn had led to another. It had been a compounding of errors that led them to this anonymous crossroads. The retreating Germans had removed all the road signs or pointed them in the wrong direction in an effort to confuse the Allied advance.

He hadn't counted on getting lost. In fact, he was more than a little embarrassed about it. He was supposed to be a general, after all. The young soldier kept his eyes on Tolliver, waiting for some kind of instructions. Out of the corner of his eye, Tolliver saw that the kid gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white.

His driver wasn’t annoyed. He was scared.

They had lost contact with the American advance more than two hours ago, and it was just possible they would round a bend in the road and come upon an entire SS regiment. If that happened, Tolliver's field trip would get unpleasant in a hurry.

“Just let me, uh, get our bearings,” Tolliver said.

“Yes, sir.”

Tolliver took out his map. He sighed, and reluctantly, he fished out his glasses in order to read the tiny place names. The fact that the glasses made him look like an old man likely did not inspire much confidence in the driver.

This was already the fourth time he had looked at the map in the last hour. The problem with a map was that it was really only useful if you knew where you were in the first place. Tolliver didn't have any idea. Goddammit. The muddy roads and brown fields were all starting to look the same to him. They had gone down one unmarked road and then another, until they had ended up at this spot — wherever the hell that was.

The landscape around them consisted of low, rolling hills covered in pastureland and patches of woods. It was pretty country, or it would be if it hadn't been so gray and overcast. One good thing was the Army Air Corps was grounded, meaning that their Jeep wouldn't be mistaken for a Kraut vehicle and strafed into oblivion. Up ahead, bigger hills began and marched toward Belgium and the Ardennes region. Somewhere up in those hills was the Moselle River, and beyond that, the Rhine itself.

As he studied the map, turning it one way and then another in hopes that it would reveal their location, he felt his driver's eyes studying him doubtfully. The kid seemed to be wondering just what sort of general he was driving around.

"Sir?" the driver asked again, one foot on the clutch, the other on the brake. He seemed anxious to get going, rather than to idle here like sitting ducks at this godforsaken crossroads.

Tolliver wasn't going to pretend to know something he didn't. "Son, if you have any idea where we are, I hope that you will speak up."

"I'm sorry, sir." The driver looked at him nervously. "I haven't got a clue, sir."

Tolliver glanced at the sky to get his bearings from the sinking sun, then waved his hand at the road that led west. Generals made decisions, he reminded himself, even when they were supply officers. He forced himself to grin, putting a brave face on it. ”The Moselle River must be in that direction. We're bound to run into our boys before we get there."

He didn't add, unless we run into the Germans first, but they both seemed to be thinking it.

"Yes, sir," the driver said without much enthusiasm, and put the Jeep into gear. They jostled along in silence for several minutes.

"What's your name, son?

"Smith, sir. Ralph Smith."

"How old are you, Ralph?"

"I just turned twenty, sir."

Tolliver shook his head and said, “I’ve got socks older than you. Where you from?"

"Connecticut, sir."

"The land of Mark Twain," the general said.

"If you say so, sir." The young soldier looked confused. A thought seemed to come to him. "But wasn't Huckleberry Finn set on the Mississippi River?"

"Ah, you're a reader."

"We had to read it in high school, sir."

"You're right that Huckleberry Finn is set on the Mississippi River, but Mark Twain lived in Hartford, Connecticut, for more than 20 years. That's where he wrote the book, you know. He lived right next door to Harriet Beecher Stowe, who wrote Uncle Tom's Cabin."

"Uncle Tom's Cabin? I've heard of it, sir, but I haven't read that one," he said.

"It's not a very popular book where I'm from," said Tolliver, who had grown up in Virginia. "That book caused a lot of trouble. You might even say that it helped to start the War Between the States."

"Yes, sir."

Their conversation seemed to have reached a dead end, but the road stretched on ahead. Tolliver felt like an idiot for having dragged this kid out here and gotten them both lost. For what purpose? If Tolliver was being honest with himself, he had to admit that he had come out here mainly to satisfy his curiosity about the front — and perhaps so that he could lay some claim to having seen something of the war beyond stacks of forms on his desk.

The fact that Smith had to swerve around a large crater left by a German shell more than likely saved them both from being killed instantly when a burst of fire raked the road, just where the Jeep would have been a second before if Smith hadn't jerked to the wheel to the right.

Directly ahead of them stood a low stone wall. Behind it, Tolliver caught a glimpse of several square helmets and the flash of muzzles. They were taking fire. Shocked, Tolliver realized that these were Germans.

The driver slewed the Jeep sideways, trying to get turned around, but the muddy road didn't cooperate. The vehicle moved sluggishly, more like a ship turning than a race car. Then the tires lost any purchase and spun hopelessly in the mud. They were sitting ducks for the Germans. Desperately, the driver worked the gears and hit the gas, but they were stuck fast.

"Out!" Tolliver ordered.

They both jumped out into the mud, putting the Jeep between themselves and the shooting. Beside him, the kid was wide-eyed with terror.

Tolliver was sure that his own expression wasn't much different. They both hunkered against the Jeep as shots ripped the air overhead. The Jeep shuddered and clanged as bullets struck it. Thank God for Detroit steel, Tolliver thought. Lucky for them, the Germans didn't seem to have a machine gun.

Gunfire chattered, still chewing up the Jeep, but the sturdy vehicle was good at stopping bullets.

The young soldier had remembered to grab his M-1. Tolliver saw the driver start to straighten up, getting ready to return fire. In his mind's eye, he could see what was going to happen if that kid stuck his head up. That was too much of a target for the Germans to miss.

Tolliver pulled him back down by the back of belt. "Hold on, son. They'll cut you down right quick. Sit tight."

He didn't have a plan yet, but sitting here getting shot at wasn't much of one. He chanced a look around the back end of the Jeep. The Germans were taking cover behind a low stone wall beside the road. "We need to get into those woods. Those Germans are retreating, and they'd be happy to see us high-tail it out of here. I'll cover you."

He already had the 1911 Browning in his hands. It didn't have the range or accuracy of a rifle, but there was a reason why a .45 slug was nicknamed a flying ashtray. You had to respect a big, fat bullet coming your way.

"Sir?"

"Go!" he shouted, and opened fire from the back end of the Jeep, gripping the pistol in two hands and aiming each shot. The general’s desk job did not require much shooting, but Tolliver had grown up around guns and still hunted on occasion. He was a good shot. Each fat slug hit the top of the wall sheltering the Germans and sent shards of stone flying. The Germans kept their heads down under the sudden barrage of .45 slugs.

He glanced over his shoulder long enough to see the driver cover the distance to the woods in seconds, running like a rabbit, God bless him. Then the kid threw himself down on his belly in the underbrush. Tolliver hoped to hell that the kid remembered to cover him. He crouched, then took off running for the woods. He saw with satisfaction that the driver was shooting back. The young soldier had remembered his training.

Tolliver got in among the cover offered by the low shrubs, and then they both moved deeper into the woods. It seemed to take him a long time to catch his breath after sprinting for the woods, and his heart hammered far out of proportion to the amount of exertion. Getting too old for this, he thought.

He sure as hell hadn't planned on fighting any Germans.

Honest to God, right about now, he missed his desk.

The kid was looking at him, still wide-eyed, shaken up and scared.

I may be nothing more than a bean counter, Tolliver thought, but I owe it to this kid to try to get him back home after dragging him out here.

He touched the young soldier's arm, reassuring him. "Sit tight," he whispered. "If those Germans do come after us, you know the drill. You move deeper into the woods, and I'll cover you."

"Yes, sir."

Tolliver hoped it wouldn't come to that. The magazine of his .45 was almost empty. What was he going to do, charge them while screaming the Rebel Yell? Charging the enemy hadn't been such a great idea in 1864, and it was an even worse idea in 1944.

Fortunately, he'd been right about the Germans not bothering to give chase. He could just see them through the trees. Once it was clear that the Americans had fled, they came out from behind the wall. There were only a dozen of them, but that was enough. They walked over to the Jeep, seemed to debate taking it, but then headed down the road on foot in the direction that Tolliver had been traveling in before the ambush.

Tolliver was a little amazed, simply because he had not seen the enemy up close yet. Those were Germans, all right.

Once they were sure that the Germans had gone, Tolliver led the way out of the bushes. He and the driver were now scratched and muddy, but they were alive.

His driver walked up to the Jeep and whistled when he saw the bullet holes.

"Think she'll run?"

"Only one way to find out, sir. We'll see if she starts."

"Good idea." Tolliver clapped the driver on the shoulder. "That was a nice bit of driving, turning the Jeep like that. You kept us from being killed, I'd say."

"Thank you, sir." Though shaken, the kid still managed a smile.

As it turned out, the Jeep did start. But it was still stuck in the mud. With the kid behind the wheel, Tolliver got behind the Jeep and set his feet, then as the kid gave it some gas, he gave to vehicle a big shove to help the tires break free of the mud.

"Don't stop!" He waved the driver on and jogged alongside until he could pull himself into the Jeep.

"Where to, sir?"

He told Private Smith to return to the last crossroads they had passed and turn left. "With any luck, there won't be any Germans down that road," he said, wishing he felt as confident about that as he sounded.