Germanica (29 page)

Lena didn’t drink very often or very much and drank beer but rarely. Her preferred drink was wine. The beer was an Austrian brand and must have been in someone’s basement for years. Lena had at least three and possibly four bottles. They all had gotten giggly and it was a good feeling of release. When it was gone, they had gone to bed.

About three in the morning Lena awoke with a headache between her eyes and a bladder that was about to explode.

“Damn it,” she muttered. Her fellow sinners were all snoring and sleeping soundly. She slipped on her army pants and, over her T-shirt, a pink robe that she’d bought from a refugee for just a few pennies. She didn’t feel she’d taken advantage of the woman who was going to throw it away because she no longer had any use for it. Along with covering her when she had to go to the latrine, the pink color made her feel feminine.

She thought for a moment and decided to take the Luger. The robe had baggy pockets and she didn’t think the bulge was too obvious. Besides, even though she and the others were allegedly safe on an army base, there had been incidents where some oversexed and horny GI—was there another kind?—had attempted to assault a woman. Don’t take chances was their motto. And if they were assaulted, it was highly unlikely that the soldier would face severe punishment. The men would stick together. The soldier might lose a stripe or get his butt kicked by an NCO, but doing serious jail time was highly unlikely. It wasn’t fair, but such was life in their corner of the world.

The latrine was primitive but clean since the women took turns caring for it. She relieved herself and splashed some cold water on her face. Engineers had rigged the piping to deliver warm water, but that wasn’t what she wanted. The cooler water refreshed her just a little. She took a couple of aspirins and swore never to drink Austrian beer again, unless, of course, someone wanted to have another party. She could not help but exult in the fact that she was actually, truly free.

As she walked the short distance to the tent, she looked up and saw a million stars. She wished Tanner was there to share it with. So many times when she’d been with the Schneiders she’d done the same thing. Only then she’d been wishing for a way to escape.

She caught motion to her right. She waited and saw it again. Someone was skulking out there. She stood still and put her hand in her pocket, grabbing the pistol.

She wished she wasn’t wearing pink. She must be standing out like a neon sign.

The man suddenly decided to cross the roadway and she saw that he was carrying what looked like a German submachine gun. Luck was with her. The man hadn’t turned in her direction, but then he did and they recognized each other. It was young Hans Gruber.

“Gruber,” she hissed and pulled out the pistol.

“American whore,” he screamed and fired a burst in her direction. She threw herself on the ground and almost felt the bullets whistle over her. She fired twice at Gruber and also missed. “Help!” she screamed. “Germans!”

Gruber looked at her, fired again and missed again. He swore and disappeared. More gunfire had erupted in the distance and a siren finally started screaming. She heard an explosion. Gruber had thrown a hand grenade, but not at her. Thinking it was a bombing attack, hundreds of men and a handful of women spilled out of their tents and into slit trenches. Lena needed no prompting and found a corner of a trench. Mud quickly covered her pink robe, ruining it.

Gunfire was increasing and it seemed to be close to division headquarters. She groaned as she realized that Tanner’s quarters were near the general’s.

She recognized a couple of the men in the trench with her. “This ain’t no air raid, is it?” one commented. “By the way, Miss Lena, nice outfit.”

* * *

The sounds of gunfire had sent Hill out of his bunk and onto the earthen floor of the tent he shared with a number of other sergeants. The others were a little slower on the draw but when bullets stitched the canvas they moved with alacrity, joining him in the dirt. The bullets were joined by the sound of grenades exploding.

“What’s happening, Sarge?” asked a confused buck sergeant.

“We’re under attack, you flaming jackass. What the hell did you think was happening? Where’s your weapon? Everyone, get your goddam weapon!”

There was more scrambling as men moved to comply. Even those with a couple more stripes quickly decided he was their leader. When this was over, he would have to ask for a raise.

He sliced the canvas with a very large knife he’d won from a sailor in a poker game and led them single file out of the back of the tent. The loser had called the knife a Ka-Bar but it looked like a Bowie knife. Just about everyone had complained about having to live in tents, but there weren’t enough undamaged buildings to house them. Now it might just save their lives. Instead of having to use doorways, they could cut their way out anywhere they wished.

Hill had a dozen men, all NCOs. He had them form a defensive line and take what shelter they could find. More gunfire and screams could be heard. He began to wonder if the bullets that had struck the tent had simply been fired wildly or were even spent. He decided that it didn’t matter a helluva lot.

“People coming,” he yelled. “Hold your fire until I tell you. They might just be friendlies.”

The issue was decided when one of the approaching men stopped and hurled a grenade that exploded several feet in front of them. “Open fire,” Hill screamed. There were only four attackers and they quickly fell in a heap. The Americans continued to fire until Hill ordered them to stop. “Enough. They’re dead already.”

Hill’s little group began to approach the pile of bodies. Hill had a terrible thought. “Don’t anybody touch anything. One of them might be playing possum.”

“Screw that, Hill,” said a more senior sergeant named Baker. “I’m gonna get me a souvenir. And just remember, Hill, you don’t give me no orders.” He ran off to the bodies and started moving them around. Suddenly an arm thrust up and grabbed the sergeant by the neck, pulling him down. A couple of seconds later, the grenade the German had been holding exploded. The American sergeant was lifted into the air and dropped back down, but without his head and an arm.

“Son of a bitch,” Hill screamed and started shooting again. The others joined in and the four Germans, along with the unlucky American, were shredded.

When the killing stopped, they made another attempt to look at the corpses, or at least what was left of them. What they saw were the remains of four very young men. These were the legendary Werewolves, Hill concluded, and they didn’t look like much at all. But what kind of damage had they managed to inflict?

Elsewhere, the firing had pretty much ceased. Only sporadic and solitary gunfire was heard and no more grenades. Hill realized that Tanner was beside him. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people, Captain. You might get shot.”

“You’re right. The next time the Krauts attack, I’ll announce myself. Other than the foolish and unfortunate Sergeant Baker, did you lose anybody?”

“Nobody that I’m aware of, sir. How about you?”

“There were about twenty of them, including our former guest, Hans Gruber.”

“I hope the little shit got killed.”

“No such luck. No one’s found his body.”

The wind shifted and they smelled something burning. “Aw Christ,” said Tanner. “That’s coming from General Evans’ quarters.”

As a major general, Evans was entitled to one of the few actual buildings in the division area to use as his office and headquarters and it was burning fiercely. “Did the general get out?” Tanner asked anyone. He saw Cullen and waved him over.

* * *

Major General Richard Evans had again been unable to sleep. He appreciated his staff’s concern for him and thanked them for the soft bed and the roof that didn’t leak, but it didn’t change the fact that he couldn’t nod off. The war had ground down both his division and himself. He was an exhausted and underweight shell. Since arriving in Germany, the 105th had suffered more than three thousand casualties. Three thousand bright young men killed, wounded, or maimed along with several dozen missing. He didn’t think any of the missing had deserted. More likely, their mortal remains had been obliterated by a shell or buried by some explosion.

Mercifully, he didn’t know very many of them. Their names on the casualty lists jumped out at him, however, and he wondered how many relatives, friends, and lovers were mourning the dead and hoping that the wounded would recover.

Of the three thousand casualties, only two thousand had been replaced. The United States Army was suffering a manpower shortage; thus, the division was understrength as well as unmotivated. The two thousand replacements were poorly trained and indifferently motivated. Even so, many of them had become casualties. Their inexperience led too many of them to believe that they were immortal or that this was some sort of noisy and thrilling game.

He grieved for them all and once more doubted if he was cut out to be a general. How could Eisenhower or Patton or Devers send tens of thousands of men to fight each day knowing that many of them would not come back? At least his division was going to be pulled out of the line. That was the good news. The bad was that they were going to be headed to the German city of Bregenz and be part of the final assault on Germanica.

The chatter of gunfire interrupted his musings. It was close, too close. He hopped out of bed and quickly put on his trousers and boots. Now the shooting was really close and he cursed the fact that all he had to protect himself was his .45 automatic. And where the hell were his guards?

A window crashed below him. Swearing softly, he made it to the head of the stairs. He saw shadows moving. It was just one man. But was it an American or a German? The answer came quickly. The man must have sensed the motion above him. He turned and fired a burst from a submachine gun. Bullets chewed into the wall beside the general. Evans fired back. The German shot again. This time, Evans took the full strength of the bullets in his chest. He gasped and fell forward, slowly sliding down the stairs.

“General!” Evans tried to focus on the sound. It was Cullen. Good boy, he thought as a red haze started to overwhelm him. There was more shooting and he saw the German buckle and fall, his body shredded by bullets from Cullen’s Tommy gun.

He tried to say his thanks, but his body wasn’t functioning and he smelled smoke. Nothing was functioning.

* * *

Cullen’s uniform was scorched and his face was soot-blackened and burned red. “No, the general did not get out. He was shot many times by a German while he was trying to get down the stairs.

“I got the German, but then the place began to burn up and I was barely able to drag him out. In case you’re wondering, General Evans lived for a few minutes but soon was well and truly dead with a bunch of bullets in his chest. If he had any last words, I couldn’t make them out.”

The gunfire had stopped. There were, however, the sounds of people yelling for help or screaming in pain. People were giving orders and trying to get control of the situation.

Cullen borrowed a canteen and dumped some of the contents on his face. “I’d like to know just how the Nazis got through our security. My guess is that the guards were either asleep or not paying attention or were killed by the Germans. For their sake, I hope they are all dead. Letting a general get murdered will put you in the stockade for centuries.”

With a chance to catch his breath, Tanner wondered if Lena had made it to safety. The German attacking force was small; therefore, the odds were well in her favor. Good odds weren’t good enough. He needed facts.

As soon as he could he ran to where the women had their tent. It was still standing, although there were some disconcerting holes in the canvas. He was about to ask about her when she ran up, grabbed him by the arm, spun him around, and hugged him fiercely.

“I was so worried,” she said. Her voice was muffled by the fact that her mouth was against his chest.

“So was I,” he said, reveling in the fact that he could feel her breasts against him and the beat of her heart as he held her tightly. “Their attack was a bust. If they wanted to kill high-ranking officers, the only one they’ve gotten is General Evans. His death is terrible, but we will recover.”

He realized that it was a tacit admission that the late Evans had not inspired confidence. There would be new commanding general for the 105th, but who would it be and, more important, would it make a bit of difference?

* * *

Joey Ruffino had never been to the White House. Most people hadn’t. First, it would have involved a lot of money that most people didn’t have, thanks to the Great Depression. Second, by the time his good job had given him enough money to spend on the trip, wartime restrictions would not permit it to happen easily.

Thus, arranging for many thousands of his mother’s supporters to arrive in Washington at the same time and find lodgings had proven to be a monumental logistical effort. He was pleased that he and his team of volunteers had actually pulled it off. Although much a much smaller crowd then what he’d hoped, several thousand protestors had managed to make it to Washington. A tent city had sprung up across the Potomac and, while watched carefully by the Secret Service, the army, and the District of Columbia police, the protestors were left alone.

Even though it hurt his foot to walk any distance, he insisted on doing it. It was his duty and it thrilled him to honor his mother. He felt that her spirit walked beside him as he circled the White House grounds and carried the placard calling for the troops to be brought home.

He was surprised that the White House, while quite large, wasn’t larger. It was beautiful, but not truly a palace. He’d seen enough pictures in books and magazines to understand what a palace should look like. Nobility did not live in the White House, just an elected president, and now it was Harry Truman’s turn. The view was marred by the sandbag fortifications and the large numbers of heavily armed soldiers along with machine guns on the roofs of many surrounding buildings. While there was little danger at this time in the war from either German or Japanese aircraft, sabotage could not be ruled out. He’d been told that there were real fears that some crazy fanatic would steal a plane and crash it into the White House or the Capitol. This was once considered preposterous, but no longer, since the Japanese kamikaze pilots began sacrificing themselves by flying into American ships.