Well, so what if he wears black? My own son does now, too. Am I to hate him for that?
The boy was by far the worst on the ward. None of the doctors expected him to live. And his cries for his mother touched the Frenchwoman’s heart. She picked up a stool and sat down beside him, taking his hand in her own.
Once or twice during the night the boy’s eyes opened. Yet the eyes were unfocused, he knew not where he was. He only knew he was in pain and that he wanted his mother to stop it.She whispered to him what little German she knew, stroking his fever-wracked face.
Just before sunrise the boy’s eyes opened for a final time. This last time they focused. Clearly, though in high school French, he said, “Thank you, madame. Thank you for taking my own mother’s place.”
In Isabelle’s hand the boy’s hand went limp as the eyes lost their focus for the final time.
Weary with fatigue, Thomas De Gaullejac found it difficult to keep his eyes open, let alone in focus. Tracers flying over Mainz still scarred the night, leaving further imprints on his retinae and making focus more difficult still. Lack of sleep and catch-as-catch-can rations did not help matters.
Across the river, as Thomas knew from Sergeant Gribeauval, Mainz’ last defenders were preparing to cross before their last line of retreat, the sole remaining bridge, was cut. Already, all the wounded practical to carry had been brought back by bridge or ferry. What would happen to the others, those too badly hurt to move, he did not care to think about.
But his own possible futures the boy had to consider. “Sergeant?”
“Yes, boy,” Gribeauval answered without taking his night vision goggles away from the firing port from which he scanned the river below and the air above that.
“Sergeant… if I am hit… and you must leave me behind… ?”
“Don’t worry about it, son,” said the sergeant, understanding immediately. “We’ll leave nothing behind for the aliens.”
Thomas felt a little rush of relief. At least his body would not become mere food. “Thank you. One other thing?”
“Yes?”
“My mother, Isabelle De Gaullejac? Could you let her know? At least try to find her?”
Gribeauval answered honestly. “Son, I can’t promise to be alive to promise that.”
The frigid bunker congealed for a while in silence, while Gribeauval continued to scan.
“Sergeant?”
“Yes, Volunteer De Gaullejac?” answered Gribeauval, just a trace of irritation tainting his voice.
“I thought I should let you know; if it falls to me to do so, I am not sure I can drop the bridge with people on it.”
“Son, if you don’t drop that bridge at the first sign of aliens on it, I’ll shoot you myself,” Gribeauval said. Then, relenting a bit, he continued, “Do you think that any people that might be on the bridge would not prefer a clean quick death to blast, fall or frozen river to being turned into a snack?”
“I honestly don’t know, Sergeant. I doubt I can speak for all of them.”
Tiger Anna, Oder-Niesse Line, 1 February 2008
Hans had moved his command vehicle forward to the water’s edge to ensure that Benjamin and his charges made it across the river in safety. He had also moved a battalion of self-propelled 155-millimeter guns to a position far enough forward to provide support for Benjamin for the last part of the trip back. He was unwilling to order men to cross over, given the fate that had befallen most of the patrols sent forward. Nonetheless, a company of the Brigade Michael Wittmann had volunteered to cross over with rubber boats to help the Poles back.
Though the artillery battalion had been in almost constant employment, Benjamin had managed to bring out better than four fifths of the civilians he had rescued. These were even now heading for a safe place in the rear. Benjamin, naturally, and his three remaining men — Tal had bought it to a random railgun round — were the last to leave. Exhausted, filthy and starved, they were simply carried to the waiting boats by the company that covered the retrieval. The SS men rowed the Jews back.
Of the four remaining Jews, Benjamin was the first one out of the water. He was met at the shore by Brasche and Sergeant Rosenblum, the two taking turns slapping the major’s back and shaking his hand.
“Oh, excellent job, David!” Hans exclaimed, pumping the Israeli’s hand. The Jew was too worn to do more than nod his head in thanks and submit to the fierce handshake. Some corner of his mind perhaps found amusement in the scene, the SS and the Mogen David meeting in friendship at the front. Mostly though, Benjamin’s mind and body wanted only a warm, soft bed, some decent food, and perhaps a stiff drink.
He might have added to that wish list, “And a woman,” but little Maria’s mother had made it clear enough, without words, that one woman, at least, was his for the asking. He thought he might just take her up on the offer made by her soft brown eyes, perhaps at some time in the not too distant future.
He managed to croak out his wish list to Brasche.
With a smirk Brasche brushed aside Benjamin’s immediate concerns. “Soon enough, my friend, soon enough. But you are a hero to three nations today and so, before you get to trundle off to your bed a little ceremony is in order.”
Benjamin raised a hand in protest but that too Brasche brushed off. “Achtung,” he ordered to the two dozen smiling men assembled. “Yes, you too, Major.”
Reluctantly, and maybe a bit shyly too, Benjamin stood to attention.
Conversationally, Hans mentioned, in German for all those assembled to hear, “It is not well known, you know, but the first Iron Cross won in the First World War was won by a German Jew. Sergeant Rosenblum, publish the orders.”
Rosenblum spoke just enough German to struggle through the recital, “In the name of the Kanzler of the German Republic, and by order of the Commander in Chief, Eastern Front, for conspicuous gallantry in action, and for the saving of human life… the Iron Cross, First Class, is presented to Major David Benjamin, Brigade Judas Maccabeus, German Federal Armed Forces.”
As Hans, smiling broadly, hung the simple, traditional medal around the Israeli’s neck, he spoke quietly, in Hebrew, “I could have given you the Second Class on my own authority… but I thought what you have done deserved a bit more. And, with the information you sent back, the Field Marshal agreed.”
David whispered back, “What are we going to do about the enemy’s plans?”
Still smiling, for what else was there to do, Hans answered, “My friend, we have not the first fucking clue.”
Watching on Anna’s forward view-screen, and listening with her electronic ears, Krueger simply could not believe his commander’s heresy. Stupid, clueless, Yid-loving bastard, he fumed. Traitor to the Fatherland and the Führer’s memory. Bad enough you saved the kike, but decorating him? For saving some fucking untermensch Slavs? It reeks.
The world would be a better place without either of them, the Pollocks or the Yids. And if it cost the lives of nine out of ten Germans to make the world so, the price would be fair.
Krueger would have been appalled to learn that, at the level of core philosophy, he, the Nazi fanatic, and Günter Stössel, the Reddish Green fanatic, were not so far apart after all.