“Fucking snowstorm,” groused the Totenkopf-SS guard as he swiveled his searchlight to scan the northern approach road. “I can’t see a damned thing. There could be ten thousand Americans fifty meters ahead, and they might as well be in Norway.”
“Don’t even joke about ten thousand Americans, Jürgen,” the second tower guard said. He was pacing back and forth in the narrow space, periodically slapping his arms to his sides in an effort to get warm. “Those bastards will be here too fucking soon, and I don’t want to be here when they show up.”
Jürgen swung the light around into the camp compound in a cursory fashion. In this weather, anyone caught outside would die of exposure before the tower’s machine gun could do its job. “You think it’s time to leave, Karl?”
“It’s getting time. As soon as this weather clears up, I think we’ll all be pulled back. The führer can’t afford to throw away trained SS veterans. Besides, even if we walked away today, it’s not like these prisoners are going to live much longer. All we have to do is shut down the furnace and by the time the Americans get here, there will be nothing left but frozen stiffs.”
“I suppose,” Karl replied in a skeptical tone of voice. “Fucking Jews. Trouble when they’re alive, and trouble even when they’re dead. It’ll be a better world when the Jews are all together in Hell.”
“You’ve got that right,” agreed Jürgen. “I’ll be glad when we’re off tower duty. Maybe we’ll get the furnace room—at least it will be warm!”
“As long as we don’t have early-morning roll-call duty, I’ll be satisfied,” Karl replied. “Hey—what’s that?” He swiveled the searchlight again.
“What? I don’t see anything,” said Jürgen, leaning over the side, staring into the snow. “Probably just your imagination. There’s nothing out there, believe me.”
The sound of a truck motor could be heard in the distance, faintly at first, then louder. “Hey, hear that? That’s not just imagination, Jürgen.”
Jürgen listened for a moment. “You’re right. Sounds like a truck. What kind of stupid fucker comes driving up here in the middle of a blizzard? Either it’s a very special prisoner drop, or—hey, maybe it’s a convoy to come take us back to Berlin!”
“Yeah. Maybe it’s a limo driven by the führer himself,” said Karl sarcastically. “Not a chance. It’s just a prisoner drop-off.” Karl picked up the telephone. “Hey, Oberschütze Metzger,” he said loudly—the telephone was of low quality. “There’s a truck carrying prisoners coming up to the gate. Better open up!” He swiveled the searchlight onto the truck—SS markings; all in order. The great gates swung open and the truck revved its engine to push through the snow and into the gates.
Before the gates could close, a new sound was heard. “Jesus Christ, Karl—that’s gunfire!” said Jürgen. Karl swung the light again, this time down inside the wide-open gates. The truck was disgorging soldiers armed with machine pistols, tearing into the SS camp guards. Quickly, Jürgen manned the machine gun, aimed it down, and fired a burst at the truck.
Then there was more noise. “The fucking Americans—or maybe that
arschloch
traitor Rommel—they’re here!” shouted Karl. “I’ll call the commandant.”
As he picked up the telephone again, he could see tanks and half-tracks approaching, far more than a single machine gun could handle. But at least he’d take some enemy with him, he thought.
There was a sudden burst of light on his right, followed by a shattering explosion. Karl looked over to see the second main guard tower collapsing, its observation platform consumed with fire. One of the tower guards—Karl couldn’t tell whom—jumped from the blazing wreckage. His greatcoat was on fire.
That was enough. “Let’s get the fuck out of here!” he shouted to Jürgen. He pulled open the trapdoor and both men tried to squeeze in, fighting to be first out of the tower.
Neither of them saw or heard the mortar shell that exploded at the base of their tower.
“Move! Move! Move!” shouted the feldwebel. Klaus Bäker’s heart was beating fast as he scrambled toward the rear of the truck. His bayonet was fixed and pointing up in the confined quarters; he didn’t like being around all these jabbing knives and was thankful his pack served as padding for any overeager soldiers behind him.
His eyes were dark-adapted from the last hour spent waiting as the truck struggled through the snowstorm. Then there was the long moment of suspense, sitting helplessly in the dark like the soldiers in the Trojan horse so long ago, waiting for the enemy to pull them into their own fortress. The searchlights from the guard towers had swept across the truck; he could see the light through the canvas. His hands were sweaty in their thin gloves; it was funny how they could be icy cold at the same time. Time seemed to stop for a long while, until he thought anything, including close combat with bayonets, was better than continuing to sit in the dark truck.
Then came the command and suddenly time sped up again. He jumped from the truck when his time came and was blinded as the searchlight swept over him. Disoriented, he couldn’t tell friend from foe. The uniforms, the helmets, the insignia were so alike as to be indistinguishable in the intermittent light. He lowered his rifle into attack position, then saw a guard with a machine pistol that stuttered, sending a spray of bullets into the attackers.
Bäker dropped into the snow, lifted his rifle and squeezed off a shot, missed, fired again. There was a scream and the machine-pistol soldier dropped; Bäker could not tell if he had killed or merely wounded him.
Another stutter of machine-gun fire, this one louder, coming from the guard towers. He felt like an exposed bug under the searchlights and scrambled through the wet snow toward the shelter of the truck body.
Mortar—come on, mortar!
he thought, willing the shell to fire itself, and then there was an explosion, the first shell falling short, the second one on target, and the tower exploded in a sudden flare of white light. The searchlight stayed on for a brief time; then there was darkness from the first tower. Bäker crouched, brought his rifle to his shoulder again, and began to fire from the cover of the truck. There were screams, all in German, and there was no way to tell friend from foe in the new dark.
One searchlight continued to stab into the snow outside the compound. Bäker heard a loud roar and turned his head briefly to see a massive Panzer V bearing down on the camp like a leviathan from the distant past. Then the dark was punctuated by another flash of explosive fire. The second guard tower exploded, and the Panzer V was swallowed up by the darkness.
The camp guards were firing in retreat, holing up inside one of the barracks. “
Schnell!
After them!” yelled the feldwebel, and Bäker began running, began yelling with the others, charging across the compound through the deepening snow. His rifle barked, and again, but he didn’t have a target in mind. There was firing coming his way again, and he dived forward, splattering into the snow and mud. Others around him fell as well; he couldn’t tell if any of them had been hit. He began to snake forward on his belly, rifle forward, until he found a few garbage cans he could hide behind, then up on his knee, rifle to his shoulder. He could see shadow figures at the barracks windows and he shot into them randomly.
And then there were shouts: “Truce! Truce! We surrender! Don’t shoot us! We surrender!” Bäker’s hands were shaking as he saw the surrendering guards coming out, still unrecognizeable shadows, with hands held high or clasped over their helmets. The feldwebel shouted his orders, “Single file! Keep your hands in the air!,” and then shouted at his men to surround the survivors, march them into a barbed-wire area where normally prisoners were received.
Bäker’s heart began to calm. He was soaking wet from the snow and the mud, and his arm hurt. He must have wrenched it when he fell, he thought, and reached in to find that the liquid was warm, not cold.
Jesus Christ, I’m bleeding!
he thought in horror, and then he shouted aloud “I’m shot! I’m wounded!” until the feldwebel came over. He couldn’t stop shouting until the feldwebel slapped him, and then he was terrified. “Am I going to die?” he asked, and the feldwebel replied, “God damn it, it’s just a shoulder wound, but if you don’t shut up and get hold of yourself I’ll fucking kill you. Got it?”
Hermann Pister, the camp commandant, took a final look around his quarters. He had packed everything he needed; the boot of his staff car was full. His driver was waiting; the engine was warmed up. Driving away in a heavy snowfall was a bit dangerous, but waiting until the weather cleared was probably more risky.
“All right,” he said to himself, rubbing his hands together. “Time to leave.”
He heard the gunfire and mortar explosions as he left his quarters. “Damn it!” he said. The enemy was already at his gates. They, like he, must have seen the opportunity in the snowstorm. But all the noise was from the north. The Allies hadn’t captured Weimar yet, so they couldn’t have approached from that direction. Time to move south, he thought. Opening the door to his car, he said, “Change of plans. We are leaving to the south, along the Blutstrasse.” The Blutstrasse, or Street of Blood, was the name the prisoners had given the main camp access road.
“Jawohl, mein Oberführer,”
the driver said. He was glad to be leaving as well.
The wheels of the car spun in the snow and mud before getting traction. Pister leaned forward, momentarily anxious, although he was normally quite self-controlled. His driver ground the gears rather badly, and then finally the car began to move. Once out of the gate, the road was bumpy but straight, and they would pick up speed. With luck, he would be in Berlin by midmorning tomorrow.
The car stopped at the gate, and Pister rolled down his window impatiently. “Open up! Open up! Can’t you see who I am?”
He stared up into an ugly, unshaven face with a toothless smile—the teeth had been broken off and nothing but stumps remained. Suddenly he realized that this was not one of his guards, but a prisoner—a Russian, by the look of him.
“Drive! Drive!
Schnell,
you idiot! Break through the gate! Get us out of here!” Pister shouted at his driver. The driver floored the gas pedal, but that only sent the wheels into another spin, and in a moment the driver’s door was wrenched open and all Pister could see was an arm jerking the driver out into the snow.
He tried to roll his window up and lock his door, but the Russian’s arm blocked the glass. He pulled hard at the door handle, but the arms outside the car were stronger. His door too was wrenched open, and he felt strong arms pull him out and into the snow.
In the light from the guard shack, he briefly saw a body slumped forward. There was another body facedown in the snow, stripped of its coat and looking incongruously cold.
“Please … I can get you money, safe passage, whatever you want! I’m too
important for you to kill. I can be very useful! Very useful!” As he babbled out reasons for the prisoners to spare his life, he suddenly wondered if any of them spoke enough German to understand him. “Money! Freedom! I can help you!” he said, simplifying the message.
“So, Commandant Pister, you can help us?” A deep voice, speaking in German but with a very thick Russian accent. “And we should spare your life for your help?”
“Yes, yes! I have money, some in the car, but I can get more. I can prepare passes for you, help you get your freedom!” He was relieved—someone was going to be rational, going to be sensible, going to make a deal. He forced himself to get calm; an overanxious bargainer had little leverage.
Pister stood up, brushed the snow from his coat, prepared to deal. Then he got a look at his captor—the man had suffered severe burns; one eye and most of his face were gone. Like the other Russian, his teeth were either rotten or broken, and Pister noticed that one arm hung limp. The Russian leader saw Pister look at him. “Not so pretty, yes?” he said. “You Germans did this. And now it’s our turn.” He had a camp knife, mostly rusted scrap metal, and with it he slashed Pister across the face, cutting into his eye.
The commandant screamed, tried to run, but a foot tripped him and he fell facedown in the snow. The cold gave him momentary relief, but then he felt hands grab him, turn him over, and the Russian knelt on top of him, grinning as he brought the camp knife down again and again.
Digger O’Dell scraped a handful of snow off the sill outside the broken window to try to lower Clausen’s fever. “Just let the fucking German die,” growled Kirby, the senior POW officer. “It’s going to happen anyway, so don’t waste your time.”
Digger ignored him, and took the snow back to his bunk, wrapping it in a bit of scrounged cloth and placing the improvised cold compress on Clausen’s head. In spite of the snow and cold, Clausen’s fever had spiked even higher.
“You’re sleeping on the fucking wet spot, you hear me, Digger?” snarled one of his bunkmates.
Digger grinned. “Hell, I used to sleep with three younger brothers. Water ain’t nothing compared to sleeping in piss.” He continued working on Clausen. There wasn’t much he could do, but it beat just sitting around and waiting for the man to die.
The first mortar explosion rocked the room. “What the fuck was that?” the bunkmate asked.