By the Blood of Heroes (13 page)

Chapter Sixteen

A
fter leaving the briefing, Burke found Charlie waiting for him outside the headquarters building with all his personal gear.

“Hear you’re taking a little trip,” the other man said.

Burke nodded, struggling to find the words to say what needed to be said. The two of them had been together for literally years, and the thought of not having Charlie there at his back when he needed him was disconcerting, to say the least. He was kicking himself for not having asked Nichols to assign Charlie to the squad, for doing so would have assured him of at least one man he knew he could trust with his life.

“Listen, Charlie, I just want you to know that . . .”

The big sergeant rolled his eyes and handed him a piece of paper. “You might want to read this before you get all weepy.”

The paper contained a set of orders very similar to the ones Burke received earlier that morning. They indicated that Staff Sergeant Charles Eugene Moore was being transferred to the Military Intelligence Division under Colonel D. Nichols for temporary assignment and was hereby ordered to report for duty outside the company motor pool at 1300 hours the next afternoon.

Apparently Burke had underestimated Nichols.

He looked up at his friend with an expression of horror on his face. “Are you serious?” he asked, his voice quivering with melodrama. “I mean, really.
Eugene?
”

The use of his middle name made Charlie glare ominously for a moment in response to the old joke between them, and then the two men were laughing with relief at the fact that the war had missed another chance to break them apart. Burke, in fact, was thrilled, for he’d have the benefit of Charlie’s steadfast support and years of experience in what was sure to prove a very difficult operation. From his perspective, their chances of getting through the mission alive had just gone up considerably.

“So where are we headed, boss?”

Burke winced. “They haven’t told you yet?”

“Nope.” Seeing his reaction, Charlie asked, “It’s not Passchendaele, is it? Tell me it’s not Passchendaele.”

Memories of the weeks they’d spent thigh-deep in the muck and mire of that small village in Belgium sprang to mind and Burke shuddered. Men and horses had literally been swallowed alive in the giant fields of mud that composed the battlefield.

“No, it’s not Passchendaele,” he said thankfully.

The staff sergeant sighed. “Good. Anywhere is better than that hellhole.”

I wouldn’t bet on it,
Burke thought, as he began to fill his companion in on the mission that lay before them.

T
he two of them spent the next several hours looking at the personnel files of the men that Nichols had selected for the mission, as well as everything available on the POW camp outside of Vitry-le-François. Which, as it turned out, wasn’t much—just a few rough sketches of the compound and a handful of notes that had been smuggled out in the last forty-eight hours from a partisan group operating on the ground in the local vicinity of the camp.

The information on the mission logistics was less complete, which Burke hadn’t thought was even possible and reminded him never to underestimate the army’s ability to royally fuck things up. From what Nichols told them, the team would be transported across the front and to within ten miles of the POW camp. The exact method intended to accomplish that little miracle was classified, and no amount of begging on Burke’s part could get the colonel to bend on the confidentiality issue. From there they would rendezvous with a group of partisans in an abandoned farmhouse close to the target site, who would then transport them to a spot just outside of the camp itself. It would be up to Burke’s team to determine the best way of infiltrating the camp and rescuing Freeman. Once they had, the team would be transported by truck back to the front, where they would have to cross no-man’s-land under the cover of darkness in order to reach friendly lines.

It wasn’t what Burke would call a good plan. More like a list of hopeful possibilities than anything else, but it was all they had, and if they hoped to live long enough to spend that bonus cash, they were going to have to somehow make it work.

At least they’d be well equipped to give it a try. Around the time they were finishing up, Nichols sent over a stack of supply chits that could be used to draw whatever they needed from the company stores, and the two men decided to head over to the quartermaster’s to deal with that task right away. They quickly discovered that the lack of information they were operating under made resupply a challenge, however, and they wound up with far more than they’d originally intended—food, ammunition, topographical maps, medical supplies, demolition materials—anything and everything that they could think of that might make the difference between success and failure once they were behind enemy lines. The last thing they wanted was to discover that they were missing something important when it was too late to do anything about it.

They commandeered a small, steam-driven “supply truck,” which was really nothing more than a flat platform on wheels with an engine in the back to help push the weight of the load, and loaded it up with the gear they had selected. Leather straps were then looped over the boxes, slipped through metal rings set on the floor of the truck, and cinched tight.

The truck clanked and shook and hissed like a dragon when Sergeant Moore opened the pepcock that released the already heated water into the boiler, but it built up a head of steam quickly, and they were able to make the short drive to the motor pool without incident.

When they arrived, they found Colonel Nichols waiting for them outside the mechanic’s shed. He took one look at the amount of equipment they were carrying and frowned.

“You’re going to have to leave at least half of that behind,” he said, waving at the gear piled in the back of the truck. “You’re allotted three hundred pounds per man, no more, so essentials only, please.”

How in hell did they figure what was essential and what was not
, Burke wanted to know,
when they didn’t know how they were getting there or just what they would encounter when they arrived?

It was a valid question, but Nichols was unbending on the issue of operational security, and no further information was forthcoming. “You’ll just have to improvise as best you’re able, Captain.”

Improvise, my ass,
Burke thought, but kept the grumbling to himself. Antagonizing the new commander in the first twenty-four hours of a unit’s formation probably wasn’t the best strategy for long-term success.

“The team is gathered inside,” the colonel said, using his thumb to indicate the mechanic’s shed behind him. “You’ll have a few hours to get your equipment squared away before the transport vehicle arrives, so use that time wisely. I’ll be back to see you off.”

With that, Nichols left them to get to know their unit.

The men were gathered around a table in a small room at the back of the shed. Burke could see them through the open door as he approached, and he did his best to hide his reaction when he saw Graves sitting at the table with the other men. He stepped inside and waited for Sergeant Moore to call the team to order.

When the necessities were handled, Burke waved them back into their seats and took a place at the head of the table. From there, he could see each of them in turn.

Clayton Manning sat to Burke’s left. The big game hunter was dressed for a day in the bush, wearing khaki-colored canvas breeches and a dark-colored shirt, over which he’d pulled a worn leather vest festooned with pockets. A slouch hat rested on the table in front of him.

Next to Manning was Graves. He’d exchanged his lab coat for a standard doughboy’s uniform, but the way he tugged at the sleeves and pulled on the collar showed how uncomfortable he was in it. Burke hadn’t been expecting him and wondered about his presence, but he didn’t want to call him out in front of the other men, so he simply nodded a welcome and moved on.

The rest of the men were unfamiliar to him, but he’d read their personnel files and mentally reviewed what he had learned about them as he glanced from one to the next.

Corporal Richard Compton was the squad’s medic. Tall and fair haired, he came from a well-to-do New England family that valued career respectability over patriotism. Richard had entered Harvard Medical School later in life, and while he was studying to be a surgeon, his younger brother, James, had enlisted and gone off to war against the family’s wishes. It was only after James’s death at Cantigny that Richard gave up his studies and followed suit. At age thirty-nine, he was the oldest man in the squad. Compton’s file indicated that he was a “quiet, resourceful type” but also noted that he harbored a deep-seated hatred for all things German following the death of his brother.

Next to Compton and directly opposite Burke at the other end of the table sat a heavyset farm boy from Missouri named Steven Strauss. His file had been extremely slim, perhaps a result of the fact that he was the only one in the room who had been assigned to MID prior to this mission. About the only thing useful in the entire file, aside from his marksmanship qualifications and a clean bill of health from the camp doctor, was a notation that he was to be the team’s language expert.

On the opposite side of the table from Manning and Graves sat Corporal Harrison Jones, of the fabled thousand-yard shot. Burke had decided to include him when he’d realized that having another sharpshooter along might mean the difference between success and failure. Manning certainly qualified, but Manning was a civilian and Burke had no idea how he’d react under fire of a different sort than he was used to. Jones, on the other hand, had been tested on the battlefield, and Burke was confident he could keep the man’s rebellious nature in check if it came to that.

Last, but not least, came Private Benjamin Williams. A dark, curly-headed kid from rural Virginia, he had never left his hometown before shipping overseas less than six months before. He was the perfect stereotype of a small-town boy suddenly thrust into the bright lights of the big city, and Burke was amazed that the war hadn’t eaten him alive. For all his inexperience, Williams was on the team for his demolitions know-how. He’d been working in the coal mines since he was eleven and could do things with dynamite that Burke didn’t even know were possible. Williams had been part of the team that had tunneled beneath the German lines that ran along the Messines Ridge at the Battle of Passchendaele and blew up their company headquarters in an overwhelming display of military pyrotechnics. According to his file, the kid was an explosives virtuoso; if they needed to blast their way into or out of a structure, he was the one to do it.

Including himself and Sergeant Moore, that gave them an eight-man squad. It was a strong enough team to handle a fair-sized confrontation with the enemy and yet still small enough to move around behind the lines without calling undue attention to themselves.

Or so Burke hoped.

As was his style, he got right down to business.

“You’ve all had the chance to talk with Colonel Nichols, so I won’t waste your time reiterating the basics. We’ve got a job to do and we’re going to do it, as quickly and efficiently as possible.

“Make no mistake—we’re bearding the lion in his den. He’s bigger, stronger, and faster than we are, and he’ll tear us to pieces in a heartbeat if given the chance. It’s going to take nerve and discipline to pull this off. If either I or Sergeant Moore gives an order, we’ll expect it to be obeyed without hesitation. Your life and the lives of the men around you may very well depend on it. I don’t care what you did before this, once we leave this room you’re under my command. If you have a problem with that, it’s best you say so now. I’ll see to it that Colonel Nichols transfers you back to your unit without issue.”

He paused, giving them all a chance to decide for themselves if they were going to go through with it or not. When no one moved, he continued.

“Good. Sergeant Moore will handle resupply. We’re under specific orders to remain within certain weight limits per man, so check with him to be sure you don’t go over that. Otherwise, we’ll try to be as liberal as possible with regard to equipment.

“If you’ve got any last-minute business to take care of or letters to write, now’s the time to do it. We ship out in two hours. Dismissed.”

As the men got up from the table, Burke put his hand on Strauss’s elbow, stopping him. “Stay for a minute, Private, would you?”

He waited for the rest of the men, with the exception of Sergeant Moore, to clear the room and then turned to the young man sitting nearby. He gave him the once-over, taking in the neatly pressed—and clean—uniform, the shoes that were well shined but seemed little worn.

“File here says you know languages?” Burke asked.

“Yes, sir,” the kid replied earnestly, his Missouri accent thick as weeds, and Burke almost winced at Strauss’s eagerness to look good in front of his new commander. “I can speak English, German, and French, real well, sir.”

“You don’t say,” he replied. “Where did you learn all those?”

“My parents taught me, sir. My mamma, she was from Paris, and my daddy was born and raised in Berlin. They met shortly after arriving in the United States. I learned to speak French and German at the same time I learned English.”