While approaching the crash site, two thoughts kept running through Messinger's mind. The first was a fear that their actions would be viewed in the worst possible light by the German government and serve as the pretext that it was so desperately looking for in order to start a real shooting war. Everyone in the Tenth Corps had been warned on a daily basis to avoid doing anything within reason that would give the Germans the excuse to start firing. Messinger himself had mouthed those words to the troop commanders in his squadron. It was because of this that the second thought or, more correctly, feeling kept gnawing at him. He felt, as Perkins prepared to land, the same feeling that he had when as a child he had broken something by accident and was trying to see if he could fix it before his mom and dad found out.
Once on the ground, Messinger was out of his helicopter before Perkins shut it down. Running over to the first German aviator, Messinger yelled, "Are you all right? Are you hurt?" The German was sitting in the snow, resting his elbows on his knees and holding his head in his hands. When Messinger finally reached him without getting any response, he bent over and reached out with his right hand, resting it on the German's shoulder before asking again, "Are you all right?"
The German aviator, finally recovered enough from the shock of the crash landing, looked up. Still too dazed to think clearly or be angry, he just nodded. "Ja, yes. I think so." Then looking over to the helicopter, he asked, "Otto! Wo ist, where is Otto?"
Messinger, still with his hand on the German's shoulder, looked about for the other German aviator. He saw Otto on the other side of the helicopter standing next to a tree. Supporting himself with one hand, Otto was bending over, either trying to catch his breath or throwing up. When Perkins, carrying a first aid kit, came up next to Messinger, Messinger pointed over to where Otto was and told Perkins to head over there and see how he was doing. Perkins had no sooner left when Messinger heard two voices behind him. "Erich, Otto! Erich, Otto! Wo sind sie?"
Turning around, Messinger saw two Germans in flight suits approaching at a run. The other helicopter had, he decided, also landed to check on their comrades. As he watched them approach, Messinger noticed that the lead aviator had a drawn pistol in his right hand while the other one carried a submachine gun at the ready. Suddenly for the first time it dawned upon Messinger that landing might have been a bigger mistake than just flying away. Realizing that it was too late to do anything, Messinger stood up and waved to the approaching Germans. Having decided that bluffing it out was the best solution, he called out, "Erich is here. He's shook up but okay. Otto is over there with my pilot."
The German aviator wearing the insignia of a captain slowed down as he approached. There was a scowl on his face as he looked at Messinger, then at Erich, and then back up to Messinger. When he was ten feet away, the German captain let his right hand, which still held the pistol, drop to his side as he spoke. "You fool. You could have killed us."
Messinger did not miss the irony of the German captain's statement. Given the political and the military situation, that was exactly what they should have been doing. And yet, Messinger thought, just when it seemed that he had succeeded in doing just that, his first reaction and that of his pilot had been one of concern. They had come running out of habit to assist fellow aviators in distress, not to view their handiwork. And because it was so obvious that this was so, the German captain began to holster his pistol as he directed his observer to go help Perkins with Otto.
Squatting, the German captain placed his hand on the side of Erich's head and said something in German that caused Erich to respond with a weak smile that vanished as soon as it had come. Feeling out of place and uneasy, Messinger stepped back. "Hey, I'm sorry. We were only trying to scare you."
The German captain stood up and faced Messinger. "Well, Herr Major, you succeeded. Now you'd better go. There is a recovery team coming in with my battalion commander. He might take a dim view of seeing you here and decide to keep you."
Nodding, Messinger called to Perkins and began to walk. He had only gone a few steps when the German captain called out. "Major!" Stopping in midstride, Messinger turned toward the German. The German captain was looking down at Erich as he spoke. "Thank you for landing and your concern." Then he looked up at Messinger. "I wish our leaders could have been here to see that we are not in reality enemies."
Messinger looked about. "Yes, I know what you mean. Auf Wiedersehen, and good luck."
Part Four
CENTRAL GERMANY
CHAPTER 13
Like someone hitting a light switch, the violent tugging at the bottom of his sleeping bag brought Staff Sergeant Joe Dallas out of a sound sleep. For a moment he didn't move, didn't make a sound. Perched on top of the turret of his M-1A1 Abrams tank, wedged in between boxes of rations, duffel bags full of personal gear, and boxes of.50-caliber ammunition, Dallas, known to everyone since his first day in the Army as Dallas Joe, just listened. It was quiet. Except for the sound of his own breath bounding off the nylon cloth that covered his face and protected it from the wind and weather while he slept, Dallas heard nothing. For a moment, lying there warm and snuggled up tight and secure in his Arctic sleeping bag, he could imagine that he was anywhere. He had even managed to learn over his years in the Army to ignore the discomfort of sleeping on the hard armor plating of his tank. During that moment before the distress of the circumstances crept into his conscious mind, before the bitter cold bit at his cheeks, before the responsibility of being a tank commander came crashing down upon his twenty-six-year-old shoulders, Dallas could enjoy a few seconds to himself, free from the misery and harshness of the circumstances.
Another tug at the bottom of the sleeping bag, followed by his loader's voice, punctuated by a hacking cough, ended Dallas's splendid isolation. "Sergeant Dallas, the LT wants you over at his tank right away. Says there's an order to move out in ten minutes."
With great reluctance, Dallas let out a grunt to acknowledge his loader's efforts. When he was ready, Dallas moved his right hand from where it had been resting mummy style on his chest and pushed the face cloth off. Though he was prepared for the cold, Dallas was not at all ready to be sprinkled with a shower of freshly fallen snow that had accumulated on the cloth. In an instant the peace and tranquility that Dallas had felt just after waking was wiped away. Sitting up, he looked about but saw nothing. Even when he looked up, he couldn't see any sign of sky. The only thing he could detect was the soft, cold, wet pinpricks of falling snow on his face. It was, he realized, going to be another miserable day in Krautland.
With the speed and efficiency of a professional, Dallas was up, dressed, and on his way to his platoon leader's tank in minutes, leaving his gunner, Sergeant Tim Doyle, to pack up sleeping bags, camouflage nets, and to prepare the tank. When Dallas arrived at his platoon leader's tank, the lieutenant was standing in front of his tank with the platoon sergeant studying a map spread out on the front slope of the tank. Walking up to one side of the platoon leader to where he could see the map, Dallas made his presence known without interfering with the discussion between platoon leader and platoon sergeant. Though both of them realized that Dallas was there, neither acknowledged him nor broke off the discussion that had been in progress.