Finally, it appeared that the Germans had had enough. An officer appeared on the street, shouting up at the steeple from behind the shelter of a ruined car.
“Hey you, come on down from there!” the German officer called out in English. “The town is ours, so why keep fighting? You will be treated OK.”
The drama playing out on the street held the rapt attention of the soldiers in the cellar.
“Do it, buddy,” the sergeant muttered. “Give it up. You’re dead meat, otherwise.”
“No way,” Serra said. “I wouldn’t trust those Krauts as far as I could throw them.”
As far as Joey could tell, the sniper in the church steeple seemed to agree with Serra, because seconds later the sniper fired a shot that hit the vehicle giving cover to the German officer.
“Last chance!” the officer shouted.
Again, another shot made the officer duck.
Now, another man ran to join the officer. He looked even sturdier than the other Germans. A big guy. He carried a rifle with a telescopic sight.
“Uh oh,” Serra said. “That guy’s a sniper!”
Soon, the sniper had set up beside the officer, aiming his rifle at the church steeple, waiting for his chance.
Joey looked down at his rusty weapon. It was loaded and ready to fire — at least, he thought it was. If he had an ounce of courage, he’d stick that thing right out the window and shoot that sniper in the back. What was he, less than a hundred feet away?
He might have done it, if he’d thought that he could hit the German sniper from here. During training, he hadn’t been the best shot. Then again, Joey knew that if he opened fire, whether he took out the sniper or not, he’d be signing the death warrant of every man in that cellar.
How had he gotten into this mess?
For the answer to that, he thought, he’d have to go all the way back to December 7, 1941, when the Japanese had launched their sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. Every boy in Joey’s school — and more than a few girls — had been eager to get into uniform and do what they could to get back at the Japs and Germans.
However, Joey had been too young to join up. He’d have to wait until he finished high school. Back then, the main concern that he and his schoolmates had was that the war would be over before they were old enough to fight.
How wrong they’d been. Now it was 1945 and the war was still going strong.
Joey had enlisted the day after graduating from high school. Basic training had been fine, but one thing was soon clear — Joey was not destined to be a front-line soldier.
Studious and gentle, solidly in the middle of his group of recruits, and with the rare skill among men of being able to type thanks to a high school business class, he had found himself assigned to be a clerk.
It didn’t much matter to Joey whether he was armed with a rifle or a typewriter, and no one else seemed to mind, either. He was on the front lines with everybody else, doing his part, which was all that mattered.
He had dreamed about fighting the Germans, yet when the time came, here he was, hiding in a cellar.
The soldiers of the service company had mostly been issued M-1 carbines, which looked puny compared to the full-sized rifles. No matter — they never had any use for them.
But now, he did regret that he hadn’t made some effort to keep his carbine cleaned and oiled. He should have at least fired it once in a while. Truth be told, combat readiness was lacking in the service company.
But now he held the carbine in his hands. The question was, what was he going to do with it?
A moment passed, and Joey didn’t stick his weapon out the window. Come to think of it, neither did anybody else.
Another shot fired from the steeple hit the vehicle sheltering the two Germans. The officer ducked again, but the sniper did not so much as flinch, his eye never leaving his rifle scope.
A moment later, he fired.
The steeple went silent.
Whoever that sniper was, he knew his business, that was for sure. None of the other Germans had been able to take out the American in the steeple, no matter how many shots they fired at him.
Now, the Germans moved freely about the street. The final resistance in Wingen sur Moder had fallen. All that Joey and the others were able to do was peer out the cellar windows and watch it happen, wondering what their fate would be.
Chapter Nine
For the service company men hiding in the cellar, the waiting game finally became too much.
“I’ve had enough of this,” a soldier said. “I’m making a break for it.”
“Me too.”
“You’ll get us all killed!” Serra complained. “This place is crawling with Krauts. Think about it.”
An argument broke out in hushed tones. Some were all for getting out now. Others wanted to follow the original plan and wait for nightfall. The sergeant tried to order them to sit tight, but the sergeant’s orders didn’t hold a lot of weight.
“Do what you want, Sarge, but we’re making a break for it.”
“You’ll never make it. You can’t get past all those Krauts.”
“We’ll sneak out the back door of this place. From what we’ve seen, the Krauts are all out front.”
After checking their weapons, the two men headed up the cellar stairs. Briefly, their footsteps sounded on the floorboards above as they made their way to the back of the house. The men below held their breath. They heard a slight clunk as the back door opened.
With no windows in the back cellar wall, they couldn’t see what was happening.
Seconds later, they heard a shout, then two quick bursts of gunfire.
So much for trying to escape.
“I told those dumb bastards to wait,” Serra said. “The sarge was right. We’ve got to wait for dark.”
However, they didn’t get the chance. Several pairs of boots appeared at the window grating, followed by the muzzle of a submachine gun.
Inches away, Joey felt his insides turn to liquid.
“Come out, Amerikaner,” shouted one of the Germans. It sounded like the same officer who had tried to negotiate with the sniper in the church steeple. “Come out or we will toss in a few hand grenades and see how you like that.”
The men in the cellar looked at one another in desperation, but it was clear that they didn’t have much choice.
“You saw what happened to the guy up in the steeple,” Serra said. “I think we’d better give up.”
The sergeant moved closer to the window and yelled, “OK, we surrender. You can’t shoot prisoners.”
“We will see,” the officer shouted back. “You are only prisoners if you come out with your hands up. You have one minute.”
Quickly, the men dropped their weapons. Most of the men were empty-handed, but a few grabbed blankets or spare clothes. Joey followed their example and grabbed his blanket.
They filed up the stairs and out the back door. Nearby lay the bodies of the two soldiers who had tried to escape, sprawled in the street with blood flowing from them. Joey felt sick to his stomach, but he kept moving, hands held high.
All around them stood German soldiers, submachine guns at the ready. Joey studied their faces, trying to determine if the Germans were about to shoot. Some of the Germans wore self-satisfied smiles, pleased that they had captured yet more American POWs, while others looked grim. Up close, the Germans had several days of stubble on their faces. The camouflage smocks that looked so white from a distance were actually flecked with mud and even blood.