The German winter had frozen the Texas right out of me. Even as spring comes, my ears, fingers, and toes are always numb, my limbs trembling all the time beneath layers of thick wool.
I’m on my haunches behind an abandoned shack, with drafting tools, a half-dozen pencils, and a few maps, icy wind blowing, maps writhing and twisting under the strong gusts. “Benson, Benson,” I call to my driver. He steps quickly, his eyes peeking out beneath the rim of his helmet.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Get me some rocks or something to hold these maps down.”
“Right away, Captain,” he says, dashing off into the brush.
Just ahead of me the men work like an ant colony on the cannon: inspecting the manifold, locking the wheels in place, setting up the row of projectiles, testing the hand-cranks.
Maps flapping all around me like angry geese, Benson settling them down with stones and ammo cans. I jot down some calculations: seventeen degrees southwest, barrel at a fifty-four–degree angle. Snap! My lead breaks. Always happens when I’m closing in. We could hit the munitions warehouse at this angle, but there’s an art to this too. Two weeks ago the calculations were off and it led to civilian casualties and I can’t let that happen again. I scribble out more equations. “Benson,” I call, and hand him the coordinates. I have to push that thought away about civilian casualties.
Lieutenant Lonnie Calhoun takes the slip from Benson and barks orders to the men, who begin to turn the squeaky hand-cranks, metal wheels on either side of the howitzer, angling the muzzle high in the air. Calhoun pulls the lever opening the breech as a bulky private grabs the first projectile, a fire hydrant-sized missile, hoists it up to his chest, and loads it into the chamber. He clanks the breech shut, locks it in place, and darts away from the cannon. “Positions!” I call out. “Clear?”
“All clear,” shouts Calhoun. The men have stepped back a safe distance, except for Calhoun, who takes hold of the rope lanyard and locks eyes with me.
“Fire.”
Calhoun turns his head away and yanks the lanyard, heaving his body back from the cannon. There’s a momentary hiss. I catch the fretful glance of Lieutenant Al Steinhart, and then an explosion blasts through me, clacking my teeth together, stopping my heart for a beat. I feel it in my groin, joints, marrow.
Through the smoke I watch the streak of flame arc toward the heavens, till it becomes a faint crayon line of yellow and trailing gray, and then it’s just overcast sky, sun trying to peek out, a day like any other. Then the muffled rumble indicating it’s hit the other side. The sound makes me think again of the little German girl who lost her leg. Push that thought away. Squash it. Bury it.
“Reload, Captain?”
I hear the clanging of the men removing the shell, and I look through my field glasses toward the target. I can’t make out much through the black smoke, but the orange blaze indicates we likely hit the mark.
“Reload. Adjust coordinates point zero five degrees laterally,” I tell Calhoun.
“Yes, Sir, Captain.”
I see someone, I think a man, hobbling up the road as we make our way to Dachau, a place we understand to be a prisoner-of-war camp. All units in the area are to help in the release of prisoners and supervision of the camp until the Red Cross arrives.
We pull up next to the man. He stops and stares at us. His face is sunken, cheeks hollow. I see the bones of his eye sockets and forehead. He looks like an old man, but the stubble of his beard is black.
Benson gets out of the jeep and approaches him. “We’re Americans. We’re here to help.”
The man seems to have some recognition and gives a hint of a smile. “What’s wrong with him?” asks Calhoun.
“He’s starving to death,” says Steinhart.
Calhoun jumps out and goes to the trunk and pulls out C rations from his pack. He takes a can of spaghetti and meat, opens it, and hands it to the man. I see every bone pushing through the tissue-thin skin of his hand as he takes it. “Danke.” He sits on the ground cross-legged and eats, chewing slowly and deliberately.
Steinhart is out of the jeep by my side and he points to the faded yellow star on the man's threadbare shirt. “Jewish? Jewish? Uh, Yiddish?” he asks the man, squatting down in front of him. The man’s eyes dart around in their sockets. Steinhart points to himself. “Me too. Mich. Yiddish.”
The man gets a hint of a smile, then a flush of color goes across his face, his eyes water, and he heaves the contents of his guts on the side of the road. Steinhart rests a hand on his shoulder. I squat down next to him in the dust. “You speak English?”
He lifts a few skeletal fingers in the air that I think indicate "Yes, a little." We try to explain, me in simple English, Steinhart tossing in a word or two of Yiddish, that he should ride back with us to the camp and wait for doctors. He sits up, listens, eyes gazing toward the green hills, but then shakes his head, refusing our help. After some debate, we decide to leave him, though I worry he won’t get far, even with the day’s rations of food and the canteen of water we give him.
As we drive, I turn back and watch him through the wind and dust, shreds of cloth blowing on his scrawny frame. He lifts a hand to wave, I think, just a gray figure blending into the road, then a blur, and then nothing. My gaze shifts to Calhoun in the back seat; his jaw is clenched, his features rigid.
We follow train tracks till we arrive at the front of the camp, a long brick structure with a tall arched entrance in the center, barbed wire fencing stretching into the distance. Reaching the archway, we are met by an American guard, who looks about fifteen, big-cheeked and innocent. “Captain Jack Frye,” I announce.
“Go on in, Captain, straight ahead to where that jeep is parked. Colonel Sparks is waiting.” There are rows of wooden barracks, white and faded, and watchtowers farther out. I see heaps of garbage, broken-down machinery, and vehicle parts, but no people. The place looks desolate.
“Where are all the prisoners?” I ask.
His baby face turns hard. “Most are gathered at the east end. We’re waiting for the Red Cross.” Benson puts the jeep in gear.
“Sir, there’s not as many as you might think.”
“What?”
“Prisoners, Sir.”
“Why, this looks like a dozen acres. It could hold thousands.”
“It’s not a prisoner-of-war camp. It’s a death camp.”
“Say again?”
“Most of the people in this camp are civilians brought here to be killed.”
“Go, Benson.” We drive on, my mouth dry, throat tight.
The camp smells of human stench and rat poison. At the barracks there are many men like the one we met on the road, close to death from malnutrition, faces gaunt and severe, bewildered eyes, most unable to stand. We’re waiting for them to be transported to hospitals, trying to help them as best we can, giving them food, water, and blankets.
Toward the end of the afternoon, one of Colonel Sparks’s lieutenants takes us to the northwest side of camp. There, on the edge of a thick pine forest, lies a pile of bodies, naked and white, stacked high as the barracks down the road. The corpses are hung and draped over each other like an obscene tapestry of human cloth, almost as if the dead had merged into one being, a tangle of skeletal legs, arms, torsos, and heads.
I feel a tremble in my belly, like I used to get as a boy, when my dad got locked up for his drinking, but then it’s replaced by acid, clenched jaw, and balled fists. I envision myself with a machine gun blasting through a wall of German soldiers, watching them pop and burst like overripe fruit.
Looking at Calhoun, I see that he too is tight with rage, his jaw clamped, shoulders up at his ears. Only Steinhart seems steady. He walks around the hill of corpses, studying it like you might an oddity in a museum.
I send Benson to get my pack and when he returns I take out my camera, a small 35 millimeter.
“Yes, that’s smart, Jack. We need to document this,” Steinhart says.
The wind blows, ruffling my sleeves and pant legs. I focus the camera and realize I have to move back farther to get it all in the frame. I click the picture and then take more. That twitchy feeling in my gut comes back, but I push it away.
Benson, who’s spoken no more than a dozen words since we arrived, addresses Sparks’s lieutenant. “Sir, these people were civilians?”
“Yeah, welcome to hell,” he says, shaking his head. “When the Forty-fifth got here two days ago, they came in like you, like my company, not knowing what was here. After they saw all the starvation, the death, they went berserk, mowed down dozens of captured German soldiers and guards with machine guns. Some ran into town on a rampage, shooting civilians.”
“Goddamn right,” says Calhoun, grinding his boot into the mud.
After a few days we’re moved to the village of Arzbach, only five miles north of Dachau, but another world: a cobblestoned hamlet of family-run shops with a one-story brick municipal building, enclaves of modest houses on the outskirts, surrounded by farmland and pine forests.
We had been waiting to go to the Pacific to aid in the fighting there, but then Japan surrendered. After a few nights of victory celebrations, I find myself in a state of agitation. Our job now is to round up Nazis, but there are few to be found. The fight is over, but my body doesn't seem to realize it. Sometimes I'm jumpy, like we're getting shelled again, but other times I'm hotheaded, raging over the most trivial things.
Others in the company are on edge too. There are more violent incidents with civilians and even among ourselves. One American-versus-American bar brawl leaves three soldiers hospitalized, and Calhoun with a fat lump on the side of his head, though this does not slow down his ongoing pursuit of women and booze.
Steinhart becomes more analytical than ever, a scientist investigating, probing, interviewing. This ordeal becomes a great piece of research to him. Benson is as obedient and steadfast as ever, committing to each task as if it mattered.
I find myself battling wave after wave of darkness. I also begin to dwell on my wife and baby girl. She's almost a year old now and has never met me. I have a picture of them on the plywood slab I use as a desk: a black-and-white of Estelle standing behind a baby carriage, looking into the camera with a stoic smile, and in the carriage, a little imp wrapped in a blanket, cheeks like a chipmunk’s filled with nuts. On the other side of the desk, far to the other side, I have the picture of the pile of corpses.
“They don’t look like Germans, at least not that one,” says Benson, standing outside the truck with me, Steinhart, and Calhoun on a cobblestone road.
“They are. For all we know, those are the same sons of bitches starving and murdering civilians at Dachau,” I say.
“What do we do?” asks Steinhart, staring at me, eyebrows furrowed. I look at the Germans, sitting in the back of the transport truck, a flatbed covered in heavy canvas with slat wooden benches on the sides. The dark-haired German is soaked in sweat and the light-haired one is bent over, head in his hands. There are guards on either side of the vehicle, as well as inside with the prisoners. They were captured earlier that day on the train with fake IDs, trying to flee the area.
After days of feeling the desire to kill and maim tearing at my innards, I finally have the opportunity. Protocol is to take them to our POW camp near Munich, but that’s not even a consideration.
“Take them into the town square and blow their heads off!” says Calhoun, stomping in a rage, veins bulging at his temples. “Show these people what it means to be a murdering Kraut.”
“We could be court-martialed,” says Steinhart.
“We’re not getting court-martialed!” says Calhoun.
“Look,” I say, “we’re going to take care of this, but in the right way.”
“This town is probably loaded with Nazi supporters,” argues Calhoun.
“They claim they had no idea what was going on,” says Steinhart.
“You’re buying that? You, Steinhart? The heavy smoke, the stench. They knew. They knew something.”
“We’re not spilling any more blood in this town,” I state.
Calhoun’s jaw clinches and he slams a hand on the truck bed, startling the prisoners. The guards look on impassively.
“We’ll take them out to the woods,” I say.
Steinhart looks pensive, distant.
“Are you in agreement, Al?”
He nods.
I sit in back with the Germans during the ride. The one beside me has brown hair and a wide face, about twenty. He tries to give me a docile look when I climb in next to him, pistol out on my lap, but I look right past him. He clears his throat, making strange guttural sounds, and shifts his gaze straight ahead. I study the other, sitting across from me, blond hair receding from his forehead, fine lines forming at his eyes. He might be an officer; he could have been in charge of the death camp for all I know.
As we drive, the scenery transitions from village to farmland to forest. We’re on a dirt road, washed out and rutted, the German next to me dripping with perspiration, flinching with every bump. The other’s head is down, expressionless. “Slow down,” I tell Benson. The sweaty one looks around trying to make eye contact with the blond, even with me once, but I stare through him like he’s dead, which he will be shortly.
I notice a clearing and yell from the back to Benson that I need him to drive into the forest far enough so we won’t be seen from the road. When the truck veers off the path the younger German panics, hissing desperate utterances to his comrade. “Shut the hell up!” shouts a guard, lifting his pistol toward him.
We stop in a dark patch of forest, filled with tall pines. Reminds me of Sabine National Forest in Eastern Texas, where my dad took me camping once. We three officers step down from the back of the truck and move away a few steps.
I glance around the area, making sure we're alone. I’m wrestling with the best way to do this. Now that the deed is close, the weight of it feels heavy, and I want to get it over with. “Okay, Calhoun, you take them out, march them in front of us a ways.”
“Then what?” asks Steinhart.
“What the hell you think?” says Calhoun.
Steinhart is statue still, eyes lowered. “I’m not sure about this, Captain.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Look," Steinhart says, his eyes turning grim, "part of me would like to shove my pistol in that Kraut's face and blast him to hell. It's just … "He stops, looks away.
“If you’re having second thoughts, you need to speak up,” I say.
“I don’t know if I can do it,” he says, twisting his face into a grimace.
"We should all be in agreement on this, Al," I say.
"Well, I'm in agreement!" says Calhoun. "Come on, Steinhart, we can't let them get away with what they did!"
“Yeah, but what if they had nothing to do with the camp? What if they’re just soldiers?” says Steinhart.
I glance back at the prisoners; the younger one watches us, eyes wide and fearful, and I realize I may not have the stomach for this either. It was easy to kill from afar with the cannon, but this is different. I look to Calhoun; his face is tight like a knot, fists clenched, but he’s not saying anything. “Lonnie?”
“Hey, we all know they deserve to be shot and left out here to bleed to death …” He looks toward the Germans in the truck, studies them, and then faces us. “But we could just beat the shit out of them. Teach them a lesson they’ll never forget.”
I nod in agreement, but am disgusted at myself for letting my men bail me out, for not having the guts to kill those Krauts. But even if I’m too yellow to kill them, I’ll damn sure beat the shit out of them.
I march back toward the rear of the truck. “Take them out! Get them down here!” I yell. The guards prod them from behind with pistols and the Germans jump off the back of the truck. “That way!” I shout, wanting to move them away from the vehicle, shoving the blond one in the back. “Hurry the hell up!”
We lead them to a clearing, dark in the thick pines, moist dirt, crisp air, insects and birds chattering away, oblivious to our mission. Benson and the guards stand behind the Germans as the three of us face them. The dark-haired one looks from man to man, imploring us with his eyes, but getting nothing but blank stares. The blond is trance-like, eyes lowered. I step toward him, bending my
face down to meet his eyes. I want to see into this German, see what makes a man become a devil, but he looks away. I notice a tremble in his long fingers, and he takes a step back. The younger German is watching me in judgment with squinted eyes, tight mouth.
“What the hell are you looking at?” I scream. He jumps; his eyes widen. Knowing he can’t understand, but wanting to make him: "You’re a damn monster! You! How many did you murder? How many old ladies? How many babies?" He continues to meet my eyes, but his face is vulnerable and childlike. “Damn!”
“Do it, Jack,” urges Calhoun through clenched teeth.
“It’s hard when they’re just standing there defenseless.”
“They murdered the defenseless.”
“I know what they did!” I say. “I know they’re evil bastards, but right now I just see two men who are scared.”
“So, what do we do?” asks Steinhart.
“I’m not sure,” I say.
“You’re the ranking officer,” says Calhoun.
“I know what the hell I am!”
“We can turn them in,” says Steinhart.
“We came thousands of miles, saw our friends die, left our families to fight these no-good Krauts, and find they slaughtered people, civilians, for no cause. Al, these men may have killed your kin,” Calhoun implores, reaching his open palms toward Steinhart’s chest. “They would kill you in a second. We can't let them get away with this!”
“Al?” I say.
He is silent, then shakes his head. "It won't change anything.”
“Ah, hell, it’ll be what they deserve. No, no, they’d do it to us! What about the Malmedy Massacre, huh?” I watch Calhoun snatch a thick branch from the ground and march toward the Germans. They are sitting now, hunched over, hopeless. The branch is clutched in his hand, his fist white and veiny. He stands over them and they gaze up, defeat in their eyes. He lifts the branch overhead, screams his rage, and flings it into the woods. Cracking sounds echo through the forest as the branch ricochets through a cluster of dense pines. Calhoun turns on his heel and storms toward the truck, steps up, kicks the shit out of a bench and then slumps down on it.
I tell the guard to put the prisoners back in the truck, that we’re going to the camp. I think I notice a condescending smirk snake across his lips, but when I meet his eyes his face is neutral.
We sit silently in the truck, Calhoun, arms crossed, shoulders tensed, staring straight ahead, Steinhart, looking confused, a slight twitch in his face. I feel a cloud of disgrace engulfing the three of us—had the enemy in our hands and did nothing, didn't even take a slug at them. We were simply turning them in. The shame sits with us, thick and bloated, clinging to us like a foul odor embedded in our clothing.
I sit in the officers’ club, a large musty tent with a plywood bar and a dozen stools, a few fold-up card tables with crates for seats, yellow lamps, and some scratchy music in the background. My body feels heavy, leaden. Just lifting a drink to my lips takes effort.
I’m studying the amber fluid in my glass when I feel a whack on my back. “Hey, Jack.” I lift my eyes and see Robert Gorton, another captain from the Southwest, just outside Albuquerque. I give him a nod and he grabs the seat beside me. “I heard about the Krauts your squad captured.”
I nod again, studying the bottles behind the bar.
“Good work, buddy,” he says, slapping me on the back again. “Let me buy you another. Celebrate.”
I feel something move down my spine that kind of freezes me. I don’t want that drink. He probably doesn’t even realize I turned them in. He’d give me hell if he knew. “Save your money, Gorton.”
He pulls his head back on his neck and gives me a perplexed look, as if to say When’d you start turning down drinks? “I’m buying you a drink, boy. Don’t make me force it down your gullet.” Usually I’d be horsing around too, but a weak grin is the best I can do.
“Barkeep, another drink for Captain Frye.”
I watch the bartender grab a bottle from the shelf and fill another glass. “And Barkeep,” says Gorton, “I want you to put everything Captain Frye orders tonight on my tab.”
The bartender places the drink in front of me. I glance at Gorton watching me, an eager grin on his narrow face. I take the glass and bring it to my lips, and act like I’m drinking. Then I set it on the edge of the bar.
Gorton pats my back again. “That was good work today, Jack.”
Later, when he goes to the can, I let my fingers rest against the full glass and allow them to nudge it off the edge. It shatters at my feet, splattering my pants. The bartender looks up. “My apologies,” I say. I get up and trudge out into the damp night.
I wind my way down the unlit path to my hut, a canvas tent with a makeshift door in front. Stepping inside, I feel my way to the light bulb hanging in the center and click it on. There's a half-full bottle of whiskey in my locker that I take to my desk. My body feels heavy as I sit, like my muscles are wet sandbags. Taking a long draw from the bottle, feeling the burn in my throat, I study the picture of my family, still sitting on my desk.
I hear a rustling or soft knocking at the door, but ignore it. It comes again, crisper this time. “Who's that?” I call.
“Private Benson, Sir."
Benson? What the hell does he want? “Okay, come in.”
He steps in, a gust of damp wind whipping in behind him. His cheeks are ruddy, his eyes big, a few dark curls hanging over his forehead. “Captain, can I speak to you?”
“Yeah, Benson, shoot.”
He shifts from foot to foot and glances around the room. “Well, you know what happened today with the Germans?”
"What about it?” I say, standing and glaring at him.
“I just want to say," he says, taking a step closer, "it's been a great honor serving under you, Sir." He reaches out a hand and we shake. He’s looking at me like I’m some hero or something.
I stiffen my shoulders and look away, removing my hand from his grip. “Okay, it’s late. Go on, hit the rack now,” I say, opening the door and giving him a little shove.
"Good night, Captain," I hear as I close the door.
I return to my desk and the whiskey, wind jostling the tent, blowing in through cracks. That picture of the bodies sits on my desk too, calling out to me. What they did, what the Germans did, all the time haunting me in that photo. I kick myself again for being such a damn coward today, then take the picture and turn it over, shut it out.
My head feels heavy so I allow my neck to relax, bringing my chin to my chest, swaying there a moment, then slumping down farther and laying my cheek on the rough plywood, one hand wrapped around the whiskey bottle, the other holding the picture of my wife and daughter, my eyes locked on them till they become a blur. My eyes close, the light bulb creating a red glow beneath my eyelids, the wind's wailing growing louder outside.
I’m on my haunches behind an abandoned shack, with drafting tools, a half-dozen pencils, and a few maps, icy wind blowing, maps writhing and twisting under the strong gusts. “Benson, Benson,” I call to my driver. He steps quickly, his eyes peeking out beneath the rim of his helmet.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Get me some rocks or something to hold these maps down.”
“Right away, Captain,” he says, dashing off into the brush.
Just ahead of me the men work like an ant colony on the cannon: inspecting the manifold, locking the wheels in place, setting up the row of projectiles, testing the hand-cranks.
Maps flapping all around me like angry geese, Benson settling them down with stones and ammo cans. I jot down some calculations: seventeen degrees southwest, barrel at a fifty-four–degree angle. Snap! My lead breaks. Always happens when I’m closing in. We could hit the munitions warehouse at this angle, but there’s an art to this too. Two weeks ago the calculations were off and it led to civilian casualties and I can’t let that happen again. I scribble out more equations. “Benson,” I call, and hand him the coordinates. I have to push that thought away about civilian casualties.
Lieutenant Lonnie Calhoun takes the slip from Benson and barks orders to the men, who begin to turn the squeaky hand-cranks, metal wheels on either side of the howitzer, angling the muzzle high in the air. Calhoun pulls the lever opening the breech as a bulky private grabs the first projectile, a fire hydrant-sized missile, hoists it up to his chest, and loads it into the chamber. He clanks the breech shut, locks it in place, and darts away from the cannon. “Positions!” I call out. “Clear?”
“All clear,” shouts Calhoun. The men have stepped back a safe distance, except for Calhoun, who takes hold of the rope lanyard and locks eyes with me.
“Fire.”
Calhoun turns his head away and yanks the lanyard, heaving his body back from the cannon. There’s a momentary hiss. I catch the fretful glance of Lieutenant Al Steinhart, and then an explosion blasts through me, clacking my teeth together, stopping my heart for a beat. I feel it in my groin, joints, marrow.
Through the smoke I watch the streak of flame arc toward the heavens, till it becomes a faint crayon line of yellow and trailing gray, and then it’s just overcast sky, sun trying to peek out, a day like any other. Then the muffled rumble indicating it’s hit the other side. The sound makes me think again of the little German girl who lost her leg. Push that thought away. Squash it. Bury it.
“Reload, Captain?”
I hear the clanging of the men removing the shell, and I look through my field glasses toward the target. I can’t make out much through the black smoke, but the orange blaze indicates we likely hit the mark.
“Reload. Adjust coordinates point zero five degrees laterally,” I tell Calhoun.
“Yes, Sir, Captain.”
I see someone, I think a man, hobbling up the road as we make our way to Dachau, a place we understand to be a prisoner-of-war camp. All units in the area are to help in the release of prisoners and supervision of the camp until the Red Cross arrives.
We pull up next to the man. He stops and stares at us. His face is sunken, cheeks hollow. I see the bones of his eye sockets and forehead. He looks like an old man, but the stubble of his beard is black.
Benson gets out of the jeep and approaches him. “We’re Americans. We’re here to help.”
The man seems to have some recognition and gives a hint of a smile. “What’s wrong with him?” asks Calhoun.
“He’s starving to death,” says Steinhart.
Calhoun jumps out and goes to the trunk and pulls out C rations from his pack. He takes a can of spaghetti and meat, opens it, and hands it to the man. I see every bone pushing through the tissue-thin skin of his hand as he takes it. “Danke.” He sits on the ground cross-legged and eats, chewing slowly and deliberately.
Steinhart is out of the jeep by my side and he points to the faded yellow star on the man's threadbare shirt. “Jewish? Jewish? Uh, Yiddish?” he asks the man, squatting down in front of him. The man’s eyes dart around in their sockets. Steinhart points to himself. “Me too. Mich. Yiddish.”
The man gets a hint of a smile, then a flush of color goes across his face, his eyes water, and he heaves the contents of his guts on the side of the road. Steinhart rests a hand on his shoulder. I squat down next to him in the dust. “You speak English?”
He lifts a few skeletal fingers in the air that I think indicate "Yes, a little." We try to explain, me in simple English, Steinhart tossing in a word or two of Yiddish, that he should ride back with us to the camp and wait for doctors. He sits up, listens, eyes gazing toward the green hills, but then shakes his head, refusing our help. After some debate, we decide to leave him, though I worry he won’t get far, even with the day’s rations of food and the canteen of water we give him.
As we drive, I turn back and watch him through the wind and dust, shreds of cloth blowing on his scrawny frame. He lifts a hand to wave, I think, just a gray figure blending into the road, then a blur, and then nothing. My gaze shifts to Calhoun in the back seat; his jaw is clenched, his features rigid.
We follow train tracks till we arrive at the front of the camp, a long brick structure with a tall arched entrance in the center, barbed wire fencing stretching into the distance. Reaching the archway, we are met by an American guard, who looks about fifteen, big-cheeked and innocent. “Captain Jack Frye,” I announce.
“Go on in, Captain, straight ahead to where that jeep is parked. Colonel Sparks is waiting.” There are rows of wooden barracks, white and faded, and watchtowers farther out. I see heaps of garbage, broken-down machinery, and vehicle parts, but no people. The place looks desolate.
“Where are all the prisoners?” I ask.
His baby face turns hard. “Most are gathered at the east end. We’re waiting for the Red Cross.” Benson puts the jeep in gear.
“Sir, there’s not as many as you might think.”
“What?”
“Prisoners, Sir.”
“Why, this looks like a dozen acres. It could hold thousands.”
“It’s not a prisoner-of-war camp. It’s a death camp.”
“Say again?”
“Most of the people in this camp are civilians brought here to be killed.”
“Go, Benson.” We drive on, my mouth dry, throat tight.
The camp smells of human stench and rat poison. At the barracks there are many men like the one we met on the road, close to death from malnutrition, faces gaunt and severe, bewildered eyes, most unable to stand. We’re waiting for them to be transported to hospitals, trying to help them as best we can, giving them food, water, and blankets.
Toward the end of the afternoon, one of Colonel Sparks’s lieutenants takes us to the northwest side of camp. There, on the edge of a thick pine forest, lies a pile of bodies, naked and white, stacked high as the barracks down the road. The corpses are hung and draped over each other like an obscene tapestry of human cloth, almost as if the dead had merged into one being, a tangle of skeletal legs, arms, torsos, and heads.
I feel a tremble in my belly, like I used to get as a boy, when my dad got locked up for his drinking, but then it’s replaced by acid, clenched jaw, and balled fists. I envision myself with a machine gun blasting through a wall of German soldiers, watching them pop and burst like overripe fruit.
Looking at Calhoun, I see that he too is tight with rage, his jaw clamped, shoulders up at his ears. Only Steinhart seems steady. He walks around the hill of corpses, studying it like you might an oddity in a museum.
I send Benson to get my pack and when he returns I take out my camera, a small 35 millimeter.
“Yes, that’s smart, Jack. We need to document this,” Steinhart says.
The wind blows, ruffling my sleeves and pant legs. I focus the camera and realize I have to move back farther to get it all in the frame. I click the picture and then take more. That twitchy feeling in my gut comes back, but I push it away.
Benson, who’s spoken no more than a dozen words since we arrived, addresses Sparks’s lieutenant. “Sir, these people were civilians?”
“Yeah, welcome to hell,” he says, shaking his head. “When the Forty-fifth got here two days ago, they came in like you, like my company, not knowing what was here. After they saw all the starvation, the death, they went berserk, mowed down dozens of captured German soldiers and guards with machine guns. Some ran into town on a rampage, shooting civilians.”
“Goddamn right,” says Calhoun, grinding his boot into the mud.
After a few days we’re moved to the village of Arzbach, only five miles north of Dachau, but another world: a cobblestoned hamlet of family-run shops with a one-story brick municipal building, enclaves of modest houses on the outskirts, surrounded by farmland and pine forests.
We had been waiting to go to the Pacific to aid in the fighting there, but then Japan surrendered. After a few nights of victory celebrations, I find myself in a state of agitation. Our job now is to round up Nazis, but there are few to be found. The fight is over, but my body doesn't seem to realize it. Sometimes I'm jumpy, like we're getting shelled again, but other times I'm hotheaded, raging over the most trivial things.
Others in the company are on edge too. There are more violent incidents with civilians and even among ourselves. One American-versus-American bar brawl leaves three soldiers hospitalized, and Calhoun with a fat lump on the side of his head, though this does not slow down his ongoing pursuit of women and booze.
Steinhart becomes more analytical than ever, a scientist investigating, probing, interviewing. This ordeal becomes a great piece of research to him. Benson is as obedient and steadfast as ever, committing to each task as if it mattered.
I find myself battling wave after wave of darkness. I also begin to dwell on my wife and baby girl. She's almost a year old now and has never met me. I have a picture of them on the plywood slab I use as a desk: a black-and-white of Estelle standing behind a baby carriage, looking into the camera with a stoic smile, and in the carriage, a little imp wrapped in a blanket, cheeks like a chipmunk’s filled with nuts. On the other side of the desk, far to the other side, I have the picture of the pile of corpses.
“They don’t look like Germans, at least not that one,” says Benson, standing outside the truck with me, Steinhart, and Calhoun on a cobblestone road.
“They are. For all we know, those are the same sons of bitches starving and murdering civilians at Dachau,” I say.
“What do we do?” asks Steinhart, staring at me, eyebrows furrowed. I look at the Germans, sitting in the back of the transport truck, a flatbed covered in heavy canvas with slat wooden benches on the sides. The dark-haired German is soaked in sweat and the light-haired one is bent over, head in his hands. There are guards on either side of the vehicle, as well as inside with the prisoners. They were captured earlier that day on the train with fake IDs, trying to flee the area.
After days of feeling the desire to kill and maim tearing at my innards, I finally have the opportunity. Protocol is to take them to our POW camp near Munich, but that’s not even a consideration.
“Take them into the town square and blow their heads off!” says Calhoun, stomping in a rage, veins bulging at his temples. “Show these people what it means to be a murdering Kraut.”
“We could be court-martialed,” says Steinhart.
“We’re not getting court-martialed!” says Calhoun.
“Look,” I say, “we’re going to take care of this, but in the right way.”
“This town is probably loaded with Nazi supporters,” argues Calhoun.
“They claim they had no idea what was going on,” says Steinhart.
“You’re buying that? You, Steinhart? The heavy smoke, the stench. They knew. They knew something.”
“We’re not spilling any more blood in this town,” I state.
Calhoun’s jaw clinches and he slams a hand on the truck bed, startling the prisoners. The guards look on impassively.
“We’ll take them out to the woods,” I say.
Steinhart looks pensive, distant.
“Are you in agreement, Al?”
He nods.
I sit in back with the Germans during the ride. The one beside me has brown hair and a wide face, about twenty. He tries to give me a docile look when I climb in next to him, pistol out on my lap, but I look right past him. He clears his throat, making strange guttural sounds, and shifts his gaze straight ahead. I study the other, sitting across from me, blond hair receding from his forehead, fine lines forming at his eyes. He might be an officer; he could have been in charge of the death camp for all I know.
As we drive, the scenery transitions from village to farmland to forest. We’re on a dirt road, washed out and rutted, the German next to me dripping with perspiration, flinching with every bump. The other’s head is down, expressionless. “Slow down,” I tell Benson. The sweaty one looks around trying to make eye contact with the blond, even with me once, but I stare through him like he’s dead, which he will be shortly.
I notice a clearing and yell from the back to Benson that I need him to drive into the forest far enough so we won’t be seen from the road. When the truck veers off the path the younger German panics, hissing desperate utterances to his comrade. “Shut the hell up!” shouts a guard, lifting his pistol toward him.
We stop in a dark patch of forest, filled with tall pines. Reminds me of Sabine National Forest in Eastern Texas, where my dad took me camping once. We three officers step down from the back of the truck and move away a few steps.
I glance around the area, making sure we're alone. I’m wrestling with the best way to do this. Now that the deed is close, the weight of it feels heavy, and I want to get it over with. “Okay, Calhoun, you take them out, march them in front of us a ways.”
“Then what?” asks Steinhart.
“What the hell you think?” says Calhoun.
Steinhart is statue still, eyes lowered. “I’m not sure about this, Captain.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Look," Steinhart says, his eyes turning grim, "part of me would like to shove my pistol in that Kraut's face and blast him to hell. It's just … "He stops, looks away.
“If you’re having second thoughts, you need to speak up,” I say.
“I don’t know if I can do it,” he says, twisting his face into a grimace.
"We should all be in agreement on this, Al," I say.
"Well, I'm in agreement!" says Calhoun. "Come on, Steinhart, we can't let them get away with what they did!"
“Yeah, but what if they had nothing to do with the camp? What if they’re just soldiers?” says Steinhart.
I glance back at the prisoners; the younger one watches us, eyes wide and fearful, and I realize I may not have the stomach for this either. It was easy to kill from afar with the cannon, but this is different. I look to Calhoun; his face is tight like a knot, fists clenched, but he’s not saying anything. “Lonnie?”
“Hey, we all know they deserve to be shot and left out here to bleed to death …” He looks toward the Germans in the truck, studies them, and then faces us. “But we could just beat the shit out of them. Teach them a lesson they’ll never forget.”
I nod in agreement, but am disgusted at myself for letting my men bail me out, for not having the guts to kill those Krauts. But even if I’m too yellow to kill them, I’ll damn sure beat the shit out of them.
I march back toward the rear of the truck. “Take them out! Get them down here!” I yell. The guards prod them from behind with pistols and the Germans jump off the back of the truck. “That way!” I shout, wanting to move them away from the vehicle, shoving the blond one in the back. “Hurry the hell up!”
We lead them to a clearing, dark in the thick pines, moist dirt, crisp air, insects and birds chattering away, oblivious to our mission. Benson and the guards stand behind the Germans as the three of us face them. The dark-haired one looks from man to man, imploring us with his eyes, but getting nothing but blank stares. The blond is trance-like, eyes lowered. I step toward him, bending my
face down to meet his eyes. I want to see into this German, see what makes a man become a devil, but he looks away. I notice a tremble in his long fingers, and he takes a step back. The younger German is watching me in judgment with squinted eyes, tight mouth.
“What the hell are you looking at?” I scream. He jumps; his eyes widen. Knowing he can’t understand, but wanting to make him: "You’re a damn monster! You! How many did you murder? How many old ladies? How many babies?" He continues to meet my eyes, but his face is vulnerable and childlike. “Damn!”
“Do it, Jack,” urges Calhoun through clenched teeth.
“It’s hard when they’re just standing there defenseless.”
“They murdered the defenseless.”
“I know what they did!” I say. “I know they’re evil bastards, but right now I just see two men who are scared.”
“So, what do we do?” asks Steinhart.
“I’m not sure,” I say.
“You’re the ranking officer,” says Calhoun.
“I know what the hell I am!”
“We can turn them in,” says Steinhart.
“We came thousands of miles, saw our friends die, left our families to fight these no-good Krauts, and find they slaughtered people, civilians, for no cause. Al, these men may have killed your kin,” Calhoun implores, reaching his open palms toward Steinhart’s chest. “They would kill you in a second. We can't let them get away with this!”
“Al?” I say.
He is silent, then shakes his head. "It won't change anything.”
“Ah, hell, it’ll be what they deserve. No, no, they’d do it to us! What about the Malmedy Massacre, huh?” I watch Calhoun snatch a thick branch from the ground and march toward the Germans. They are sitting now, hunched over, hopeless. The branch is clutched in his hand, his fist white and veiny. He stands over them and they gaze up, defeat in their eyes. He lifts the branch overhead, screams his rage, and flings it into the woods. Cracking sounds echo through the forest as the branch ricochets through a cluster of dense pines. Calhoun turns on his heel and storms toward the truck, steps up, kicks the shit out of a bench and then slumps down on it.
I tell the guard to put the prisoners back in the truck, that we’re going to the camp. I think I notice a condescending smirk snake across his lips, but when I meet his eyes his face is neutral.
We sit silently in the truck, Calhoun, arms crossed, shoulders tensed, staring straight ahead, Steinhart, looking confused, a slight twitch in his face. I feel a cloud of disgrace engulfing the three of us—had the enemy in our hands and did nothing, didn't even take a slug at them. We were simply turning them in. The shame sits with us, thick and bloated, clinging to us like a foul odor embedded in our clothing.
I sit in the officers’ club, a large musty tent with a plywood bar and a dozen stools, a few fold-up card tables with crates for seats, yellow lamps, and some scratchy music in the background. My body feels heavy, leaden. Just lifting a drink to my lips takes effort.
I’m studying the amber fluid in my glass when I feel a whack on my back. “Hey, Jack.” I lift my eyes and see Robert Gorton, another captain from the Southwest, just outside Albuquerque. I give him a nod and he grabs the seat beside me. “I heard about the Krauts your squad captured.”
I nod again, studying the bottles behind the bar.
“Good work, buddy,” he says, slapping me on the back again. “Let me buy you another. Celebrate.”
I feel something move down my spine that kind of freezes me. I don’t want that drink. He probably doesn’t even realize I turned them in. He’d give me hell if he knew. “Save your money, Gorton.”
He pulls his head back on his neck and gives me a perplexed look, as if to say When’d you start turning down drinks? “I’m buying you a drink, boy. Don’t make me force it down your gullet.” Usually I’d be horsing around too, but a weak grin is the best I can do.
“Barkeep, another drink for Captain Frye.”
I watch the bartender grab a bottle from the shelf and fill another glass. “And Barkeep,” says Gorton, “I want you to put everything Captain Frye orders tonight on my tab.”
The bartender places the drink in front of me. I glance at Gorton watching me, an eager grin on his narrow face. I take the glass and bring it to my lips, and act like I’m drinking. Then I set it on the edge of the bar.
Gorton pats my back again. “That was good work today, Jack.”
Later, when he goes to the can, I let my fingers rest against the full glass and allow them to nudge it off the edge. It shatters at my feet, splattering my pants. The bartender looks up. “My apologies,” I say. I get up and trudge out into the damp night.
I wind my way down the unlit path to my hut, a canvas tent with a makeshift door in front. Stepping inside, I feel my way to the light bulb hanging in the center and click it on. There's a half-full bottle of whiskey in my locker that I take to my desk. My body feels heavy as I sit, like my muscles are wet sandbags. Taking a long draw from the bottle, feeling the burn in my throat, I study the picture of my family, still sitting on my desk.
I hear a rustling or soft knocking at the door, but ignore it. It comes again, crisper this time. “Who's that?” I call.
“Private Benson, Sir."
Benson? What the hell does he want? “Okay, come in.”
He steps in, a gust of damp wind whipping in behind him. His cheeks are ruddy, his eyes big, a few dark curls hanging over his forehead. “Captain, can I speak to you?”
“Yeah, Benson, shoot.”
He shifts from foot to foot and glances around the room. “Well, you know what happened today with the Germans?”
"What about it?” I say, standing and glaring at him.
“I just want to say," he says, taking a step closer, "it's been a great honor serving under you, Sir." He reaches out a hand and we shake. He’s looking at me like I’m some hero or something.
I stiffen my shoulders and look away, removing my hand from his grip. “Okay, it’s late. Go on, hit the rack now,” I say, opening the door and giving him a little shove.
"Good night, Captain," I hear as I close the door.
I return to my desk and the whiskey, wind jostling the tent, blowing in through cracks. That picture of the bodies sits on my desk too, calling out to me. What they did, what the Germans did, all the time haunting me in that photo. I kick myself again for being such a damn coward today, then take the picture and turn it over, shut it out.
My head feels heavy so I allow my neck to relax, bringing my chin to my chest, swaying there a moment, then slumping down farther and laying my cheek on the rough plywood, one hand wrapped around the whiskey bottle, the other holding the picture of my wife and daughter, my eyes locked on them till they become a blur. My eyes close, the light bulb creating a red glow beneath my eyelids, the wind's wailing growing louder outside.
