One of his problems was that he just wasn’t a very good shot. He’d had several chances but none had panned out. He’d twice fired at Yanks and missed. For his troubles he’d had to run for his life. Now he was in a clump of small trees near a road the Americans frequently used. He wanted to find a solitary vehicle, and preferably one with only a driver and no passengers. He wanted to fight for the Reich but he was not suicidal. He would die if he had to, he thought nobly, but he didn’t want to rush things.
Gruber heard vehicles moving down the road. He would not attempt a kill. There were doubtless too many Americans to do so safely. Still, he wanted to take a peek. He had made a wise decision. At least a dozen trucks were headed towards him and they were filled with soldiers.
He had to pee. One of the less glamorous sides of being a Werewolf was finding a place to relieve one’s self. He stepped a few paces deeper into the woods and laid his Mauser against a tree. He opened his fly and, with a contented sigh, solved his problem.
Suddenly it was dark and he was on the ground. There was a bag or something on his head. He couldn’t see and he could only breathe dust. He felt helpless and had wet himself. Strong arms pinned his hands behind his back and he was tied up. The bag on his head was quickly replaced by a blindfold. He felt himself being thrown into the back of what he assumed was an American jeep and felt the jeep driven down a road. He had been captured. He was a prisoner of war and no longer a Werewolf. Hans Gruber was ashamed. He had been an utter failure as a warrior for the Reich. His only kill had been that old Jew and he now deeply regretted that.
Worse, he heard people laughing, laughing at him.
* * *
Neither Bud nor George liked hospitals and couldn’t think of anyone who did. Part of it was the medicinal smell and part was the sight of people in distress. They hated the apparent impersonality of hospitals but knew it had to be.
This evening, however, they had to go. Angelo Morelli was in there and he was one of them. He was a young lieutenant who’d only been in their unit for a couple of weeks before getting badly wounded. They’d had a couple of beers to strengthen their resolve, but it hadn’t worked very well and the medicinal smell almost made them nauseous.
Morelli had landed his plane early that morning, if you could call what happened a landing. He’d radioed that he was in trouble. His landing gear wasn’t functioning and there was a fire in the cockpit. He’d been hit by some flak. When he was told to get out he said that he couldn’t get the canopy to move. Bud and George had listened in horror as he got closer and closer to the ground. The fire spread and his last few seconds were spent screaming that he was burning, burning and howling for help and for his mother.
In what was either superb piloting or dumb luck, he’d landed the plane and it had skidded down the runway, finally coming to a stop only a short way from the emergency vehicles that were trying desperately to catch him. By the time they got to him, the screaming had stopped but precious seconds were lost trying to pry open the canopy. When they finally succeeded, they used extinguishers, and got Morelli out. Bud and George were close enough to see that his flight suit was smoldering.
Later they got word that he was alive and in a hospital only a few miles from where they were based. They borrowed a jeep and drove to the collection of tents that housed the facility.
Bud glared at the middle-aged nurse who was assigned to guide them. “How come our boys are in tents while the krauts are in real hospitals?”
The nurse was not fazed. “Because there are so damn many injured, both civilian and military, that no amount of so-called real hospitals exist that can hold everyone. Actually, we are under capacity right now since there is not that much real fighting going on. Don’t worry, we’re taking good care of your friend, at least as good as we can possibly do under the circumstances.”
“What are you saying?” asked Bud.
“I’m saying that he was terribly, horribly burned. So badly so that it’s a miracle of sorts that he’s still alive.”
“Is he going to make it?” George asked.
She gazed at them firmly but with compassion. “It is highly unlikely that he will survive the night. And even if he should survive and begin to recover, he may not wish to live.”
The comment stunned them. If you were hurt and got to a hospital, you got well, didn’t you? Now they knew better. She led them down rows of cots to a separate section. Many were empty but enough held casualties who were swathed in bandages. It was unnerving the way that they followed the two pilots with their eyes. Even more unnerving was the fact that some of the wounded had their eyes covered. They couldn’t help but wonder if the men were blind.
“This is where we put the burn patients. Lieutenant Morelli is the first one who is a pilot. Most pilots don’t survive what he’s gone through. He gets his own area, not only for privacy but so that his screams don’t terrify the others.”
Bud thought that he would again be ill. “Tell us what to expect.”
“Have you seen anybody who’d been burned to death?” They nodded. They had seen violent death. She continued, “In many cases the body looks like a very large overcooked steak or roast. Well, that’s what he looks like. The only difference is that he is still alive. His feet are gone and he might have a couple of fingers left. When the nerve endings in his body try to repair themselves his pain will be even more intolerable than it is right now. He is heavily sedated, but the pain still gets through after a while. If we give him too much, it might kill him, although that might not be a bad thing. His eyes are intact, but much of his face simply doesn’t exist. Now, do you still want to see him?”
“Can he hear us?” Bud asked.
“We doubt it, but don’t take a chance and talk about his condition. And don’t even think of touching him.”
They didn’t. They approached the thing on the bed. They had never seen a mummy before and now wished they hadn’t. The rise and fall of Morelli’s chest was the only indication that he was alive.
They leaned over him and told them who they were and that they were so glad he’d made it. They said that others would be visiting him as well and that he should stay tough. They added that the government was going to bill him for ruining the plane, but not even that got a rise out of him.
They left, but not before thanking the nurse who had turned away and was sobbing. “What would happen if he got far too much morphine?” George asked.
She smiled knowingly. “He would go to sleep peacefully and never wake up. He would never have to go through the unendurable agonies that would be his future.”
The two pilots shook her hand and went back to the officers club where they ordered more beers for themselves. Nobody joined them. It was obvious that they wanted to be alone.
“I guess there’s no good way to die,” said Bud. “The life of a pilot is glamorous until you get shot out of the sky or burned like Morelli. Of course we could have joined the bloody infantry and run the risk of being shot, bayonetted, or blown to atoms by artillery or by pilots just like us.”