Righteous Sniper

CHAPTER TEN

Obersturmbannführer Bauer did not regret his decision to surrender. First, he and his men were alive. The Americans had not shot them outright. There had always been the chance that might happen.

But they had been lucky. It seemed as if no one had found out about the incident on the road where Messner had ordered the American prisoners to be shot. If anyone had known, he supposed that their reception by the Americans would have been quite different.

Second, his wounded men had immediately been taken into the care of the American doctors in Bastogne. While it was true that their medical resources were limited and they were working out of a drafty old church rather than a hospital, the conditions were far better than what the German wounded could have expected in the forest.

He had even been allowed, under escort, to visit his men in the hospital.

The makeshift hospital was far from ideal, being dark and cold. The interior smelled strongly of grimy clothing and unwashed blankets, rubbing alcohol, and something unhealthy — perhaps decaying flesh. Nonetheless, the American medical staff were doing the best that they could for the wounded Germans. There were no beds, so the wounded had been spread across the stone floor.

Bauer saw with surprise that his men were on the floor right next to the wounded GIs. The care that they were receiving was every bit the equal of what the medical staff gave to their own men. Also in the mix were several wounded civilians, including a few women and children. How regrettable, he thought.

Most of the cases in the hospital were men with severe wounds. Any of the so-called walking wounded were needed to defend Bastogne. Now that he was a prisoner, behind enemy lines, Bauer had seen just how undermanned the Americans were. And yet he and his comrades had been unable to push them out of Bastogne. The Americans were just too determined.

Some men were so badly injured that their entire heads were swaddled in bandages, except for holes left for their nose and mouth. For many their wounds had not been caused by bullets but by the cold. More than a few fingers and toes had been claimed by frostbite.

Walking down the rows of wounded, he knelt at the side of each man to give him a quick word of encouragement. The wounded men had the bitter taste of failure in their mouths after the disastrous attack, but they had done their part, and it was still possible that the overall German advance might still succeed elsewhere.

At last he came to the side of Feldt, the old campaigner who had been bleeding badly from his wounds following the attack across the field, when Bauer’s troops had been surprised by artillery and tank fire.

“Ah, Herr Obersturmbannführer,” Feldt said.

“Good to see you, Feldt. How are you feeling?”

“Much better, sir. Thank you.”

“Are you warm enough?” Bauer looked doubtfully at the thin blanket covering the old Soldat. Then again, none of the patients, American or otherwise, had much in the way of blankets, which were in short supply.

Feldt grinned. “I am German, Herr Obersturmbannführer. I never feel the cold.”

Bauer patted his knee. “Well, it looks as if the Americans are taking good care of you.”

“I have no complaints, sir.”

Bauer stood up, feeling his knees crack in the cold. “Take care of yourself, Feldt.”

“I will, sir.”

Bauer reached the end of the row and nodded at his escort, a clerk who spoke a little German, and then the two of them started their return trip through the hospital.

He was almost back to the door, looking forward to some fresh air after the stuffy air inside, when he heard a shrill shout.

“It’s him! That’s the German son of a bitch who had us shot!”

Startled, Bauer looked around and spotted a man on a nest of blankets who had managed to raise himself on an elbow and point accusingly at Bauer.

So there had been a survivor after all. He had warned that fool Messner about that.

Bauer’s escort didn’t seem to know what to make of it, and Bauer himself didn’t know what to do except to keep walking. The wounded man was still pointing and shouting, “Someone stop that Nazi son of a bitch!”

As it turned out, the wounded soldier’s outburst was not going unnoticed. A doctor went over to the shouting wounded man and crouched beside him. The officer seemed to quickly parse the story, because he looked up at Bauer with a scowl.

The doctor got to his feet and pivoted toward Bauer.

“You there!” he called.

Bauer realized that his situation as a prisoner had just taken a turn for the worse.

There was a brief respite for the soldiers in Bastogne when a few bags of mail managed to get through. So far there had been airdrops of medicine, food, and ammo. Now there was also mail, because the army understood that morale was a powerful weapon.

There was little else that gladdened hearts so much as a letter from home. The words might be written by a wife, by a sweetheart, or by a mother. It didn’t matter. What really resonated was the idea that someone back home cared, had made the effort to write words on a page, and now the physical piece of paper that had been in their hands had miraculously arrived on the front lines. Many of the letters were written on the thin paper known as Victory mail, or “V-mail,” to speed the process of delivering mail.

As they gathered in the street for mail call, a few soldiers were lucky enough to receive letters from home. This time, among the sniper squad that was now part of Team SNAFU, it was Hank who got mail in the form of a letter from his mother.

The faint whiff of ink and paper made its way to Hank’s nose as he held the letter. It was a familiar, comforting smell that reminded him of home and simpler times. The words made home seem close and yet also a million miles away.

The letter had been written before Christmas, and his mother described the preparations back home, from plans for baking cookies to the perennial debate between his parents over what variety of Christmas tree was best. Balsam or fir? As he read it, tears came to his eyes. Nobody said anything about the tears.

“It all sounds so normal back home,” Hank said. “Yet here we are fighting in the cold and snow. It doesn’t even seem possible.”

Yet it was that idea of life back home that kept them going. They remembered a place where you could pray freely, speak your mind, and not live in fear of being shot at. What was there to fight for, if not for that?

Other than a package that Cole had received that contained a bowie knife made by Hollis Bailey back home, Cole never received any mail. His family wasn’t the writing type, and Cole wasn’t the reading type.

Vaccaro sighed. He hadn’t received a letter either. He looked on a bit enviously at the others savoring each word from home.

“I guess nobody in my family had time to write with the holidays,” he said.

“What about all your girlfriends?” Cole prompted. The way that Vaccaro bragged, you would have thought that he had to fight off the girls back home.

“Maybe I broke their hearts and they can’t bear to write to me,” he said.

But as it turned out, the mail sack included a handful of letters and packages addressed to “Any GI.” The corporal who had distributed the mail went around handing them out. He gave a package to Cole, who stared at it, not quite knowing what to do.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Vaccaro wondered.

“Who’s it from?”

“I guess people back home haven’t totally forgotten that we’re out here fighting for them.”

Cole slid a calloused finger under a loose corner of the brown paper wrapper and tore it open. There was a scarf inside hand-knitted in shades of brown and yellow, with a bold red stripe worked in. Against the drab, slushy backdrop of Bastogne, the scarf was like a bright bird glimpsed in a wintry forest.

Also inside was a letter.

He handed it over to Vaccaro. “Better read that,” he said. “It might be from one of your girlfriends after all.”

Vaccaro looked at the letter with curiosity. It was addressed to “Dear Soldier” in a neat, somewhat childlike handwriting.

“You better read that aloud, Vaccaro!” someone urged.

“All right, all right.” Vaccaro shook out the letter with dramatic flair, cleared his throat, and began to read out loud:

Breaking the silence that followed, Cole was the first to speak. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “That girl can sure write a letter.”

Cole was still holding the colorful scarf. He got up and walked over to where Hank was still staring at his own letter from home, as if willing each word to burn into his memory. Cole bent down and gave him the scarf. “Here, kid. You better take this. That girl who wrote us wouldn’t want a mean bastard like me to have it. It will look a lot better on you — and keep you warm too.”

Hank looked up and took the scarf, his eyes still damp. “Thanks,” he said hoarsely. He held the scarf for a moment, then wrapped it around his neck.

The brief peace and quiet did not last long. It was as if the Germans had been waiting for this opportunity to catch them off guard. They heard the deep booms of artillery from the forested hills beyond Bastogne and then the sound of shells screeching in.

“Take cover!” Lieutenant Mulholland shouted, although the men were already scrambling to get out of the street.

Cole dove for a shell hole and landed alongside Vaccaro, who muttered, “Those goddamn Krauts must not have gotten any mail. I’d say they’re jealous.”

“Why don’t you write them and tell them to go to hell?”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

Then the screeching reached a crescendo, and the artillery shells rained down on Bastogne.

The deafening sound of explosions and the continuous whistle of the shells filled the soldiers’ ears, drowning out any other noise. The ground beneath them rumbled and shook like a giant’s hungry belly. Through the roar of the barrage, they could hear screams of men who had been caught out in the open.

“Medic!” someone shouted. “Medic!”

Incredibly, some brave bastard of a medic dashed through the chaos to answer the cry for help.

Through it all, Cole stayed hunkered down in the hole while bits of rock and debris clattered onto his helmet. He prayed that a bomb didn’t land on his head. With some amusement, he recalled the old saying that there was no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole.

If you’re up there, Lord, spare me from these bombs, he prayed. While you’re at it, Lord, damn these Krauts to hell.