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Authors: Michael Wallace
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over—at least in this sector—by
morning.
Cal came around the house, looking for a
place to climb the
pile of rubble to get at his ill-advised banner, when he found
himself face to
face with two more Germans. But this time they were soldiers in
steel helmets
and green uniforms with twin lightning bolts on the
collar—Waffen-SS.
The men were staring at his banner with
scowls, and looked
startled at the American’s sudden appearance. One of them held a
submachine gun
and swung it in Cal’s direction, but the second, an officer,
shouted for him to
stop.
Cal’s threw his hands skyward, and he made
eye contact with
the officer, who smiled in what could only be dawning
recognition.
Little Hitler. The bastard was still alive.
#
The younger man held Cal at gunpoint, while
Little Hitler
walked around the house, and gave a shout a moment later when he
discovered the
bulkhead doors. The other man ordered the American to move,
jabbed the snout of
his gun forward when Cal’s hands drifted downward.
The men pantomimed for Cal to open the
bulkhead doors. He
did, and then descended the stairs with his hands over his head
as the Germans
followed him down. Greta shoved Cal’s pistol behind her back,
and then put her
hands in her lap.
Little Hitler got one glimpse of the women
and children and
snarled a few words. One of the women responded, and he turned
on her and
struck her across the mouth with the back of his hand. Karl, the
poor kid who
had survived the Dresden bombing, whimpered, and Little Hitler
sneered
something at him.
Cal silently begged Greta and Helgard to keep
their mouths
shut, and prayed that none of the other women would turn on
them, and point out
to this strutting Nazi that they had been the ones who welcomed
the American.
And then Little Hitler discovered the German
soldiers,
cringing behind two of the women, who had been attempting to
shield them. He
flew into a rage, shouting and snarling. The men jerked to their
feet like
puppets on strings, and waited at attention, while the officer
got into their
faces, barking spittle.
Not good.
Cal knew what came next—a summary execution
of their
American prisoner, to stiffen the resolve of the soldiers. After
all, there was
still fighting to be done. As if in answer to his fears, Little
Hitler drew his
sidearm and pressed it into the hand of the older of the two
German soldiers
and pointed at Cal with a definitive order. The women gasped,
and even the
young SS adjutant with the submachine gun looked troubled.
“Dammit, no,” Cal said.
The Wehrmacht soldier turned toward him with
a wooden
expression. The gun rose in his hand. A triumphant expression
came over the SS
officer’s face.
Cal met the soldier’s gaze. “Don’t do it,
buddy. Not like
this.”
The two men stared at each other for a long
moment, and then
the German tossed Little Hitler’s pistol into one corner and
pointedly turned
his back. The other soldier remained at attention, pale and
trembling.
Little Hitler screamed his rage. He turned to
his adjutant
and shouted a new order, this time with an accusatory finger at
the soldier who
had refused to do his duty and kill Cal.
The young SS soldier took a step backward
with a shake of
his head. This man must have seen countless atrocities as he
followed this man
around. Surely, must have done worse himself than the execution
of one army
deserter. But something had snapped, and it was clear he would
have nothing
more to do with Little Hitler or this war. He slowly lifted the
submachine gun
strap off his head and set the gun at his feet, and then raised
his hands over
his head and turned to Cal.
“I surrender,” he said in slow, practiced
English.
“ Nein !” Little Hitler shouted. “ Feigling!Verräter! ”
He pounced forward and snatched up the
submachine gun.
morning.
Cal came around the house, looking for a
place to climb the
pile of rubble to get at his ill-advised banner, when he found
himself face to
face with two more Germans. But this time they were soldiers in
steel helmets
and green uniforms with twin lightning bolts on the
collar—Waffen-SS.
The men were staring at his banner with
scowls, and looked
startled at the American’s sudden appearance. One of them held a
submachine gun
and swung it in Cal’s direction, but the second, an officer,
shouted for him to
stop.
Cal’s threw his hands skyward, and he made
eye contact with
the officer, who smiled in what could only be dawning
recognition.
Little Hitler. The bastard was still alive.
#
The younger man held Cal at gunpoint, while
Little Hitler
walked around the house, and gave a shout a moment later when he
discovered the
bulkhead doors. The other man ordered the American to move,
jabbed the snout of
his gun forward when Cal’s hands drifted downward.
The men pantomimed for Cal to open the
bulkhead doors. He
did, and then descended the stairs with his hands over his head
as the Germans
followed him down. Greta shoved Cal’s pistol behind her back,
and then put her
hands in her lap.
Little Hitler got one glimpse of the women
and children and
snarled a few words. One of the women responded, and he turned
on her and
struck her across the mouth with the back of his hand. Karl, the
poor kid who
had survived the Dresden bombing, whimpered, and Little Hitler
sneered
something at him.
Cal silently begged Greta and Helgard to keep
their mouths
shut, and prayed that none of the other women would turn on
them, and point out
to this strutting Nazi that they had been the ones who welcomed
the American.
And then Little Hitler discovered the German
soldiers,
cringing behind two of the women, who had been attempting to
shield them. He
flew into a rage, shouting and snarling. The men jerked to their
feet like
puppets on strings, and waited at attention, while the officer
got into their
faces, barking spittle.
Not good.
Cal knew what came next—a summary execution
of their
American prisoner, to stiffen the resolve of the soldiers. After
all, there was
still fighting to be done. As if in answer to his fears, Little
Hitler drew his
sidearm and pressed it into the hand of the older of the two
German soldiers
and pointed at Cal with a definitive order. The women gasped,
and even the
young SS adjutant with the submachine gun looked troubled.
“Dammit, no,” Cal said.
The Wehrmacht soldier turned toward him with
a wooden
expression. The gun rose in his hand. A triumphant expression
came over the SS
officer’s face.
Cal met the soldier’s gaze. “Don’t do it,
buddy. Not like
this.”
The two men stared at each other for a long
moment, and then
the German tossed Little Hitler’s pistol into one corner and
pointedly turned
his back. The other soldier remained at attention, pale and
trembling.
Little Hitler screamed his rage. He turned to
his adjutant
and shouted a new order, this time with an accusatory finger at
the soldier who
had refused to do his duty and kill Cal.
The young SS soldier took a step backward
with a shake of
his head. This man must have seen countless atrocities as he
followed this man
around. Surely, must have done worse himself than the execution
of one army
deserter. But something had snapped, and it was clear he would
have nothing
more to do with Little Hitler or this war. He slowly lifted the
submachine gun
strap off his head and set the gun at his feet, and then raised
his hands over
his head and turned to Cal.
“I surrender,” he said in slow, practiced
English.
“ Nein !” Little Hitler shouted. “ Feigling!Verräter! ”
He pounced forward and snatched up the
submachine gun.
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