Regiment A of the German 317th SS Panzergrenadier Division entered the town of Comblain at three o’clock in the morning. It was a new unit recently formed in Germany and had been rushed to the Ardennes to help in the fight to take Bastogne.
Its commander was Colonel Kurt Richter, who rode in the lead armored car, followed by a long column of armored personnel carriers. Richter looked at the buildings of Comblain with distaste because it was a poor little farming town and probably would not have comfortable quarters.
Richter’s car stopped in front of the headquarters of the small garrison in the town, and his aid, Private Hendl, ran around to open the door. Richter stepped out of the car, wearing a black leather topcoat and shiny black leather boots. A black steel helmet sat squarely on his head, with the aluminum lightning bolts of the SS on the side. He strode purposefully to the modest stone building, paused as Hendl opened the door for him, and entered an office.
A soldier shot to his feet behind the desk and shouted “Heil Hitler!”
Richter narrowed his eyes and showed the palm of his hand. “Take me to your commander at once.”
“Yes, sir!”
The soldier led Richter to a door and pushed it open. Richter marched inside and saw a young captain sitting behind a desk, drinking a cup of coffee. The captain’s knapsack leaned against the side of the desk, and his topcoat hung from a nail hammered into the wall. Richter showed him his palm. “I am Colonel Kurt Richter of the 317th SS Panzergrenadiers,” he said. “I am herewith relieving you of your duties in the Comblain sector as per Special Order Number 312, dated December 26, 1944.”
The captain rose to his feet and smiled. “The town’s all yours,” he said, “and you’re welcome to it. My men and prisoners will be gone within half an hour.”
“Prisoners?” asked Richter. “What prisoners?”
“When this town was taken, there were some wounded American soldiers and a nurse here.”
“A nurse?” asked Richter.
“Yes, sir.”
“A female nurse?”
“Yes, sir. She’s rather pretty too.”
“Where is she?”
“In the local jail with the rest of the prisoners.”
Richter took off his helmet, revealing short straight blond hair, and turned to Hendl. “Get me my adjutant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hendl sped from the room, and Richter looked at the captain again. “Where is this jail you’ve mentioned?”
The captain told him the street and gave him directions. Then Major Franz Glucker, Richter’s adjutant, entered the room and saluted.
“You wanted to see me, sir.”
“There are some American prisoners in this town, Glucker. Go with a few squads and take them into custody.” He told Glucker the location of the jail and Glucker saluted again, marching out of the office.
The army captain was surprised by Richter’s order. “You’re not going to let me take the prisoners away, sir?”
“No,” Richter replied, unbuttoning his leather coat. “Hendl, throw more wood on this fire.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But first hang up my coat.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hendl helped Richter remove his coat, and the captain stared in amazement because he was in the regular German army and never had dealt with the SS before. “Why are you keeping the prisoners here?” the captain asked. “Won’t they be in your way when you mount your offensive?”
“They might have important information. I want to interrogate them.”
“They’ve already been interrogated, sir. I can send for the reports.”
Richter smiled superciliously as he sat behind the desk. “I know how to conduct interrogations, Captain, and I don’t want to hold you up. You may leave whenever you wish.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” The captain threw the Hitler salute, picked up his pack, and marched to the door.
Richter turned to Hendl, who was throwing wood into a black potbellied stove. “When you’re finished over there, make my bed and heat some water for a bath.”
“Yes, sir.”
Richter took a cigarette from a silver case embossed with a swastika and lit it with a matching lighter. He and his men had been travelling almost continuously for thirty-six hours, and although he felt tired, he was looking forward to the attack in the morning. Richter had spent most of his career in the Gestapo, but now the Allies had recaptured most of Europe, and there wasn’t much for Gestapo men to do. He’d been transferred to the SS. Most of his soldiers had been ex-Gestapo men or prison guards, so they were in the same predicament as he, and the rest were draftees. Richter was eager to do well in the Waffen (combat) SS because he didn’t want his career to stagnate.
Richter was on his second cigarette when Glucker returned. “Sir,” he reported, “I’ve taken the Americans into custody.”
“The nurse too?”
“Yes, sir.” Glucker smiled and wiggled his eyebrows. “She’s quite a beauty, sir.”
“Bring her to me at once.”
Glucker left the officer just as Hendl entered, carrying trunks filled with sheets and blankets.
“Hendl,” Richter said, “is there a bathroom in this place?”
“Oh, yes, sir, a very nice one,” Hendl said. “It’s right down the hall on your right.”
Richter strolled down the hall and found the bathroom, where he took a leak. Then he stood in front of the mirror and washed his hands, looking at the stubble on his cheeks and at his slightly misshapen features. Whenever Richter looked into a mirror, he always became annoyed that the plastic surgery done to his face hadn’t restored it to its former symmetry. His nose was slightly crooked, one cheekbone a millimeter or two higher than the other, and his chin a bit out of line. He imagined everyone could see these defects although most people never looked that closely.
He’d gone under the plastic surgeon’s knife twice in his life, after two severe beatings. The first had been at the hands of a French Maquis in Normandy shortly before the Allied invasion and the second in Paris, after an encounter with a big American master sergeant.
The weird part of it was that the American master sergeant and French Maquis had looked identical, and sometimes Richter thought they were the same person although that didn’t make sense. Richter had the face engraved on his mind and prayed that a day would come when he’d meet the man again, so he could exact retribution.
He washed his hands and face and returned to the desk, lighting a third cigarette. When he was halfway through it, Major Glucker returned with the nurse.
She wore a wool U.S. Army overcoat, and a wool muffler covered her hair, which was blond like Richter’s. She was of average height and appeared buxom beneath her overcoat. Richter thought she had a lovely face and smiled at his good fortune in finding her in the town.
Glucker gave the Hitler salute and shouted “Heil Hitler!”
“Find something to do,” Richter told him.
“Yes, sir!”
Glucker turned and walked out of the office. Richter smiled and looked at the nurse. “What is your name, please?” Richter asked in German-accented English.
“Claire Sackett,” she replied.
Richter had conducted many interrogations in his career and now heard her fear. “Take off your coat, and sit down.”
She untied the muffler. Her hair was wavy, nearly reaching her shoulders. Private Hendl entered the room as she was unbuttoning her coat.
“The bedroom is ready sir,” he reported.
“Leave me alone for a while.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hendl left the office, and the nurse removed her coat. Underneath she wore O.D. fatigue pants and a shirt, and Richter gazed at her bosom in admiration. She draped her coat over the back of a chair, and Richter got a glimpse of her bottom, which was full and shapely. She looked like a strong, healthy woman who might become fat in ten years, but Richter thought she was magnificent now.
“How old are you?” Richter asked.
“Twenty-four.”
“Have a seat, please.”
The nurse sat on one of the chairs in front of the desk. Her face was pale, and she looked terrified.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said soothingly. “Nothing will happen to you as long as you cooperate.” He took out his cigarette case and held it out to her. “Care for one?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said, leaning forward and taking one.
He lit her cigarette, and she returned to her chair, taking a deep inhale.
“Are you married?” Richter asked.
“No.”
“Where are you from?”
“St. Augustine, Florida.”
“Ah,” said Richter, “I believe I read someplace that it’s very warm in Florida.”
“Yes, for most of the year.”
“I see,” said Richter. “Would you come with me, please?”
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Just down the hall.”
“Should I take my coat with me?”
“You may leave it here.”
They rose from their chairs and walked side by side down the corridor. Richter could sense her soft feminine body beside him, and blood throbbed in his neck. He entered the bedroom and said, “In here, please.”
She followed him in, saw the recently-made bed, and knew what was coming next.
“Take your clothes off,” he told her.
“No,” she replied, setting her jaw.
“I don’t have any time to waste,” he said crossly. “If you don’t do as I say, I’ll simply have your wounded American soldiers shot.”
Her lips trembled. She didn’t know what to do. If she didn’t go to bed with him, he’d kill the GIs, and if she did go to bed with him, she didn’t know what would become of her mind because the weird part of it was that he was turning her on! It was true. There was something about his black uniform and black shiny boots that was getting to her, along with his cruel but handsome features. Claire had always been a little wild when it came to sex, and sometimes she worried that she was a nymphomaniac, but she’d never thought she could feel sexual desire for an enemy of her country. Her head began to spin, and she sobbed softly into her hands.
“Stop crying,” he snapped. “I can’t bear it when women cry. Well, I guess I’ll have to issue the order to have those Americans shot.”
“No!” she said.
He turned to her. “Then take off your clothes.”
Her hand trembled as she unbuttoned her fatigue shirt. Richter smiled and puffed his cigarette as he saw her big, round breasts straining against her brassiere. She unsnapped the brassiere, and her nipples swung from side to side like rosebuds in the wind.
“You’re really quite lovely,” he said. “Hurry up with the rest of your clothes.”
She sat on the bed and untied her combat boots, dropping them to the floor, as he unbuttoned his black tunic. Hanging it on a bedpost, he sat on a chair and pulled off his shiny black boots. She stood and pushed down her fatigue pants and underpants, stepping out of them. She bent to pick them up, and Richter’s mind was inflamed by the sight of her blonde pubic hairs.
One boot on and one boot off, he dashed across the room and pressed his face against her bottom, drooling and licking between her legs. She moaned and dropped to her hands and knees on the floor, as he pushed his tongue inside her. He grunted and slobbered as he licked both her orifices, and she whimpered, wagging her fanny from side to side and clawing the carpet. I’m a sick disgusting human being, she thought, nearly fainting from the pleasure she was receiving, and she figured this was by far the most demented thing she’d ever done in her life—and she’d done some pretty demented things.
~*~
Mahoney and Cranepool arrived back in the company a few minutes after three o’clock in the morning and made for Captain Anderson’s dugout. The blood had coagulated on the dog bites on Mahoney’s arm and leg, but they hurt, and he was afraid he’d been infected by the dogs’ saliva. Cranepool had also been bitten severely.
A guard was posted at the dugout, and Mahoney told him he and Cranepool were returning from the patrol.
“Has anybody else come back yet?” Mahoney asked the guard.
“No, Sergeant. Not that I know of.”
Mahoney and Cranepool entered the dugout, and saw Sergeant Futch and Pfc Spicer sleeping on the floor beside their desks, wrapped in Army blankets. Mahoney wiggled Futch’s foot, and Futch sat up suddenly, reaching for his service revolver, a Colt .45.
“Relax,” Mahoney said. “It’s only me.”
Futch blinked and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “Where are the others?”
“Who the fuck knows?”
“What happened?”
“It’s a long story. Why don’t you wake Captain Anderson up, so I don’t have to tell it twice.”
A dark shadowy figure pushed the O.D. green canvas curtain to the side. “I’m already awake,” Captain Anderson croaked, a half-smoked cigarette in his hand. “Where’s Lieutenant Woodward and the rest of the patrol?”
“You’d better sit down sir,” Mahoney said, “because it’s going to be a long story.”
Captain Anderson sat behind Sergeant Futch’s desk, and Mahoney told him everything, from the time they’d entered no-man’s-land at the beginning of the patrol to the harrowing journey back to Charlie Company after the fight with the dogs.
“I think Woodward is crazy,” Mahoney concluded. “Puleo is dead because of him, and God only knows about the others. If Woodward ever gets back here, I think he ought to be court-martialed. We had no business going into the German bunker. It wasn’t part of our mission, and Woodward only did it for the glory that he’d get if he pulled it off.”
Captain Anderson nodded. “If he’d brought back valuable documents he would have been a hero, there’s no doubt about that. But I doubt whether a court-martial will stick just because he failed to do that.”
“He could never have brought it off,” Mahoney protested. “It was a one in a million shot, and he risked all our lives by taking it. The son of a bitch ought to be put up against a wall if he gets back here.”
“And that’s only part of it,” Cranepool chimed in. “You should’ve seen the way he was treating Sergeant Mahoney. I’m surprised Sergeant Mahoney didn’t put a fucking hole in his head.”
Captain Anderson coughed and covered his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ll talk to him about this when he gets back—if he gets back, but I don’t know about the court-martial. I don’t know if an enlisted man can bring charges against an officer, and I doubt whether I can because I wasn’t there and I didn’t witness anything myself. I’ll have to look at the regulations.” He turned to Sergeant Futch. “In the meanwhile, transmit Sergeant Mahoney’s report on Comblain to battalion.”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Anderson looked at Mahoney and Cranepool. “You two had better get yourselves looked at by a medic, and then you might want to get some sleep before the big push at 0600 hours.”
“Yes, sir,” Mahoney said, although he doubted whether he’d be able to sleep very much.
~*~
Major Kurt Richter and Nurse Claire Sackett thrashed around in bed for an hour and a half, having sexual relations in all the exotic positions and performing the most disgusting oral perversions imaginable.
“Cigarette?” asked Richter when it was over.
“Please,” she replied in a soft hesitant voice.
Richter reached to the night table and picked up his silver cigarette case. He held it out to her; she took one; he lit it and then lit one for himself.
“Well,” he said, blowing smoke into the air, “that was magnificent, wasn’t it?”
She puffed the cigarette and didn’t reply because she felt filthy and depraved. She loathed herself for giving herself so completely to him, but she’d never been able to control her sexual hunger, and there’d been something about him that had excited her tremendously. I’m sick in my mind, she thought. I belong in a mental institution.
“I asked you a question,” he said, an intimidating edge to his voice.
She didn’t know what to say but knew her fear of him was mixed up with the sexual attraction.
He turned toward her, grabbed her throat with his hand, and squeezed. “Answer me,” he said.
“You’re hurting me,” she protested.
He snorted. “I’ll kill you if I want to. I can do anything with you I like, but I’ll take care of you, and you know I will, because of what we have together.”
“Please let me go,” she said.
He released his grip on her throat and looked at the impressions his fingers had made.
“I know you love me,” he whispered in her ear. “You could not have done the things you did to me if you didn’t love me. And in the same way I love you. Heaven or Hell has brought us together, and only death shall part us.”
“It’s not true,” she said, avoiding his eye. “I don’t love you, and I never could love you. I never would have done what I did if you hadn’t threatened to kill the wounded American soldiers.”
He lunged and grabbed her throat again. “Liar!” he shouted. “You loved every moment of it!”
She dug her fingernails into his wrist. “I did not!”
He slapped her face with his free hand. She pushed her lighted cigarette into his chest. He screamed, fell on top of her, and they kissed, groaning and writhing against each other, bruising each other’s lips, and she scratched her fingernails across his back, leaving four red lines, as he pressed himself into the furnace between her legs.
~*~
Lieutenant Woodward, bleeding from a cut on his left cheek, returned to Charlie Company at four o’clock in the morning, his face haggard and his eyes like two glowing coals. His steps were unsteady because his ankles and shins had been slashed and battered by low-hanging branches as he’d run through the woods, and there were moments when he’d thought he’d never make it back, but now he was safe again, and he cursed himself for the moments of self doubt and despair he’d felt when he was alone in the woods and the Germans were following at his heels.
He entered the CP and kicked Sergeant Futch in the leg. Futch went for his Colt .45, and when he looked up, he saw the barrel of Woodward’s carbine two inches from his nose.
“Am I the first one back from the patrol?” Woodward asked.
“No, sir. Mahoney and Cranepool showed up,” Futch consulted his watch, “about an hour ago.”
Woodward felt like screaming in rage, but he held his demons down and said, “I’m ready to make my report to Captain Anderson. Get him for me, will you?”
Futch crawled to Captain Anderson’s part of the dugout and saw him sound asleep on the ground. Futch hated to wake him up because Captain Anderson seldom got much sleep, but he shook his shoulder, and Anderson opened his eyes.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Lieutenant Woodward is back, sir.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Send him in here, and then tell Lieutenant Irving to report to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sergeant Futch left the small enclosure, and Captain Anderson sat behind his desk, lighting a cigarette. His head pounded with pain, and his eyelids felt like they were attached to lead weights. He took two APC tablets for the headache and was washing them down when Woodward pushed the canvas curtain aside and entered. They looked at each other, and their animosity crackled like electricity. Captain Anderson was tired of dealing with the problems caused by Woodward’s difficult personality, and Woodward thought Anderson an inept commander.
“Have a seat,” Anderson said. “You may smoke, but don’t say anything until Lieutenant Irving gets here.”
“What do we need Lieutenant Irving for?”
“I want him to know everything that goes on in this company, in case something happens to me.”
Woodward smiled. “People who worry about things happening to them usually have something happen to them.”
Anderson puffed his cigarette and looked at Woodward through the curling smoke. “One of your problems is that you talk in slogans that sound nice but make no sense. Incoming German shells and bullets don’t look for people who worry.”
The flap was pushed aside and Lieutenant Irving, the company exec, entered. He was twenty-two years old, with long legs and a short torso. The men called him “High-pockets.”
“You wanted me, sir?” he asked.
“Have a seat.”
Irving sat next to Woodward. They glanced at each other but said nothing because they didn’t get along. Nobody in the company liked Woodward, and Woodward thought that was the way it should be because a good commander couldn’t be liked by everybody.
“Let’s begin,” said Captain Anderson, checking the time on his watch. “First of all, Sergeant Mahoney has reported that there was only an insignificant garrison in Comblain—do you concur with that, Lieutenant Woodward?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He said he wanted to wait to see if the town stayed quiet, but you insisted on returning, correct?”
“Yes sir. I thought the information we had should be relayed to battalion as soon as possible and doubted whether the Germans would reinforce Comblain in the middle of the night.”
“Well,” said Anderson, “I think I would have agreed with Mahoney because the latest information is always the best, but I suppose a good argument could be made for the course of action you took, and I can’t fault you there. Yet I can’t help wondering, if you were so anxious to make your report to battalion, why you ordered that raid into the German bunker, a raid that you knew would delay you that was not part of your mission.”
Lieutenant Woodward leaned forward in his chair. “I don’t know what Sergeant Mahoney told you, sir, but I have a pretty good idea. Mahoney doesn’t like to take orders. He wants to get me transferred so he can have the first platoon all to himself again, and for that reason I think it’s important that we examine very carefully everything he says.”
“What do you say?” Captain Anderson asked. “I’d like to hear your side of it.”
“But sir,” Woodward protested, “you’re talking as if Mahoney has a legitimate point of view, and that his side of the issue is as valid as mine. Sir, Mahoney has been in trouble throughout his military career for insubordination, drunkenness, black marketeering, fighting, sneaking women into barracks, and everything else. He’s been in the stockade three times, and I really can’t understand how you can pay any attention to what a person like that would say.”
“I’m still waiting to hear what you’ve got to say,” Captain Anderson replied.
“Relative to what?”
“Why did you order the raid into that trench?”
“Because a German captain was in it, and I thought he might have valuable documents on his person or nearby.”
“How did you know a German captain was in that trench? Were you examining bunkers, looking for just such a situation, when you were supposed to return here with your report on Comblain.”
Woodward became indignant. “Of course not! I just happened to see him as I was looking for a path through the German lines.”
“He was in a bunker, was he not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then how could you see him?”
Lieutenant Woodward turned red. “When I saw the bunker I thought somebody important must be inside and thought I’d have a look.”
“That wasn’t your mission,” Captain Anderson said.
“I don’t believe in following orders blindly,” Woodward replied. “I believe an officer should use his initiative and take advantage of opportunities. I thought I had a golden one right in front of me and decided to act on it.”
Captain Anderson stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Three men died and nothing was accomplished due to your golden opportunity,” he said drily.
“But if I brought back valuable documents, everyone would have been pleased, wouldn’t they?”
Captain Anderson looked him in the eye. “Is that why you ordered the raid, Woodward? So that everybody would be pleased with you?”
“I resent that, sir!” Woodward shouted. “I was only trying to do my duty as I saw it! It’s easy for you to criticize from your position here, but I was out there,” Woodward pointed, “and I did what I thought was right!”
“Don’t raise your voice to me,” Anderson said softly.
Woodward pointed at Captain Anderson. “I know why you’re talking to me this way! You’ve been listening to Sergeant Mahoney! That ignorant pig has been lying about me, and you believed him! I demand a full investigation into this matter, sir! My honor and reputation as an officer in the United States Army have been impugned by you and Sergeant Mahoney!”
Captain Anderson lit another cigarette and took a puff. “Do you think we should call off the offensive this morning so we can conduct this inquiry?” he asked sarcastically.
Woodward looked at Captain Anderson, and his eyes narrowed to slits. “Sir, I’ll take this up with a higher authority at the appropriate time,” he said. “Until then, if you have no further questions, I’d like to be excused.”
“I have no further questions,” Captain Anderson said.
Lieutenant Woodward, stood, saluted, turned, and marched out of the enclosure. He passed Sergeant Futch and Pfc Spicer and emerged into the cold night air, his jaws clenched in anger because he knew Captain Anderson didn’t like him, and that the whole company was against him, but he’d persevere somehow. The test of a good officer was how well he stood up to pressure.
He lit a cigarette and walked to the first platoon area, thinking of Mahoney and wondering how he could damage his credibility when suddenly a hand shot out from behind a tree and grabbed him by the throat.
Woodward gasped and nearly lost consciousness as the flow of blood was cut off to his brain. The face of Mahoney appeared in front of him, a cruel curve to his mouth.
“Where’s Caddell, Puleo, and Perez?” Mahoney asked in a low voice.
“Let me go!” Woodward uttered through his constricted throat.
Mahoney squeezed harder. “I said where’s Caddell, Puleo, and Perez?”
Woodward thought Mahoney would break his neck. He raised his hands and tried to pry Mahoney’s fingers loose, but they wouldn’t budge.
“I’m not going to ask you again,” Mahoney said.
Woodward’s voice was little more than a squeak. “They were all killed.”
Mahoney brought his face closer to Woodward’s. “I didn’t like you before,” he said, “but now I hate you. You’d better watch your ass from now on.”
Mahoney let go, and Woodward fell to the ground. Woodward coughed and struggled to breathe through his aching throat. He got to his knees and looked up, but Mahoney had gone. The night was quiet, except for the sounds of the wind in the trees. Woodward got to his feet and massaged his neck as he staggered toward the first platoon.