Walking back to the car, Hess spoke up. “Now that I’ve told you what I’m planning to do, I should probably shoot you.”
It was as if the wind had suddenly blown colder. Zumwald realized that Hess might have been having doubts of his own all during this drive. But his doubts would have been about eliminating the weak link in the mission — Zumwald.
Zumwald kept driving. The storm got worse before it got better and snow made the road virtually impassable in some places. Twice they slid off the road and it took them nearly an hour both times to wrestle the car back onto the pavement. They were ready to give up and wait for the storm to pass until they found some loose cinderblocks and loaded them into the trunk. The extra weight helped the rear wheels dig in and gave them more traction. Keeping the car on the road gave them something to do other than dwell upon the doubts each man had about the other — fighting the storm together built some bond between them that had been missing before. The snow finally quit after midnight and they drove at a crawl the rest of the way down the Shenandoah Valley.
They reached White Sulphur Springs by mid-morning. The town was surrounded by low mountains thick with snow-covered forest — it reminded Zumwald of the country around Heidelberg. Down in the mountain valleys there were dairy farms. It was one of these that caught Zumwald’s eye because where the farm lane met the country road a hand-lettered sign was posted that read, “Farm help wanted.” The farm lane was plowed, so they turned down it. The lane ran between fenced fields and Zumwald noticed black-and-white Holstein cows trudging through the snow. At the end of the lane was a two-story farmhouse with white clapboard siding and a tin roof, just a short walk from a substantial dairy barn. A couple of dogs ran out to greet them, barking at the strangers. That brought out the farmer.
“Help you boys?” He was tall and heavy, bundled in a brown work coat and a billed cap with ear flaps. The hair that peeked from under his hat was white. The old farmer’s face, weathered from a lifetime of mountain winters and summers, reminded Zumwald of a chunk of wood.
“We saw the sign out by the road,” Zumwald said, stepping forward. He took off his hat and felt cold wind gnaw at his ears. “Do you still need a couple of farm hands?”
“We’re both Four-F. I’ve got bad eyes and my buddy here is stone deaf in his left ear.” Zumwald attempted a smile. “Nothing wrong with our backs.”
“I reckon the army’s gettin’ particular about its cannon fodder,” the farmer said, just a hint of derision in his voice, but not directed at them. Maybe every American isn’t as patriotic as the war propaganda would have one believe. Zumwald cast a sideways glance at Hess, silently willing him to stop standing as if he had a ramrod stuck up his ass. The old man looked them over the same way he might inspect a couple of cattle he was thinking about buying. “Your friend don’t say much.”
Hess flicked his eyes up, then down again, trying for a humble note. “We could use the work, sir.”
Zumwald cringed at Hess’s accent. Ve could use the vork.
The old farmer raised his bushy eyebrows. “Where you boys from?”
“We’ve been staying in Maryland but we’re from Pennsylvania,” Zumwald answered quickly. “Lancaster County.”
“Yup. Dutch country. Might have guessed. In that case, I reckon you boys know your way around a barnyard.” The farmer seemed satisfied. “You can bunk in the barn. It’s warmer than it looks. Get to work now and you’ll earn your supper.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The farmer just shook his head when Zumwald explained that they didn’t have so much as a blanket between them. “You boys travel light, huh? Well, I’ll fix you up. Now, let’s get to work.”
To his surprise, Zumwald found that he enjoyed pitching hay and even milking the cows. Exhausted though he was, he was glad of the physical work after his long period of inactivity in Washington. Hess performed his own chores with his customary efficiency. The farmer seemed more than pleased with their efforts and after nightfall brought them heaping plates of food — ham slices, fried potatoes, green beans that the farmer explained had been “put up” by his wife the summer before. He brought them both a couple bottles of Iron City beer to wash it down. Their bedroom consisted of two cots in a corner of the barn that served as a kind of office and workshop for the farmer. The barn was only marginally warmer than the cold night outside, but at least they were out of the wind.
Sure that he would not be seen in the darkness, Hess brought in his rifle and wrapped it carefully in a feed sack before hiding it out of sight on top of a beam. “Do you think that farmer will snoop around?” Hess asked quietly in German.
“If you want him to, let him hear you talking like that,” Zumwald said. “I wouldn’t worry about him finding your rifle.”
“I will have to sight it in again,” Hess said. He took his pistol and put it under his pillow. “My rifle got knocked around pretty hard.”
Zumwald had lost patience with plots and rifles. He had a full belly and he was exhausted. This wasn’t quite the adventure he had imagined, but he could think of worse. He wrapped himself tightly in the old quilt the farmer had given him. “Best get to sleep,” he said. “That old man said he was going to wake us up at four in the morning to start milking these damn cows.”
As he drifted off to sleep, Zumwald was dimly aware of Hess on the cot nearby, hands propped under his head, pale eyes wide awake.
Ike’s staff had a respite now that he was trying to spend time with Mamie. Ty passed that first morning hiking through the forests surrounding the resort, getting the lay of the land. The landscape was covered in six inches of fresh snow. He didn’t have boots, just his street shoes, and they quickly filled with snow. The patent leather soles didn’t provide much in the way of traction and two or three times he slipped and fell. It didn’t help that the blow to his head had done something to his sense of balance. He still had dizzy spells and sometimes his eyes refused to focus so that it seemed he was viewing the world from deep underwater. He tried to ignore the symptoms at first, but then he quietly went to see one of the doctors treating the wounded in the field hospital that had been set up on the resort grounds.
He felt sheepish as soon as he saw what looked like acres of gauze covering the soldiers’ wounds. It didn’t help that Ty recalled how his own father had bragged about staying in the field with two German machine gun bullets in him at Belleu Wood. We were out of bandages, so I wrapped my leg with newspaper and picked up my rifle again. Now, your granddaddy got shot out of the saddle at Gettysburg. He got right back on his horse. His old man wouldn’t think much of a son who went to see a doctor over a headache and dizzy spells. But if there was a way to fix what was wrong with him before Ike found out and kept Ty from returning to England, it was worth swallowing his pride.
“You’ve got a concussion, son,” the doctor said after a brief examination. The army doctor, a major whose hair was shot through with gray, didn’t seem to notice that Ty was a captain. “A hard knock to the head will do that. Anybody ever take any x-rays?”