Grannit wrote down the name, put his notebook in his pocket, and pulled the man to his feet.
“We can talk more while we’re driving in,” said Grannit. “You did all right, Schmidt. You did the right thing.”
“What choice do I have? What choice have I had from the beginning?”
Grannit didn’t answer. As they neared the bridgehead, he waved his flashlight. By the time they reached the emplacement, Carlson was waiting behind the wheel of a small transport with the engine running. Guarded by two soldiers from the bridge, the other three Germans sat in the open payload. None of them had been wounded or harmed in any way. Schmidt looked at Grannit, who couldn’t tell if he was angry or relieved.
“You think I’d shoot a prisoner of war?” asked Grannit. “Where the hell you think you are, Russia? Get in.”
He pointed Schmidt into the back of the captured jeep. Grannit took the sergeant in charge of the bridge platoon aside and relayed what Schmidt had told him about the impending attack.
“Radio your unit, tell them to get you reinforced fast. Maybe they’re coming in force, maybe they’re not, but you’ve got to hold this bridge.”
“Yes, sir.”
Grannit climbed into the jeep beside Schmidt. One of the bridge platoon GIs jumped in to drive, and both vehicles headed north along the river road.
“They really thought you could pull this thing off,” said Grannit, after a while.
“They hoped,” said Schmidt.
“But you didn’t.”
Schmidt shrugged. “Hope is all they have left.” He watched the river for a moment, a plaintive look on his face. “Is it up to you? Whether I live or die?”
“I’ll have something to say about it,” said Grannit.
“But is it your decision to make?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Our brigade was to capture that bridge,” he said, studying Grannit’s reaction. “We were also given a second objective.”
Grannit waited. “Why don’t you tell me what it was.”
Schmidt watched him closely. “I’ll wait. To speak to your superiors.”
“Why not tell me now?”
“You made the choice to spare my life, and I appreciate that. But I need to speak about this with someone who can offer me a more substantial guarantee.”
18
Waimes
DECEMBER 17, 10:00 P.M.
Before they left, Erich Von Leinsdorf poured out the kerosene from every lamp in the house and set Frau Escher’s butcher shop on fire. By the time they drove away, Oberstürmbannführer Peiper’s main panzer column had advanced through to the west; the village was deserted. Fog curled in, and more snow began to fall as they picked their way south and west. Von Leinsdorf studied a road map with a flashlight.
“I made coffee,” he said, holding up a thermos. “Drink a lot of it.”
Von Leinsdorf poured him a cup, and Bernie choked downed the strong brew as he drove, blasting his senses awake. Von Leinsdorf handed him a new helmet.
“What’s this for?” he asked.
“Some Americans have had a look at us. We’re changing units.”
“Fuck, I was just getting used to Jimmy Tenella.”
“You don’t have to change the name, just give me your helmet.”
Bernie did, and Von Leinsdorf tossed it out of the jeep.
“We’re with the 291st Combat Engineers now. Our CO sent us south with dispatches just before they pulled back from Malmédy.” He held up a leather U.S. Army document tube.
“I’m supposed to remember all this?”
“You’d better, old boy, or we’re fairly fucked.”
“Where are we going?” asked Bernie.
“You drive, I’ll get us there. The good news is we can take back roads the entire way. Left here.”
Von Leinsdorf switched on the flashlight over the map again. Bernie glanced over and realized that at some point Von Leinsdorf had changed the color of his blond brush cut to a dirty brown.
“What’d you do to your hair?”
“Another of Frau Escher’s secrets. Hair dye in the bathroom.”
Von Leinsdorf put on a pair of square, black-framed glasses, which drastically altered his appearance, making him look years older.
“Where did you get all this stuff?”
“Downstairs.”
Bernie fumbled off his helmet. “Jesus, this is from one of those stiffs in the basement?”
“The ones they gave us at Grafenwöhr were stamped with the wrong mark inside the shell, see here?” He showed him a factory insignia inside the rim of the new helmet. “It’s a different stamp for officers and noncoms. Ours looked the same. I’d put that back on if I were you; there may be snipers out here.”
Bernie uneasily set the helmet back on his head.
“I take it you lost your rifle, too,” said Von Leinsdorf. “There’s another M1 in the back. What do you think of this?”
He held a vicious-looking hunting knife into the light.
“The woman had it strapped to her thigh.”
Bernie made a face. “You searched her thighs?”
“Be thankful she didn’t use it on you,” said Von Leinsdorf. “If anyone stops us or we hit a checkpoint, show them this.” He handed Bernie another road pass. “If they ask you anything else, you defer to me.”
“So what do you need me for?”
“In case they ask us some bullshit trick question about baseball or who’s fucking Minnie Mouse. Then jump in with all deliberate speed. You are up to that, aren’t you, Brooklyn?”
Bernie swallowed his frustration and kept driving; anxiety gnawed at him, his hands clutched the wheel. They reached the Ambleve River near midnight, crossing an ancient stone bridge pockmarked with bullets. The highway south took them into a shadowy forest. Ancient hardwoods crowded the road, their branches intertwining overhead to create a fog-enshrouded canopy. The stripped trees took on an unearthly silver glow, like twisted knots of human limbs in the mist. Visibility narrowed to a few yards.
Bernie had to brake suddenly to avoid slamming into a burned-out troop transport. A shell had hit the gas tank flush and the wheels had melted right onto the road. The charred corpses inside were impossible to identify as either German or American. They slowly drove around it and edged forward. Bernie thought he saw a line of men sprint across the road in front of them and disappear into the woods, but he couldn’t tell what uniforms they were wearing. Von Leinsdorf crouched in the passenger seat and raised his rifle. A volley of bullets whistled by them out of the fog from that direction and shattered the rearview mirror. Von Leinsdorf returned fire, emptying his clip. Bernie stepped on the gas, taking a chance that nothing else lay hidden ahead of them in the dense air.
At three in the morning they emerged onto a high rocky plain, and Von Leinsdorf directed Bernie to follow signs toward Bastogne. Artillery boomed in the distance and drew closer as they approached. They cleared a checkpoint outside the village and entered an entrenched stronghold in the middle of town. MPs directed them to central command for VIII Corps, and they parked around the corner. Rifle companies were digging in all around, fortifying positions for mortars and machine guns. Bernie changed field jackets, putting on one that bore the insignia of the 291st Engineers.
“Stay next to me,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Don’t talk to anybody.”
Holding up the document tube, Von Leinsdorf showed their new, corrected SHAEF security passes at the door, and they were sent toward the signal office. The command center, hastily thrown together in the middle of an old cathedral, hummed with frantic energy, officers shouting over one another. Housed in one of the chapels off the main nave, a battery of radio, telex, and telegraph operators relayed updated messages. Von Leinsdorf stood near the back and observed for a minute, getting a grasp of the command structure.
“Keep your head down,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Look busy.”