There was a bandage wrapped around Oster’s skull. “He doesn’t need all this bandaging, but we’re going to keep his head wrapped until we solve his problem. Private, I am now going to shift the bandage so Captain Tanner can see.”
“No, I mean, no sir,” Oster said.
“Yes you will,” said Tanner, “but first tell me what happened.”
Oster started to tear up. “I don’t really know. One minute I’m walking with the prisoner and the next he’s got my rifle and I’m on the ground. Then he hits me and then I wake up here and I’ve been cut.”
Tanner thought he understood. The young Werewolf was still a Nazi fanatic. He either changed his mind, or something had changed it for him, or he’d been lying all along. Lena would not be happy at this turn of events. She had put so much emotion into changing the boy.
Of course, a big mistake had been made in giving this slow-witted American soldier any responsibility whatsoever. Now the Werewolves had an American uniform and an M1 Carbine along with at least one clip of ammunition.
Hagerman put his hand on Wally’s shoulder. “Private Oster,” he said firmly, “I am now going to pull off the bandage and show Captain Tanner what happened.”
“Promise you won’t tell anyone?”
They two men solemnly assured Wally that they wouldn’t. Hagerman carefully pulled back the first bandage and exposed a second one covering a large patch of Oster’s forehead. The young private was whimpering and not from pain. Tanner thought he knew what was coming next.
The second bandage was carefully pulled back, exposing a neatly gouged swastika in the middle of Wally Oster’s forehead. Neither man said a thing. After a few seconds, Hagerman replaced the bandage. He thanked Wally, and the two men went outside where Hagerman lit a cigarette.
“Jesus, Doc, how are you going to get rid of that ugly thing? He can’t go back with that obscene badge in the middle of his forehead.”
“He won’t have to. There’s such a thing as plastic surgery. Good techniques were introduced in World War I, and there have been many improvements since then. He’ll have a couple of minor operations to remove the swastika and then he’ll have a small scar in the middle of his forehead that he can wear as a badge of honor showing that he’d been wounded in action. He’s going to get a Purple Heart and maybe a trip home. I think I can convince some people that retarded boys who can barely read and write their own name should not be drafted and get him sent back home to West Crotch Rot, Texas. Who knows, maybe he’ll thank me. What I would like to do is find out just who beat the crap out of the German.”
“What?”
“Ah, something else you didn’t know. Two guys came down from Seventh Army with permission from General Patch to question the prisoner after you were through with him. I understand that the questioning turned into interrogation and then torture to get him to give them information a fourteen-year-old kid probably didn’t know in the first place. General Evans is absolutely livid and has complained upstream to Patch. It won’t make a bit of difference since Patch is sick and going to be replaced. But at least we have some idea why our Werewolf recanted.”
* * *
Staff Sergeant Billy Hill loved hunting. As a kid back home in Alabama, he’d take a rifle and hunt squirrels or rabbits. Back then he had a.22, and killing a squirrel was about all it would do. When he joined the army as a young adult he was already a highly skilled shooter with just about any kind of rifle or shotgun made.
Now what he really liked to do was hunt Germans. He had his own modified Garand M1 and it was fitted with a telescopic sight. He showed up at Sergeant Higgins’ outpost unannounced but not unexpected. The two men had been friends for years and, since Hill’s elevation to division staff, Higgins had extended an open invitation for Hill to go Nazi-hunting.
The crafty Higgins had his men build him a bunker that was well sited and camouflaged. “Do the Germans know about this place?” Hill asked.
“Not yet and I don’t want them to. If you’re gonna go hunting, don’t draw attention to here.”
“What are you worried about? One more attack on the German lines and they’ll collapse like a house of cards.”
Both men laughed harshly. “That’s bullshit and you know it,” said Higgins. “One more attack like the last one and this corps will be ruined and maybe the entire Seventh Army will cease to exist.”
The 105th Infantry had recently been joined with the newly and partially arrived Tenth Mountain Division to form the Twenty-Fifth Corps. No commander had been designated so it had temporarily fallen on General Evans.
Hill grinned amiably at the handful of soldiers in the bunker. “Any of you brave men want to come with me?”
All but one looked away or lowered their heads. That one stared at him and shook his head. “What about you?” asked Hill, directing his question towards the man who was staring at him.
“No thank you, Sergeant. I’m not crazy.”
Hill stiffened. “You implying that I am?”
The soldier, a PFC, wasn’t intimidated. “Didn’t mean that. I don’t know what you’re thinking and why you want to go out there and shoot people. I just don’t. All I want to do is what’s required of me and get home to my wife and kids.”
Hill blinked. Kids? He’d known that fathers were being drafted, but this was the first time he’d run across one. No wonder the guy didn’t want to volunteer. But that was just too bad. The guy was a soldier. “Are you saying you wouldn’t obey a direct order to follow me out there into Nazi-land?”
“Of course I would. Just don’t you go looking for any enthusiasm or any gung-ho and ‘let’s charge the machine gun’ crap. First time somebody shoots at me, I go to ground and call for help.”
“How old are you, Private?”
“Thirty-four and I want to reach thirty-five and be back home in Illinois when it happens.”
“The Germans are our enemy, Private.”
“With respect, Sergeant: says who? I’m part German and so is my wife. Some of the people you’re going out to shoot could be my relatives. Fortunately, we don’t have any Jap relations, so killing them’s okay. My point is, Hitler’s dead. Let’s send in the diplomats and let them talk and end this thing.”
“What about the Jews?”
“What about them? They’re already dead and nothing can be done about it. Fact is, I don’t totally believe all the bullshit they’re feeding us about death camps and all that. I saw Dachau and it was a terrible place, but it still won’t bring back anybody the Nazis killed. And if I get killed going out with you as some dumb volunteer, nobody’s gonna bring me back either.”
Angrily, Hill took his rifle and snuck out. He was perplexed by the man who didn’t want to fight. Higgins had told him the password and countersign and pointed out the path through the barbed wire. Warnings about mines were also conveyed. The front had stabilized since the failed American attack.
It took hours of slow moving before Hill thought he was in position to catch himself a German. He was covered with leaves and twigs and lay in a hollow part of ground. He would fire one round and then depart through a path he’d already figured out. In the meantime, he would simply be patient. He had no real choice. Haste didn’t make waste. Haste could get a man killed.
He’d been waiting almost two hours and was beginning to think there would be no hunting today when, there it was. He saw a flicker of motion. A German soldier had stuck his head over his foxhole and was looking around. Hill thought that the poor boy’s officer had probably told the soldier to see if any Americans were in sight. No, but they were within range.
Hill preferred killing officers, but none were around. He aimed at the soldier’s exposed head and gently squeezed the trigger. The enemy soldier’s head jerked back and disappeared. One more, thought Hill.
Seconds later, he was moving quickly through his escape route while machine guns and mortars fruitlessly sought him out. Another hour found him back in Higgins’ bunker. That same older soldier looked at him. “Make a kill?” he asked.