By
Anzio Annie
The
steep hillside would have been treacherous enough. The morning rain had turned the ditch into a slick
mudslide. Crouching low, the two figures
clutched
exposed tree roots to keep from sliding out of control as they made
their
perilous way down the slope.
In
the end though, it was the oversized boots that gave them
away.
Caje
had scouted the watchtower, counted the guards within sight, and had
calculated
the best angle to approach the oil depot - the one that provided the
most
prolonged cover. Still, there
was no
way the squad could sneak onto the property unseen. Sarge was right; a diversion would be needed.
He
nodded to his young guide and then led the way back toward the
rendezvous
point. Their route came to a
sharp
incline at the edge of the woods, and halfway up, a sudden sound
stopped them
in their tracks - a fallen branch snapping underfoot
nearby.
Bijou
whirled at the noise, and the man-sized boots tripped him up. With a whoop, his legs flew out from
under
him and he tumbled a dozen feet back down the slope.
“Halt!”
The
German's attention was riveted on the bundle of rags now struggling to
stand. Caje pulled himself out
of the
ditch and slipped silently into the trees behind them.
“Wer
sind Sie? Warum sind Sie hier?”
The
guttural German voice was harsh, and the soldier grabbed Bijou roughly
by the
arm, pulling him to his feet.
The
boy tilted his face up and tried a friendly, innocent tone. “Wie gehts?”
The
sentry was not amused. He waved
his hand
at the boy’s attire – scrawny legs swallowed up in German-issue
military black
boots; threadbare shorts; and a khaki-colored sweater and knit cap that
said
all too plainly - American GI.
The
soldier’s face reddened. “Wer
sind
Sie?!” he repeated.
For
a moment Bijou looked perplexed - his German vocabulary was as limited
as his
English - and then he tried his most ingratiating smile. “Haben Sie chocolat?”
The
Kraut exploded in anger, and backhanded the boy across the face. Bijou fell heavily.
And
then the soldier was knocked into the mud, as Caje launched himself on
top of
him in a flying tackle. The
American's
helmet flew off as they wrestled for the German's weapon. His own M1 was on the ground – Caje
knew he
couldn't risk the sound of gunfire.
He
cringed as the Kraut rifle pinned between them in their struggle came
to bear
on Bijou lying stunned in the ditch.
“Bougez-vous! Allez!” Caje grunted at the boy,
straining
to re-direct the rifle. It went
off
suddenly with an explosion that hurt his ears and the ejected shell
casing
ricocheted off his cheekbone, white hot, but the shot went
wide.
The
sound, however, drew more Germans at a run, and the jig was
up.
Caje
felt hands pawing at the collar of his jacket as he was dragged off the
sentry. A hobnailed boot
connected with
his ribs with a sickening thud and rolled him over onto his back. He looked up into the angry faces of
three
blond-haired, blue-eyed members of the Wehrmacht.
“You. What are you doing here?” the
tallest one
demanded in heavily-accented English.
Their
prisoner glared back sullenly.
A thin
trickle of blood oozed down his cheek.
He didn't answer.
The
one with a sergeant's insignia reached down and closed his hand around
Caje's
arm, to haul him to his feet in order to march him back to the
depot. The German's face twisted in a
grimace, and
he let go to scrub his palm distastefully against his trousers. It was streaked with the American's
blood.
Caje
swayed unsteadily on his feet.
He
didn't need to see the sticky red stains to know that his forearm was
bleeding
again. The fight with the
outpost guard
must have re-opened the wound.
It was
only a scratch, not even worth having Doc bandage, he'd thought that
morning,
when the squad had finished clearing the smoking ruins of bombed-out
French
village. But if he could live
the day
over again, Caje thought, there were a lot of decisions he'd make
differently.
Take
the medical attention when it was offered?
Yes, he reflected, with a grimace.
Befriend
the French orphan? Well, yes …
he'd do
that again if he had the chance.
But
turn back for the boy when the German spotted him?
Why,
Sarge would have his head for risking his life, and risking the
mission, for
the sake of a foolish civilian refugee.
“You
will tell us what we want to
know,”
the German said, yanking his prisoner's arms painfully behind his
back. Another soldier bound the wrists
tightly
together. When they were
satisfied that
he was no threat, the sergeant prodded him in the ribs again. “Where are your comrades?” he
demanded.
Without
turning his head, Caje could see Bijou out of the corner of his
eye. They
aren't watching you, he thought.
Leave now.
Follow the ditch, away from the depot.
Away from the war.
Bijou
blinked, as if he could read his friend's thoughts. He began to inch back toward the ditch.
One
of the Germans started to turn toward the slight movement.
“Hey!”
Caje said loudly, and the Kraut turned back.
The three men drew menacingly closer to their
prisoner.
“You
want to tell us now what you are doing here?” their leader
said.
“I
want to tell you now to go to hell!” was the answer.
Caje
smothered a cry as a rifle butt smashed into his ribs again and he fell
to his
knees. His vision grayed for a
moment,
and as it cleared he could tell that, behind the Krauts, Bijou had
frozen in
his tracks and was staring at him with wide and frightened eyes. Caje jerked his head infinitesimally
toward
the woods, and saw Bijou nod.
Then a
boot unerringly found the growing bruise on Caje's ribs again. The crack was audible. But Caje kept his face impassive,
knowing
that Bijou might see him flinch, might linger in dismay. Might react impulsively, as Caje had
done in
going to help Bijou, and lose the one opportunity to reach
safety.
So
Caje made himself remain still, breathing heavily, until the boy
started to
move back along the ditch and disappeared from his sight.
“Amerikaner!”
the shortest of the Germans spat at him.
He heaved the prisoner to his feet, where Caje tottered without
the use
of his arms to regain his balance.
“You
will answer our questions.” The
threat,
though left unsaid, was no less real.
Caje was roughly prodded back to their guardhouse.
Once
there, they hurled him to the floor, where he landed on his injured arm
and
groaned. The boy was gone now -
safe -
on his way to another village, Caje hoped.
No reason now to act tough any more, to pretend it didn't
hurt.
It
did hurt. His bleeding arm, his
cracked
rib, the searing gash on his cheek.
And, by the look on his captors' faces, the hurt was just
beginning.
He had screwed up big time, he thought, as the Krauts manhandled him onto a bench. Sarge would chew him out for sure. As his captors sneered down at him, Caje straightened defiantly, unable to hide the accompanying wince, and only hoped his NCO would get the chance.