As he held them close, his brain connected one vital piece of information.
He mouthed the words to the watching Valois.
“My wife?”
Anne-Marie did not need to reply, her face spoke for her.
More tears ran down his face, as he took solace in the presence of his girls.
Later, he listened to the events of that night on the Baltic; the rescue, the substitutions, and how his wife had died.
Or at least, the version that they chose to tell him.
All the senior medical staff had protested, but it was to no avail.
The infantry Colonel was there under orders, and he was not prepared to take no for an answer.
Major Swift and Captain Montoya had secured the man’s agreement that they would be able to veto those who simply were too sick to go, so they accompanied the emotionless officer into the prime recovery ward of the hospital, a room containing thirty-four cots.
“Attenshun!”
Those that could, in the main, did. Those that couldn’t, didn’t. And there were those that could, but chose not to.
“Men, I appreciate that you are here because you have already paid a price in action, but the situation is grave, and I have to ask more of you all.”
There was a general hubbub, and the keen ear could pick out some uncomplimentary words, and some that would have made a vicar blush.
“Uncle Sam needs volunteers, and we are going through the hospitals to find men who are nearly recovered, to sign up to lighter duties, releasing fit men into the fighting zone.”
No one could fail to hear the general reply of ‘bullshit’.
Colonel Stoltzfus let the sound die away, and went to start again.
A low rumble in the nearby bed preceded a vile smell that pervaded the entire unit, invading the respiratory passages of everyone present.
The wounded man had been on liquids only until the day before, when the bandages were taken off his facial wound, and his wind had been known to clear the building.
“Shorry, Colonel, but I was shoth in the assh.”
The obvious damage to his face made his voice slurred, although they all knew he was emphasising his speech problem for comic effect; all except the Colonel of course.
Corporal Rosenberg had been badly wounded, but his backside had actually escaped damage.
“That will be all the kosher crap you eat, you yiddisher bastard,” and a pillow sailed across the space in front of the Colonel, landing precisely on target.
“Oh Nursh, Nursh, the bad man attacked me again! Oi Vay, but can’t an honesth man get reshpite from the Genthiles!”
The only one there who was not privy to the relationship between the two men was Stoltzfus, and as a god-fearing son of an Amish Rabbi, he took exception to the NCO’s tone.
“Now you can cut that out, Master-Sergeant. We leave that sort of crap to the Germans!”
A look of innocence crossed the NCO’s face, the sort of innocence that a certain type of officer could see as a challenge.
Colonel Stoltzfus was such an officer.
“Attention! Name and rank?”
The NCO made an upward body movement that more paid lip service to the order, rather than obeyed it.
He fixed the officer with a neutral eye and spoke, using as much of the tone of his second language as was possible.
“Hässler, Friedrich, Master Sergeant, Sir.”
Rosenberg giggled uncontrollably.
So did Nurse Captain Montoya.
So did most of the men, who were being thoroughly entertained.
Hässler dropped back onto his bed, maintaining his deadpan face.
The Colonel wisely decided to cut his losses.
“We need men, combat veterans, to insert into units presently reforming. Men who can pass on their knowledge, and let the greenhorns know what to expect in battle with the Commies.”
The medical Major interrupted.
“That means, no combat, just instructor stuff for you men. Nowhere near the front lines.”
The reaction from the wounded men was universal.
“Bullshit.”
“Bullshit!”
“Bullshith.”
The Major retreated behind Belinda Montoya.
Stoltzfus welcomed the medical man’s distraction, and spoke up again, playing his trump card.
“Your country needs you this one last time. Once it is over, it’s Stateside for every man of you.”
A man-mountain rose from the bed next to Hässler.
“I will go, Colonel, but not stateside. My duty is here.”
Hässler looked at Bluebear as if he was a rabid dog.
“Pardon the Chief, Colonel. He’s a little loopy after a shindig a’ways back. He don’t know what he’s saying.”
Rosenberg followed behind quickly, the two statements almost blending together.
“He’sh fucking mad ashtually, Colonel. No-one wantsh a mad Commanshee, do they now?”
Waiting for a sign from Montoya, Colonel Stoltfus welcomed the nod, and turned back to the huge Indian.
“Uncle Sam will gladly take you, son. What’s your name and rank?”
“Sergeant Charley Bluebear, Sir.”
“Oh shit!”
“Oh shith!”
Hässler and Rosenberg made their decision, confirming it to each other with a swift nod.
“Well, if the chief’s going, best I go too. Someone’s gotta look after him.”
Hässler stretched and swung his feet out of the bed, the aching in his body apparent on his face.
Montoya shook her head.
“I think not, Master Sergeant,” the Colonel understanding that the man was not yet healed.
“Well, I think so, Sir. We here’ve bin through a lot together, and reckon we’ll be sticking together. Eh boys?”
A chorus of agreement went up from thirty-two of the men.
“You speak for yourshelf, you German shith.”
Hässler grinned widely.
“You’re coming, and that’s an order. Any crap, and I’ll finish the job on your pecker.”
“Ben Zonah! If I didn’t like you, I’d kick your assh, Shergeant!”
“I’d have to put a block there for you to stand on, you Alter Kocker!”
The Colonel interrupted, and earned himself disdainful looks from the two friends.
“Thank you all for your service. I will have an officer report here at 1200hrs to take you on to the correct camp. Good luck to you all, and give the Commies hell.”
Turning on his heel, he swept past the shocked Montoya and out of the hospital, intent on visiting the next base on his list, and escaping the two idiots who had baited him.
Belinda Montoya managed to speak.
“Are you totally mad, Sergeant Hässler?”
“Yesh, he fucking ish!”
She shot a look at Rosenberg.
“Shorry Captain, pardon my frensh.”
The Master Sergeant looked up, his face, for once, clear of humour, with seriousness prevailing.
“Captain, I’m here because my own buddies put me here. Hell, I ain’t even seen a commie yet! I did my bit in the last war, so I guess I’ll do my bit in this war, and then go home with my head held high.”
She nodded her understanding.
A pillow flew back across the room striking Hässler on the head.
“Oi vay! What bollocksh! Whatsh a hero, whatsh a mensh, whatsh a Chochem, I’m sho privileged!”
Hässler disappeared under an avalanche of pillows from all corners of the room, the sound of the soft strikes mingling with genuine laughter.
Captain Montoya left the room, unsure of her emotions.
‘I will never understand these boys, but God bless them.’
Bedell-Smith waited for his cue to commence the morning briefing. Both he and Eisenhower had been summoned from their beds earlier than they had intended, the increased pressure on the Allied front requiring their immediate attention.