Repp pulled himself out of the straw and collected his equipment. The rat had gnawed through the canvas and gotten to the bread. A chunk was left, moist and germy, but Repp could not bring himself to put it to his lips. Revolted, he tossed it into the shadows of the barn.
He’d come upon this place late last night, an empty farm, fields fallow, house deserted and stripped, livestock vanished. Yet it had not been burned — no scorched earth in the path of the advancing Americans — and, desperately tired, he’d chosen the barn for refuge.
Repp had decided to move across country these days, avoiding the roads until he was as far from the site of the unpleasantness with the “Das Reich” Field Police as possible. In the desolate countryside, along muddy farm lanes, there was less chance of apprehension — either by SS or, worse, by the Americans.
Yet now, thinking of them, he became nervous. How close were they, how long had he slept? He checked his watch: not yet seven. Looking outside, he saw nothing but a quiet rural landscape. He’d heard cannon and seen flashes last night after dark: the bastards had to be close.
In the barnyard, Repp took a compass reading, and set himself a southward course. He knew he was already below Haigerloch, but just how far he wasn’t sure. But south would take him to the great natural obstacle of the Danube, and he thought he’d cross at the little industrial town of Tuttlingen. Though the prospect of a bridge frightened him as welclass="underline" for bridges were the natural site for the SS to establish checkpoints.
The fields were deserted under a bright sun, though it remained chilly. No planting had been done and the careful plots of farmland in the rolling land lay before him dark and muddy. He strode on, alone in the world, though keeping alert. At one point he made out two fast-moving low shapes off the horizon and got into some trees before they saw him, two big American fighter-bombers, out hunting this spring morning. Their white stars flashed as they roared overhead and not long afterward he heard them pounce, some miles off to the east. Presently a lazy stain of smoke rose to mark their success.
But Repp moved on, uncurious, and did not see another human form until late that afternoon. He came suddenly to a concrete road that headed south. He paused for a moment, wishing he had a map. There were no road signs. The landscape was flat and empty. He vacillated, fearing he hadn’t made enough distance on his slog through the mud. Either way, the road looked deserted. Finally, he decided to risk it for a few miles, ready to drop off and disappear at the first sign of danger.
This damned job is making a coward of me, he thought.
The freedom of the road filled him with a kind of liberation: after the mud that sucked at his boots, clotting heavily, this firm-packed surface seemed a paradise. He plunged on at a furious pace.
He heard the Kübelwagen before he saw it; turning, he was astonished at how close the small dun-colored car was.
Now where did that bastard come from? he wondered.
The damned thing was too close for him to hide from; they’d seen him but the first thing he noticed as the car drew closer was that it was jammed with a pack of sorry-looking regulars, as gray in the face as in their greatcoats.
The car didn’t even slow up for him. It barreled by, its sullen cargo uninterested in one more fleeing soldier. Repp, emboldened, hurried on. Several more vehicles passed, some even with officers, but all jammed with men. There wasn’t room for him if they’d tried — and they were all regulars too, no SS men.
One of them slowed.
“Better get a move on, brother. Americans aren’t too far behind.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Repp said.
“Sure. You’ve got surrender written all over you. Well, good luck, all’s lost anyway.”
The car sped up and soon was gone.
Just at sunset Repp came upon some old friends. Sergeant Gerngoss and the whiner Lenz and the others of the engineer platoon waited by the road.
They hung neatly from branches in a copse of trees. Gerngoss looked especially apoplectic, outraged, his immense form bowing the limb almost to the snapping point. His face was purple and white spittle ringed his lips. Eyes open, booming out of the fat face. The sign on him read: “THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO SCUM.” Lenz, nearby, was merely melancholy.
The spectacle had drawn a small crowd of other stragglers. They stood in awe of the bodies.
“The SS did it to ’em,” somebody explained. “The fat one there really put up a fight. The SS boys said they’d shot some of their pals up near Haigerloch.”
“The SS shits only knew it was an engineer platoon, and here was an engineer platoon.”
Repp slipped away; he was working on the next problem: the bridge. The Danube here was young, formed not fifty kilometers to the west at Donaueschingen, from two converging Schwarzwald streams, the Breg and Brigach, but still it moved with considerable force through a picturesque but enclosed defile of steep cliffs. He could not swim it this time of year, for it was swollen with winter meltings; he didn’t think he had time to hunt up a boat. He walked on down the road and went around the few houses — an unnamed hamlet — that stood on this side of the Danube from Tuttlingen. Cutting through backyards and over stone walls, he came soon to a road and beyond it a stand of trees. He penetrated this growth and found himself staring shortly into yawning space. He was at cliff’s edge. He wished he had binoculars.
Still, below, he could make out the ribbon of water, smooth and flat and dark, bisected neatly by a six-arched stone bridge. A road led down the cliff to it and, looking carefully in the falling darkness, he was able to detect two Mark IV Panthers dug in next to the bridge. Dappled Kübelwagens and a few motorcycles were ranged along it. He thought he could see men laboring just beyond the bridge to dig defensive positions. And wasn’t that a raft of some sort moored to one of the center arches, and two soldiers struggling to plant explosives? Repp realized the mess in a flash. Of course. The engineers who’d been sent south to blow the thing had been executed.
He knew that if he headed down there with his vague story and obsolete papers, he’d either be shot out of hand as a deserter or thrown into the perimeter. These boys were sure to make a fight of it when the Americans arrived, have some fun with their antitank gear, and then fall back across the bridge and blow it to pebbles in the Ami faces. He envied the fellow whose job it was — a real war to fight, not these games — and briefly wondered about him; an old hand, probably, from the cleverness of the arrangement, not one to panic in the face of fire. He wished him luck, but it wasn’t his business. His job was merely to get beyond, to keep moving south.
But how to get beyond?
He felt the press of time. How soon would the Americans arrive? Damn, he had to get across before they showed. He didn’t want to give them another crack at him: one had been enough. Yet to head farther east along this bank was no solution; if anything the river became more of an obstacle. There were certain to be other bridges and other battles.
Repp pondered, crouched at the edge of the cliff.
“Enjoying the scenery, soldier?” a harsh voice demanded.
Repp turned; the man had approached quietly. He knew what he was doing. In the fading light, Repp recognized tough features and unsympathetic eyes: an SS sergeant in camouflage tunic, cradling an STG, stood before him. Over the sergeant’s shoulder back through the trees, Repp could see a half-track out on the road, its cargo a crowd of soldiers.