| Combat! is the property of ABC. Not for profit. Copyright 2004 by EagleLady A CHANGE OF MIND The smell of dust, blood, and death settled around him as he slowly raised his throbbing head, the sudden silence after the mortars almost painful. He cautiously tipped his too-large helmet back just far enough to allow him to see. Beside him, Johann, his friend from boyhood, lay dead. He felt something inside himself die, too, as he remembered the exploratory trips to the stream behind Johann’s grandparent’s home, the pranks they played on the little girls, the fun they had playing with his new puppy. Those times were gone now. So, too, were the plans they had for starting their own cabinet-making shop, for marrying the girls they’d left behind, and for watching their children grow up together. Sniffing back his tears, he looked beyond Johann, discovering that the other members of his squad were also dead. Amazed that he was still alive, Hans rolled onto his side and unbuckled the straps that held the heavy radio to his back. He wasn't looking forward to telling the Captain that the whole squad was dead. As he sat up and pulled the radio around in front of him, he realized two things. One, he didn't have to worry about the Captain's wrath, and two, the reason he was alive was because the radio wasn't. The shrapnel would have killed him had the radio not stopped it first. A rush of nearly unbearable pain led him to discover that he had a deep, heavily bleeding gash on the back of his leg from another piece of shrapnel. He started to reach for his first-aid kit, then remembered that he'd given it to a seriously wounded soldier yesterday. Unable to bear the thought of touching Johann’s bloody body, Hans dragged himself over to the next man. As he rolled the soldier onto his back, Hans nearly screamed in fright when the man sat up and looked around. "Everyone else is dead, Hans?" The man asked, then continued without giving Hans time to answer, "We'd better leave before the Americans get here." "I can't." Hans tried to remember the soldier's name, then gave up. "I can't walk, my leg is wounded." “You’d better do something, boy, the Americans are coming.” Hans’ mouth dropped open in amazement and disbelief as his companion got to his feet and ran to a nearby small grove of trees, leaving Hans alone. Shaking with shock and the ever-increasing pain, he pulled the first-aid kit off another soldier, then froze in fear at the sound of approaching American voices. Americans! Not only would they kill him, but they would subject him to horrific tortures first! His sergeant had told him of German soldier’s bodies that had been found with eyes gouged out, hands and ears cut off, and skin peeled from their bodies! Forgetting about his wound, he lurched to his feet and tried to run to the trees. Nearly crying with pain and fear, he ran and fell, struggled to his feet, and reeled into the scant cover just before the Americans came into sight. There were six of them; a sergeant, a medic, and four soldiers, one of them very large. Shaking, he lay on his belly in the weeds and watched as the Americans slowly approached. He bit down hard on his lip to keep from screaming as a large spider crawled onto his hand, just inches from his face. He’d been terrified of spiders ever since he was a small boy, when his older brother had locked him in an old storage shed and gone off to play. Hours later, his screaming had led his mother to him, but the severe punishment meted out to his brother in no way lessened the terror. Unaware of the tears streaming down his face, Hans watched as the spider moved across his hand and away from him. It wasn’t until the spider was more than a foot away that he remembered the Americans. Ducking his head, he wiped his face on his sleeve, not realizing that he left streaks of mud and dirt on his cheeks. He peered through the weeds, watching the Americans check the bodies of his comrades, then examine the radio. Hans realized with dismay that he’d left his weapon and the first-aid kit behind when the sergeant picked them up. He didn’t even have a knife to defend himself, as he had broken it a week ago. All he could do is hope that they didn’t know anyone had survived, that they wouldn’t look for them. He released a silent sigh of relief as they started to walk on past the trees where they lay. His sigh turned into a gasp of terror as the sergeant and four soldiers suddenly spun around facing the trees with their guns leveled. “Come out.” The sergeant yelled. “Hands up.” The other soldier tossed his weapon out into the open, then stood up with his hands on his head. Hans watched in terror, expecting the Americans to shoot him or something worse, but all they did was search him and make him lay on the ground. Hans lay still, his mind racing. Would it be better to let them kill him now, or surrender and hope he could escape later? Still undecided, he inadvertently moved his leg and let out a quavering moan of pain before he could stop himself. He dropped his head on his folded arms in despair, knowing that they had him and he couldn’t do anything about it. A few moments later, he felt gentle hands touching his leg wound. Opening his eyes, he saw three pairs of boots a few feet away, along with the muzzle of a rifle pointed at his head. “How bad is it?” He thought it was the sergeant’s voice. “It’s pretty deep. It won’t kill him, but he won’t do any walking on that leg for awhile.” The medic’s voice was soft, but a little hard to understand. “What are you gonna do with him, Sarge?” Another voice asked. “Take him with us. A couple of you rig a litter.” “Take him with us?” This was an angry voice. “You want us to carry a lousy Kraut around?” “You heard me, Kirby.” The sergeant’s voice was hard. “Nelson, you stay here with Doc. The rest of you come with me.” Hans watched as the little group moved off, one of the soldiers gesturing angrily. He guessed that would be the one called Kirby. His hearing was unusually good, and he caught the words ‘radio’ and ‘codes’. So that was it, he thought. They’re going to torture him to find out the radio codes. He just hoped he was strong enough to die before telling them any information. Two of the soldiers disappeared out of his view while the sergeant returned, leaving one soldier standing over the other prisoner. The medic finished bandaging his leg and helped him roll over onto his back, then, to his amazement, the medic offered him a drink of water. “Do you speak English?” The sergeant asked. “Yes.” “We’re going to take you with us. Do what you’re told and you won’t be hurt.” Hans smiled wryly. It almost sounded like the sergeant meant what he said. “You don’t believe him?” The medic asked. “Of course not.” “What do you think will happen?” The medic asked curiously. “I know what will happen.” Hans looked up at the sergeant. “You will torture me, perhaps cut off my ears or gouge out my eyes, but I will tell you nothing.” The sergeant’s mouth dropped open, as did the medic’s and Nelson’s. “Where on earth did you get that idea?” The sergeant looked and sounded incredulous. “My sergeant told me.” “Oh, brother!” The medic shook his head. “What exactly did he say?” The sergeant asked. “He said that they’d found bodies of German soldiers whose eyes were gouged out, and their hands and ears cut off, and their skin peeled off. You can do what you want, but I’ll tell you nothing!” Hans felt himself flushing with embarrassment when his voice trembled. “Your sergeant lied to you.” The sergeant said flatly. “I don’t know of any German who has been tortured. You will be sent to a hospital until your leg heals, then you will be sent to a prisoner of war camp.” “I don’t believe you.” “Why would I take care of your leg if we were planning to torture you?” The medic demanded. “So I don’t bleed to death before you torture me.” “You’re nuts.” The medic shook his head. “Nuts?” Hans repeated, bewildered. “Crazy.” The other soldier said. The other two soldiers returned with a litter made from the jackets of Hans’ dead companions. “Sorry about that, it’s all we had.” The large soldier said apologetically, seeing the look on Hans’ face. “Get him aboard and let’s move out.” The sergeant ordered. “Doc, you and the Kraut carry the litter. Kirby, you watch the prisoner. Caje, take the point, Littlejohn, the rear.” Hans was surprised at the gentleness with which they lifted him onto the litter, then even more surprised when the medic held out two white pills. “Go on, take them. It’s just a pain-killer.” Hans hesitated a moment before accepting them, popping them into his mouth as the medic offered his canteen again. “Come on, Doc.” The sergeant ordered. “Let’s go.” “Ready, Sarge.” Doc waited at one end of the litter while they forced Hans’ fellow soldier over to pick up the other. They followed the sergeant, who was following Caje. The angry one, Kirby, walked beside the medic who had the head end of the stretcher. “I still think we oughta just shoot them.” He muttered. “Kirby, shooting an unarmed prisoner would be just plain murder!” “They’d do it to us!” “Maybe. Maybe that’s why we’re winning the war.” “Huh?” “Never mind, Kirby.” Doc sighed. “Well, I ain’t carryin’ him.” “You’ll do what you’re told, Kirby.” The sergeant growled. “Shut up and keep your eyes open.” Jerking his weapon to a better position, Kirby dropped back a couple steps. Hans closed his eyes against the sun and the pain, wondering, in spite of himself, if maybe, just maybe, his sergeant had been wrong. Hans opened his eyes, startled, as he and the litter stopped with a jerk, then were shoved under a bush. Before he could raise his head, Doc had his hand over his mouth, pressing his head down firmly but not cruelly. “What is it?” He heard Doc whisper. “Kraut patrol. Keep them still.” The sergeant whispered back. Hans felt someone take hold of his ankles, while Doc threw an arm over his chest and arms. Just when he thought he was going to suffocate, Doc’s hand eased away from his mouth enough that he could breathe. Raising his head slightly, Hans saw that the angry soldier had Fritz - that was his name - on his back with the muzzle of his weapon against Fritz’s neck. The Americans crouched around them, listening for a few minutes before the litter was picked up again. A surge of agony from his leg shot through him, and he groaned, opening his eyes to find that they were in the shade of a large tree. The Americans were relaxing in the grass, except for the big one, who was just disappearing behind the tree, and Nelson, who was standing guard over Fritz. “Where are we?” Hans asked, confused. “You either fell asleep or passed out for about an hour.” Doc grinned at him from where he was checking the wound. “You want a drink?” “Please.” The dark one, the one they called Caje, handed him a canteen. “You speak good English. Where’d you learn it?” “My mother was a teacher. I also speak French and Spanish.” “As-tu faim?” Caje asked in French. “Oui.” “You hungry?” Doc asked, looking puzzled when Caje laughed. “I just asked him that. He is.” Caje explained. “How was I supposed to know that’s what you said?” Doc complained, handing Hans a chocolate bar. Hans took it slowly, almost reverently. “It’s chocolate.” Doc grinned. “I know it is chocolate.” Hans said, still staring at it. “How long’s it been since you ate?” “Yesterday. But it has been months since I’ve seen chocolate.” “What do they feed you?” Doc asked. “My comrades and I have been wondering that for a long time.” Hearing a chuckle above him, Hans looked up to see the sergeant standing there. “How’s his leg, Doc?” “The bleeding’s stopped, but he definitely needs a doctor.” “He’ll get one at the hospital. Ten more minutes, then we move out. Kirby, go relieve Littlejohn.” Hans watched warily as the sergeant squatted down beside him and lit a cigarette, expecting him to take the chocolate. “Go on, eat it.” The sergeant motioned to the still-wrapped bar. “What’s your name, anyway?” “Hans Schmidt.” “How old are you?” “Twenty.” “Yeah?” The sergeant raised an eyebrow in disbelief and Han blushed. “Wanna try again?” “I am fifteen.” Hans said softly. “Hell, he’s just a kid!” Nelson exclaimed. “They don’t let fifteen-year-olds into our Army!” “Sarge, here comes Littlejohn,” Doc called softly but urgently, “and Kirby’s right on his heels.” Littlejohn ran straight to the sergeant, ignoring Hans who was quickly finishing off the chocolate. “Kraut patrol. Half a dozen of ‘em.” “Heading this way?” “Looks like they’ll pass by about a hundred feet away, that way.” “Caje, Doc, the litter.” It wasn’t until much later that Hans realized that it hadn’t occurred to him to call out as the Americans quickly moved into cover, forcing Fritz ahead of them. A short time later, they stopped again for a few minutes to rest. The sergeant moved over to Fritz, sitting a few feet away from the litter, who ignored him. “What’s your name, Kraut?” “He speaks no English, Sergeant.” Hans said. “His name is Fritz.” The sergeant moved away as Doc approached and dropped a canteen and a chocolate bar in front of Fritz, who made no move to eat the chocolate, eyeing it suspiciously. “It is just chocolate.” Hans told him. “It is probably poison.” Fritz replied. “No, it is just chocolate. Why should they use poison when they can just shoot us?” Hans asked logically. “What do you know? You’re just a child. You believe whatever they tell you.” Fritz sneered at him. “If you don’t want it, I’ll eat it.” Hans offered eagerly. “No. I will eat it. I will let the stupid Americans think that I am as simple as you are. Then, when they become complacent, I will kill them all and return to our lines.” “You will take me with you, won’t you?” “I can’t carry you alone. You will have to walk if you want to come with me, little boy.” “I can’t, Fritz. You must help me.” Hans pleaded. “Help yourself.” Fritz snapped. “I am not your nurse or your mother. If you cannot walk, then you will have to remain here and wait for them to cut off your hands. I will kill them all and escape to fight for the Fatherland.” “Why didn’t you kill them back there, instead of throwing away your weapon?” “I was protecting you, of course.” “Even I am not that stupid, Fritz.” Hans said dryly. “What do you mean by that?” Fritz demanded. “You do not fight for the Fatherland. You fight only for yourself. I have seen you rob the French and the captured Americans. I have also seen you steal from other Germans.” Hans turned his head away and closed his eyes. “Kirby, you take the Doc’s place for awhile.” The sergeant’s voice came from behind Hans, startling him. “Why do we have to cart this Kraut around?” Kirby muttered. “Because he’s a prisoner, he’s wounded, and he’s only a kid. Just fifteen.” Littlejohn snapped, apparently tired of Kirby’s attitude. Hans closed his eyes again, but not before he saw the startled look on Kirby’s face. He felt himself getting sleepy and tried to stay awake. He knew there was no way he could escape, but still didn’t think he should let himself sleep. A crashing volley of shots from right beside him almost scared him right off of the litter, which he nearly fell off of a moment later, when the men carrying him started to run. When the man at his feet stumbled and fell, letting the litter crash to the ground, Hans screamed in pain, rolling onto his side. Someone grabbed the back of his jacket and dragged him behind a fallen tree, then Doc was beside him with Nelson, who was clutching his side, his hands covered with blood. Above and around him, the Americans were firing furiously; Fritz was lying on his stomach with one soldier’s knee planted in the middle of his back. As the pain lessened and his head cleared, Hans saw the sergeant signal to Caje, who moved to the right, out of sight. A few minutes later, Hans heard an explosion followed by a single shot, then Caje was back. “Any one besides Nelson hit?” The sergeant asked. “No.” “I’m okay.” “Nope.” “Doc? How bad?” “Just a flesh wound, really, but it bled pretty good.” “I’m okay, Sarge.” Nelson grinned. “If Doc doesn’t kill me, fixin’ it up.” “Funny.” Doc said, taping the last side of a bandage. “Okay. Doc, can you carry that thing again?” “Sure, Sarge. My arms may be a little longer than they were yesterday, but I can carry it.” “Littlejohn, point. Kirby, rear. Doc, you and the Kraut take the litter.” “I gotta walk?” Nelson grinned. “I thought maybe I could sit on the side of the litter.” Fritz, who was now standing, suddenly struck the American closest to him to the ground, grabbed his weapon and ran. Kirby whipped up his weapon and fired a long burst. Fritz spun like a top, then crashed to the ground and lay still. “That’s one less stinkin’ Kraut.” Kirby smirked. Hans tried to find some anger at the Americans for killing Fritz; tried to find some sorrow or regret at the man’s death, but all he felt was relief. The man had been an obnoxious blowhard since he’d joined the unit a month ago, and Hans didn’t think any of the other men had liked him, either. He clamped his jaw tight as he was lifted back onto the litter; his leg felt like someone was trying to tear it off, but he didn’t want to ask for more pain-killer for fear that they’d just shoot him and leave him. To his immense relief, Doc handed him and Nelson a couple of the pills before they started moving again. Nelson walked beside the litter, one hand clasped to his side. “You alright, Schmidt? I dropped you pretty hard.” He asked. “I am fine.” Hans answered, surprised at the question. Sometime later, the sergeant called another rest, and Doc and Caje set the litter down with a sigh of relief. “For a skinny kid, he sure gets heavy.” Doc grinned at Caje. “Must be all that chocolate you gave him.” Caje shrugged. “Hey, Sarge, how much further?” Nelson asked, comfortably stretched out at the base of a tree. “Another hour or so, I guess.” “You got a date or somethin’, Billy?” Littlejohn chuckled. “Sure, with beautiful blond.” Nelson grinned. “Don’t you?” Hans raised his head and looked around cautiously, not wanting to draw attention to himself. They would be in the American camp soon and this might be his last chance to escape. Despite what they had told him, he was still terribly afraid of what would happen to him. Doc and Caje had gone to a little stream on the far side of a line of trees, while Nelson and Littlejohn were both stretched out under the tree with their eyes closed. The sergeant had his back to him, looking at a map and smoking a cigarette, and there was no sign of Kirby. Very slowly, gritting his teeth against the pain, Hans rolled onto his belly and quietly snaked his way toward the tangle of long grass and brush opposite the trees. Once hidden in the grass, he risked a quick peak back. Nobody seemed to notice he was gone. Feeling pleased with himself, he crawled on, totally unaware of the path of flattened grass that he left in his wake. When he judged he was far enough away, he pulled himself to his feet with the use of small tree. Now the Americans would not torture him. Now he could return to the German Army. He paused for a moment, vaguely aware of the smell of the sun-warmed bark against his cheek, realizing that he really didn’t want to go back to too little food and too many cruel officers and sadistic sergeants. What choice did he have now, anyway? Return to the Americans and face a terrifying unknown, or try to get back to his unit and try to explain what had happened? Would his Captain believe him? He’d seen his Captain shoot men for deserting. Would the Captain think that he’d deserted? Thoroughly confused, with lightning bolts of pain shooting through his leg, Hans wanted nothing more than to be back home, listening to his mother humming as she worked in the kitchen. His eyes blinded by tears of pain and misery, he took two steps, caught his injured leg on an unseen branch in the weeds, and pitched down a slight slope. He lay still for a moment to catch his breath, then rolled onto his side, his eyes widening in shock and despair. The sergeant, Caje, Kirby, and the Doc were all standing at the top of the slope, looking at him. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the shots that he knew were coming. He would never see his mother again and she would never know what had happened to him. “Kirby, Doc, go get him.” The sergeant didn’t even sound angry. He cautiously opened his eyes when he heard the two men sliding down the side of the ditch. He knew Kirby wanted to kill him and wondered if he would, despite his sergeant watching. “You dumb kid.” Hans stared in disbelief as Kirby knelt beside him and touched his shoulder. “You tryin’ to kill yourself or something?” “He’s broken the wound open again, Kirby, we’ll have to carry him back.” Doc said after examining Hans’ leg. “Big surprise.” Kirby grunted. “Hang on, kid.” He grabbed Hans by the wrists, hauled him to his feet and over his shoulder, then, with Doc helping him, he climbed back up the slope. Once they were back at the trees, Doc helped Kirby lower him back onto the litter. To his surprise, none of the Americans appeared to be angry or impatient as they waited while the medic attended to his injured leg. After he was given more pills and a drink of water, Kirby and Doc picked up the litter and they moved on. When Hans woke from a light sleep, it was late afternoon and Caje and the sergeant were carrying the litter. They stopped, and Hans’ heart began pounding when he saw an American officer walking toward them. “Saunders? What have you got there?” The officer asked. “German prisoner, Lieutenant. He’s got a bad leg wound. He was carrying a radio, so I figured HQ would want to ask him a few questions.” “I won’t tell you anything!” Hans flushed, shamed by the tremble in his voice. “Seems his sergeant told him that we torture prisoners, sir. Put out their eyes, cut off ears and hands, and skin them off to get answers.” “Good Lord!” The Lieutenant exclaimed. He gazed down at the frightened, pale face of the absurdly young soldier. “No, son, we don’t torture prisoners of war. It’s against the rules.” Hans couldn’t help flinching as the officer patted his shoulder. “Take him and Nelson to the aid tent, then report back to me, Saunders.” “Yes, sir.” Hans looked around with interest as they carried him through the camp, amazed to see so much equipment and so many men, most of them eating. Some of the men were tossing an odd-shaped ball back and forth, others were playing cards, others apparently writing letters and still others were sleeping. No wonder we are losing the war, he dared to think to himself. Inside the aid tent, they transferred him to a bed and turned to leave. “Sergeant?” Hans called after them. “Yeah?” “I, uh…” Hans couldn’t quite get the words out. “What is it?” The sergeant asked patiently. “I, um, think maybe…my sergeant was wrong.” “Yeah, Schmidt, he was wrong.” Saunders grinned. The End |
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