Authors: Alan Bricklin
He took her hand and was practically pulling her from the
car when she shouted, "Look! The wagon is on fire." The truck had
been very close when the bomb exploded, and although the substance of the truck
had shielded the wagon from most of the blast, it had, nonetheless, sustained
heavy damage, lying askew on the road and in flames. "We must help
them." She tore free of his grasp and, without waiting for a reply, dashed
up the road.
"Shit!" With one eye to the sky he started running
after her, dodging burning pieces of the transport and jumping over bodies of
the soldiers, none of whom seemed to have survived. Maria was already pulling
one child from the burning wreck, and Larry tossed aside burning straw and
pieces of wood to uncover another child, a boy in his teens, who lay
unconscious in the straw, a large gash along his temple. He lifted him and
slung him across his shoulder, carrying him to the edge of the ditch and
quickly deposited him in the grass while Maria, still holding a young girl,
herded an older man, still stunned and with an uncomprehending glazed look on his
face, to the side of the road. Larry rushed back to the wagon where he did a
quick check for other survivors, as the flames grew more intense. The body of
an older boy had come to rest against the collapsed rear wheel of the vehicle,
his neck and limbs at odd angles, blood running from his mouth and nose, his
eyes fixed in the stare of death that Larry had come to know. Larry dragged him
from the encroaching flames of the burning wagon. He then rushed to the front
of the wagon to find a young man, maybe twenty or so, partially pinned under a
horse that lay on its side, one of its hind legs appearing shattered where the
wagon had been pushed into it by the force of the explosion. The dappled work
horse whinnied softly in pain and fear but seemed to have little life left in
it. Dropping to his knees he shoved the flank of the horse aside with his
shoulder as he pulled the boy's legs free, then grabbed him under the arms and
dragged him to the grassy area bordering the road. He yelled to Maria,
"There's no one else left alive. Have everyone who's able get down into
the ditch and flatten themselves against the side." Larry took off back
towards the car as fast as he could run. Maria was shouting something but he
didn't make it out.
At 1,000 feet, the pilot pulled back on the stick and
throttled up, a slight shudder going through the P-51 Mustang as the
Rolls-Royce Merlin engine roared and carried the aircraft into a steep climb.
Banking sharply to the left, Lieutenant Jonathon Ryan glanced out the cockpit
canopy and saw what appeared to be a direct hit on the troop truck, which was
reduced to a smoking pile of rubble. Another vehicle burned in font of it, and
to the rear a car remained relatively intact. He eased off the stick and came
around to the right, beginning a wide turn for a strafing run, the damage he
saw below leading him to be unconcerned about any serious return fire. The
allies pretty much owned the air in the European theatre and his mission today
was a combination of reconnaissance and targets of opportunity, which these
days usually meant ground troops, there being a low probability that he would
have the chance to engage any enemy aircraft. With four "kills" to
his record the young lieutenant desperately wanted a fifth so he could make "ace",
and was understandably annoyed that it did not seem like today was the day it
would happen. Entering the war late, when the once mighty German war machine
was in decline and it was a foregone conclusion that the allies would soon be
victorious, Jonathon somehow felt cheated, and his annoyance turned to anger as
he lined up the P-51 with the road below. He began his descent to strafing
altitude with the intent that nothing and no one would survive the attack.
When Larry reached the car, the plane was receding in the
distance, but he expected that the pilot was circling for another run, and he
knew his time was limited. Throwing open the trunk he grabbed the crow bar that
lay there and jammed its end under the wooden top of the crate, pushing down
hard, then moving it to a new position and repeating the process until the lid
came free. He quickly tossed it aside and took hold of two of the latch bolts
securing the lead cover of the inner shielding, one in each hand, and rotated
them to the open position, attacking each of the remaining clasps in rapid
succession. The lead shielding was quite heavy although he managed to slide it
to the side where it tipped over and slid into the trunk, still resting on the
crate but leaving sufficient room to get to the plutonium. Larry stopped
suddenly and cocked his head to the side, listening. The pitch of the plane's
engine had changed, and even though he saw nothing when he shot a glance over
his shoulder, he knew that it had begun another run and he had little time
left. Using his hands like scoops, he tossed aside saw dust and wood shavings
to expose a grapefruit sized sphere of silvery metal held in what looked like a
miniature packing crate. The increasing whine of a powerful engine filled the
air around him as he slipped his fingers into the openings between the slats on
the small box holding the plutonium and tried to lift it, surprised at the
heavy weight which forced him to use both hands to obtain sufficient purchase
to remove it. The 1600 horsepower Merlin power plant was not quiet and as the
Mustang bore down, the noise surrounded and engulfed him, the ground vibrating
in synchronous harmonics. Larry's intent was to put the plutonium in the pack
which he had left in the trunk, and make a running dive for the comparative shelter
of the drainage ditch, but the unexpected heft of the isolated plutonium had
caught him by surprise and now there was no time. From somewhere behind him the
chilling crack of fifty caliber machine guns reached his ears. He clutched the
prize to his midsection like a fullback about to charge the goal line and swung
around to dash for what he hoped was safety, a line of fifty caliber dust plums
ominously running down the road at him. Larry had just rounded the trunk when
the first bullets impacted on the car, riddling it with holes, shredding metal
and shattering glass. The sounds of the disintegrating vehicle reached his ears
just before he was stung on the back by a whole hive of bees, fragments of the
pulverized Mercedes. Lieutenant Ryan kept the guns focused on the car, pounding
it incessantly until it was obscured by a cloud of debris and dirt flung up by
the fusillade of bullets. A fifty caliber piece of lead exited one of the wing
guns, its supersonic flight through the air heating its surface before it tore
through the remains of the trunk and sliced into the fuel tank in a shower of
sparks and hot metal. A fraction of a second later the gasoline, aerosolized by
the many impacts, exploded in an orange fireball, the heat and the concussion
reaching Larry at the same time, the former hotter than the hottest day he
could ever remember at the Jersey shore and the latter slamming him from behind
like a freight train. The last thing he remembered before the world around him
went black was wondering if the referee would signal a touchdown.
"Fucking Krauts. You can run but you can't hide."
Lieutenant Ryan saw a running figure blown across the road by the explosion and
he felt a sense of accomplishment, a worthwhile day's work. Certainly not as
good as an enemy plane shot down but, he thought, at least he hadn't had to
strafe a wandering flock of chickens. At least he had killed the enemy. A black
cloud obscured his view as the P-51 swooped through the rising smoke, and an
instant later, when he broke through to clear sky, he banked slightly to the
left for a final look at the smoking vehicles surrounded by bodies lying
scattered and motionless, presumably dead.
Maria tried to keep herself from shivering with fear as she
lay in deathlike rigor along with the farmer and his family, her hands
tightened into fists grasping the sparse growth of vegetation lining the sides
of the drainage ditch, trying to pull herself into the very earth for
protection. She turned her head to the side and said to the others, "Don't
move yet; stay still. I'll tell you when it's safe." The sound of the
Mustang receded into the distance, Maria remaining motionless until the noise
of the engine had completely faded and there was silence except for moans of
the wounded and the crackling sound of the fire as it consumed both machine and
flesh. She cautiously stood up and scanned the sky, satisfied herself that
there was no danger there, then hastily went to each of her companions to
assess their injuries as best she could. The farmer himself had only a few
scratches and bruises, most notably on his forehead where he had banged his
head as he was thrown forward. He had suffered a concussion, been unconscious
when she came upon him, but had rapidly come around and, still groggy, allowed
himself to be led to safety by Maria. The young girl seemed unscathed
physically although she appeared to be in shock. Her brother had what looked
like superficial burns but remained unconscious, the skin around the gash on
his forehead a mottled red purple. The eldest son was crying out in pain, his
right ankle obviously broken and his left knee askew.
The father, having regained his senses, picked up his
whimpering daughter, the youngest of the family, and was surveying the carnage,
when he suddenly cried out, "Where is Karl? My God, I don't see him!"
He hurried up the ditch to the wagon, Maria following him after quickly making
sure the two remaining family members were not in immediate need of help. When
she arrived at the wreckage she saw him standing in the road, looking down, his
weathered visage reflecting the burning flames, and then there emerged from the
father the most plaintive cry she had ever heard. "Oh, my God in heaven,
what have they done to my Karl?" He looked up, still holding his daughter,
tears filling his eyes, then turned to Maria as she came alongside. She
confronted an anguish she had never seen before, the grief and heartache of a
parent who knows they must bury their child, a responsibility that no father
should have to endure, but one which, sadly, was all too common in these black
days. The body lay in the road where Larry had pulled it from the burning wagon
so it would not be consumed by the flames. Handing the young girl to Maria, he
got to his knees by the body of his dead son, touched his still warm face,
brushed his blond hair to the side and gently closed his lids, before doubling
over sobbing and mouthing the unanswerable questions we all ask when death
reaches out and snatches a loved one from us. Maria stood by his side and placed
a hand on his heaving shoulders, offering what silent comfort she could, while
she glanced left and right for Larry. The collapse of the burning wreckage,
sparks flying up into the air, was a signal reminding him of the rest of the
family, and he stood, wiping away his tears with his sleeves. There would be a
time for mourning and for offering what little solace he might provide to his
wife who waited at home, ignorant of the tragedy. He held out his arms for his
youngest, who Maria relinquished with alacrity, now worried about Lorenz, her
rescuer.
While the farmer, shoulders stooped in despair, turned
toward where his other two sons lay, Maria ran towards the smoking ruins of the
car, maneuvering around the bodies of the German soldiers, all of the ones she
could see looking either very young or very old. She ignored, as best she
could, the stench of burning flesh from those whose bodies had not been blown
clear of the truck. None had survived. When she passed through the smoke she
could see Larry's body lying in the road and picked up her pace, murmuring
softly, "Oh, no. Please, not him. Not him." The back of his jacket
had been flayed open and the tattered remains were soaked in blood as was his
neck. He lay prone, his arms tucked under him, still breathing, but in short
labored gasps. Maria sank slowly to the ground, the courage and energy she had
shown rapidly dissipating as she looked down on the body of the man she had so
recently come to consider her rescuer and protector, and she suddenly felt helpless
and alone. Tears filled her eyes and she wondered if they were for Lorenz or
for herself, finally deciding that it didn't matter, and simply gave in to the
release it provided, the pain and hurt of the last week flowing out from her
eyes onto the dusty blood spattered road.
"He is still alive. Come, help is here." The
farmer held out his hand and helped her up. "Johan, our neighbor, saw the
attack. He is only two kilometers away and three from our home. He has a small
truck, which he brought. We will get your friend, or is it your husband, ...
well, it is not my business; in any case we will get him help. There is an army
camp not too far away, I will send someone."
"Thank you. Oh! Please, no soldiers, no military. I ...
uh, we ... "
"As you wish. I ask no questions. You two saved our
lives and I am very grateful. We are farmers here, not politicians and not
soldiers. We do not feel the need to interrogate those who help us." Two
men approached and the grateful father spoke quietly to them, after which they
silently picked up Larry and carried him off to a waiting flat bed farm truck,
wooden slats standing upright around its periphery. When they lifted the
seemingly lifeless form, there was a round ball of silvery metal underneath,
encased in a wooden frame, and Maria bent to pick it up, surprised that it took
both arms and so much effort to lift it. The farmer offered to carry it for her
but she refused.
"It was important to him," was the only
explanation she could offer. The farmer made no comment but held out his arm to
Maria who gratefully accepted the support, feeling weak at the knees, and they
walked slowly back up the road. She noticed that when the two men came abreast
of the burning troop transport, they carefully removed Larry's German military
jacket and tossed it in the flames.