Shaking his head to make sure he wasn't imagining things, Buhle began to step back, but Kramer, the Feldjäger lieutenant, whispered so that only Buhle could hear. "If you are very smart and very careful, you and your men will survive the next few minutes. If not, you all die. It makes no difference to me or my men."
Still not understanding what was happening, and working on the original premise that the Feldjäger lieutenant was who he said he was, Buhle began to protest. "What in the hell is this all about? Are you crazy?"
The sound of the hammer of the pistol held in front of his eyes being cocked back was the only answer Major Nikolai Ilvanich gave Buhle. But it was enough to convince Buhle that this Feldjäger lieutenant was perhaps not who he said he was and that he, Buhle, was in serious trouble.
Without taking his eyes off of Buhle, Ilvanich called out in English, "Sergeant Rasper. Lieutenant Fitzhugh and his men are ready."
Without any need for further instructions, Sergeant First Class Rasper of Company A, 1st Ranger Battalion, hit the horn of Ilvanich's commandeered German staff car three times. Rasper's three blasts served to startle the dozing German drivers and signal the rest of Company A to spring into action. As one, the rangers who had crept out of the bushes on either side of the road and eased up to the cabs of Buhle's trucks jerked both doors of the trucks open. Some drivers who had been leaning against the doors of their cabs asleep fell out onto the road. Their screams and yells were answered by rangers who shoved the muzzles of their M-16 rifles into their faces. In seconds, without a single shot being fired, the entire column its precious fuel and 120mm tank-gun and 7.62mm machine-gun ammunition, all of which could be used by American tank unitswas firmly in Ilvanich's hands.
Turning away from Ilvanich, Buhle tried to watch what was happening. Though he could see little, he heard everything. Surprised shouts and curses muttered by his drivers were answered by the rangers as they yelled to the German drivers to get up and put their hands behind their heads. Every now and then the clatter of a pistol or a rifle being torn away from a German driver and thrown onto the pavement of the road could be heard. Standing there watching his unit being taken over by the enemy caused Buhle to become angry. Then, realizing that there was nothing he could do, Buhle lost the last ounce of control he had and began to cry. He had been surprised, overpowered, and taken prisoner. Turning to face Ilvanich, who had in the meantime reached over and relieved Buhle of his own pistol, Buhle, with tears running down his cheeks, sputtered out in German, "Who in the hell are you?"
Ilvanich smiled to himself. Now was a good time to use some of the weird humor that had so fascinated him since joining this American unit. In his heavily accented English, Ilvanich responded to Buhle so that the rangers around him could hear. "We, Herr Captain, are the good guys. You, my prisoner." Then with a great flourish Ilvanich added, "On behalf of the United States Army and the Russian Republic, I thank you for these magnificent trucks and the supplies. They will, I assure you, be put to good use." On the other side of Buhle's vehicle, Specialist Pape, who was training his heavy German-made machine gun on Buhle's driver, began to laugh.
Angered at being the subject of a joke and at his momentary loss of self-control, Buhle turned on Ilvanich. Stomping his foot, Buhle shouted, "What do you intend to do with me and my men?"
Shrugging as he tossed Buhle's pistol into the bushes behind him, Ilvanich grunted. "I don't care what you and your men do. For all I care, they can go to hell. Now please step aside or we will be forced to run you over." Lifting his arm above his head, Ilvanich waved it in a circular motion and shouted, "All right, mount up and prepare to move. Spread the word down the line." Like an echo, Ilvanich's orders were relayed from ranger to ranger until from the very end of the column came three long blasts from Lieutenant Fitzhugh's truck.
With a casual motion of his pistol, Ilvanich signaled Buhle to move out of the way. Pape, on the other side, did likewise to Buhle's driver, who surrendered his seat to Pape. After seating himself in Buhle's place, Ilvanich turned to the still angry German captain. "I wouldn't be so hard on myself. I imagine that somewhere out there tonight one of your units is doing the same thing to one of ours. It's like that in war, you know."
Buhle couldn't tell if Ilvanich was trying to make him feel better or simply rubbing his nose in his own mess. Not that it made a difference. The fact was that he was still angry at himself and at the strange American commander for making fun of him in what was the most embarrassing moment of his life.
As he watched his supply trucks roll away into the darkness with their precious cargoes, now driven by the American rangers, Buhle wondered how he could explain losing them all without a single shot being fired in their defense. It would be several more minutes, after the sound of the last truck disappeared into the bitterly cold night, that Buhle realized that he had neither a map nor a flashlight. He and his men, stripped of their warm trucks, weapons, cargo, and purpose in life, were now reduced to a hopelessly lost and downcast mob of stragglers left to be brutalized by the weather and tossed about in the swirling storm of a very confused and vicious battle.
While Buhle stood in the middle of a deserted road wondering what to do next, his friend Seydlitz was busy running his company. Refreshed and under the impression that all was at least in some measure getting back to normal, Seydlitz made his rounds of his company positions as soon as Buhle and his supply column had departed. Upon returning to his own tank, Seydlitz's gunner informed him that the brigade operations officer had been trying to contact him. Pulling himself up back onto his own tank took most of Seydlitz's remaining energy. Though his mind was more alert, his body was far from refreshed. Pulling his crewman's helmet down over his dirty hair now snarled in knots, he didn't bother to tuck it all in and under the earphones. Standing on the back deck of his tank and leaning over the turret roof, Seydlitz looked down his open hatch to make sure that the radio transmitter was set to the brigade frequency before he began his broadcast. Satisfied, he keyed the radio, held it down for a moment, and then called the brigade operations officer. "Danzig Five Zero, this is Leo Four Seven. Danzig Five Zero, this is Leo Four Seven. Over."
There was no pause from the brigade operations officer. It was as if he had been sitting at the radio far off in the rear somewhere waiting for Seydlitz's call. "Leo Four Seven, this is Danzig Five Zero. You have a change of mission. Over."
Expecting nothing more than a request for a simple situation update, the quick response by the operations officer himself and the announcement that he was going to issue him an order caught Seydlitz off guard. Knowing that he would need his map and something to write on, Seydlitz yelled to his gunner to toss him up his map, his notebook, and a flashlight. Spreading the map out as far as he could, Seydlitz opened his notebook to the first page free of scribbling and notes and prepared to write. That his flashlight wasn't shielded from the enemy across the way didn't escape the notice of Seydlitz's gunner. Quickly, as his commander prepared to receive his order, the gunner pulled a poncho out from a storage rack. Standing on top of the turret roof, the gunner held it up so he and the poncho stood between the American positions and Seydlitz. Seeing what his gunner was doing, Seydlitz looked up and muttered a quick "Thank you" before rekeying the transmit lever on his crewman's helmet. "Danzig Five Zero, this is Leo Four Seven. Ready. Over."