He didn't add, unless we run into the Germans first, but they both seemed to be thinking it.
"Yes, sir," the driver said without much enthusiasm, and put the Jeep into gear. They jostled along in silence for several minutes.
"What's your name, son?
"Smith, sir. Ralph Smith."
"How old are you, Ralph?"
"I just turned twenty, sir."
Tolliver shook his head and said, “I’ve got socks older than you. Where you from?"
"Connecticut, sir."
"The land of Mark Twain," the general said.
"If you say so, sir." The young soldier looked confused. A thought seemed to come to him. "But wasn't Huckleberry Finn set on the Mississippi River?"
"Ah, you're a reader."
"We had to read it in high school, sir."
"You're right that Huckleberry Finn is set on the Mississippi River, but Mark Twain lived in Hartford, Connecticut, for more than 20 years. That's where he wrote the book, you know. He lived right next door to Harriet Beecher Stowe, who wrote Uncle Tom's Cabin."
"Uncle Tom's Cabin? I've heard of it, sir, but I haven't read that one," he said.
"It's not a very popular book where I'm from," said Tolliver, who had grown up in Virginia. "That book caused a lot of trouble. You might even say that it helped to start the War Between the States."
"Yes, sir."
Their conversation seemed to have reached a dead end, but the road stretched on ahead. Tolliver felt like an idiot for having dragged this kid out here and gotten them both lost. For what purpose? If Tolliver was being honest with himself, he had to admit that he had come out here mainly to satisfy his curiosity about the front — and perhaps so that he could lay some claim to having seen something of the war beyond stacks of forms on his desk.
The fact that Smith had to swerve around a large crater left by a German shell more than likely saved them both from being killed instantly when a burst of fire raked the road, just where the Jeep would have been a second before if Smith hadn't jerked to the wheel to the right.
Directly ahead of them stood a low stone wall. Behind it, Tolliver caught a glimpse of several square helmets and the flash of muzzles. They were taking fire. Shocked, Tolliver realized that these were Germans.
The driver slewed the Jeep sideways, trying to get turned around, but the muddy road didn't cooperate. The vehicle moved sluggishly, more like a ship turning than a race car. Then the tires lost any purchase and spun hopelessly in the mud. They were sitting ducks for the Germans. Desperately, the driver worked the gears and hit the gas, but they were stuck fast.
"Out!" Tolliver ordered.
They both jumped out into the mud, putting the Jeep between themselves and the shooting. Beside him, the kid was wide-eyed with terror.
Tolliver was sure that his own expression wasn't much different. They both hunkered against the Jeep as shots ripped the air overhead. The Jeep shuddered and clanged as bullets struck it. Thank God for Detroit steel, Tolliver thought. Lucky for them, the Germans didn't seem to have a machine gun.
Gunfire chattered, still chewing up the Jeep, but the sturdy vehicle was good at stopping bullets.
The young soldier had remembered to grab his M-1. Tolliver saw the driver start to straighten up, getting ready to return fire. In his mind's eye, he could see what was going to happen if that kid stuck his head up. That was too much of a target for the Germans to miss.
Tolliver pulled him back down by the back of belt. "Hold on, son. They'll cut you down right quick. Sit tight."
He didn't have a plan yet, but sitting here getting shot at wasn't much of one. He chanced a look around the back end of the Jeep. The Germans were taking cover behind a low stone wall beside the road. "We need to get into those woods. Those Germans are retreating, and they'd be happy to see us high-tail it out of here. I'll cover you."
He already had the 1911 Browning in his hands. It didn't have the range or accuracy of a rifle, but there was a reason why a .45 slug was nicknamed a flying ashtray. You had to respect a big, fat bullet coming your way.
"Sir?"
"Go!" he shouted, and opened fire from the back end of the Jeep, gripping the pistol in two hands and aiming each shot. The general’s desk job did not require much shooting, but Tolliver had grown up around guns and still hunted on occasion. He was a good shot. Each fat slug hit the top of the wall sheltering the Germans and sent shards of stone flying. The Germans kept their heads down under the sudden barrage of .45 slugs.
He glanced over his shoulder long enough to see the driver cover the distance to the woods in seconds, running like a rabbit, God bless him. Then the kid threw himself down on his belly in the underbrush. Tolliver hoped to hell that the kid remembered to cover him. He crouched, then took off running for the woods. He saw with satisfaction that the driver was shooting back. The young soldier had remembered his training.
Tolliver got in among the cover offered by the low shrubs, and then they both moved deeper into the woods. It seemed to take him a long time to catch his breath after sprinting for the woods, and his heart hammered far out of proportion to the amount of exertion. Getting too old for this, he thought.
He sure as hell hadn't planned on fighting any Germans.
Honest to God, right about now, he missed his desk.
The kid was looking at him, still wide-eyed, shaken up and scared.
I may be nothing more than a bean counter, Tolliver thought, but I owe it to this kid to try to get him back home after dragging him out here.
He touched the young soldier's arm, reassuring him. "Sit tight," he whispered. "If those Germans do come after us, you know the drill. You move deeper into the woods, and I'll cover you."
"Yes, sir."
Tolliver hoped it wouldn't come to that. The magazine of his .45 was almost empty. What was he going to do, charge them while screaming the Rebel Yell? Charging the enemy hadn't been such a great idea in 1864, and it was an even worse idea in 1944.
Fortunately, he'd been right about the Germans not bothering to give chase. He could just see them through the trees. Once it was clear that the Americans had fled, they came out from behind the wall. There were only a dozen of them, but that was enough. They walked over to the Jeep, seemed to debate taking it, but then headed down the road on foot in the direction that Tolliver had been traveling in before the ambush.
Tolliver was a little amazed, simply because he had not seen the enemy up close yet. Those were Germans, all right.
Once they were sure that the Germans had gone, Tolliver led the way out of the bushes. He and the driver were now scratched and muddy, but they were alive.
His driver walked up to the Jeep and whistled when he saw the bullet holes.
"Think she'll run?"
"Only one way to find out, sir. We'll see if she starts."
"Good idea." Tolliver clapped the driver on the shoulder. "That was a nice bit of driving, turning the Jeep like that. You kept us from being killed, I'd say."
"Thank you, sir." Though shaken, the kid still managed a smile.
As it turned out, the Jeep did start. But it was still stuck in the mud. With the kid behind the wheel, Tolliver got behind the Jeep and set his feet, then as the kid gave it some gas, he gave to vehicle a big shove to help the tires break free of the mud.
"Don't stop!" He waved the driver on and jogged alongside until he could pull himself into the Jeep.
"Where to, sir?"
He told Private Smith to return to the last crossroads they had passed and turn left. "With any luck, there won't be any Germans down that road," he said, wishing he felt as confident about that as he sounded.