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It was the American service paper, Stars and Stripes. His eye was drawn to a headline on the front page.
ALLIES BOMB IG FARBEN
German Industrial Giant Near Frankfurt Hit Hard
Daylight Raid Leaves Nazi War Machine Reeling
His father still worked at IG Farben. He’d had no contact with his family since leaving for Grafenwöhr in October, at which point both his parents were alive. That suddenly seemed in doubt.
Bernie’s gaze drifted to the improvised Christmas tree, gauze serving as tinsel, surgical clamps and scissors hung like ornaments. The meager attempt at holiday cheer, his own peril, and the growing crowd of wounded arriving for treatment brought him to the verge of tears. A nurse’s aide offered him a cup of coffee. He declined, and his forlorn look drew her sympathy.
“Hard being away from home this time of year, isn’t it?” she asked.
He looked up at her. She was a plain girl, early twenties, with crooked teeth and a one-sided smile.
“I guess you could say that,” said Bernie.
“I love Christmas. Never spent one like this before. Where you from?”
“Brooklyn,” he said, surprised when it came out of his mouth.
“Really? We sailed out of the Brooklyn yard on our way over a few weeks ago. You’ll be happy to know it’s still there. I’m from Wichita. That’s a long way from New York. Might even be farther away from it than where we are now.”
“I don’t think you can get any farther away than this.”
“Don’t worry now, you’ll be going home soon,” she said.
She patted him on the back. Her kindness made it hard for him to say anything more. He spotted Von Leinsdorf coming toward him through the room, wearing a doctor’s white coat, and stood up.
“Get in the jeep,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Keep the engine ru
“Where are you going?”
“Make sure you’re pointed toward the road,” he said, taking off the coat and heading back toward the prep tent.
“I want an autopsy,” said Gra
“Could have been any number of things,” said the surgeon who’d worked on Mallory, not eager to oblige. “Postoperative trauma, delayed reaction to anesthesia-”
“His original wounds were enough to kill him,” said a second doctor.
“We were told he’d come through that surgery, that he’d recover,” said Gra
“The truth is, Lieutenant, these things aren’t predictable,” said the surgeon. “We see it every hour of every day. Each man has a different breaking point. Sergeant Mallory reached his.”
Gra
A passing nurse overheard the name. “Did you say Mallory?”
“That’s right,” said Gra
“But he hasn’t even gone into surgery yet.”
“Yes he did, he was postop.”
“When did they operate?”
“Last night when he came in.”
“But I just admitted him fifteen minutes ago.”
“What’s the first name?” asked the surgeon, looking at the chart. “We can’t be talking about the same Mallory.”
“First name’s Vincent,” said Gra
“Sergeant Vincent Mallory, that’s him,” said the admitting nurse. “I just took the information off his tags-”
“Where is he now?”
“In the prep tent.”
“Show me,” said Gra
They hurried toward the tent, burst through the flaps, and searched down the busy rows, the doctors following.
“Did he come in alone?” asked Gra
“No, a couple of soldiers brought him in-”
The admitting nurse pulled back the curtain isolating his cubicle. Gunther Preuss lay on the cot, an IV in his arm, bright red blood sliding from his mouth and nose, his body racked with convulsions.
The nurse and doctors hurried to the patient’s side, calling for help. Gra
“Out of the way!”
The crowd parted, some hitting the floor in alarm. The officer heard the shouts and, without looking back, sprinted out the front of the tent. Gra
A jeep was pulling out of the parking area, wheels skidding in the mud. Two men on board. Gra
Gra
“Keep going,” said Von Leinsdorf to Bernie. “Head southeast.”
“What happened? Where’s Preuss?”
“Just do as I tell you,” said Von Leinsdorf, glancing behind them.
Bernie whipped the jeep around the town center, a welter of narrow, ancient streets, avoiding collisions, wheeling around obstacles, ignoring traffic signs. The sidewalks were packed with citizens carrying suitcases and bags, pushing carts full of possessions, fleeing from the German advance. Twice he narrowly missed civilians who darted suddenly into the street, one carrying a bright green parrot in a cage. As they reached a narrow bridge leading out of town, they came face-to-face with an American half-track headed the other way. Bernie steered to the right without slowing and accelerated past it, only inches to spare, the jeep’s right fender sending up sparks as it scraped against the stone wall.
Behind them, Gra
“Clear this bridge, god damn it!”
The MPs waded into traffic and cleared a path for him. Soldiers riding into the village shouted at Gra
As their jeep cleared the outskirts of town, Bernie steered onto the shoulder. American military vehicles crowded the westbound side of the road, carrying soldiers on hoods of jeeps and hanging off the sides of trucks. The men wore the haunted look of battle fatigue and many were wounded. Bernie could hear the boom of artillery and the rattle of small arms to the east. Von Leinsdorf lit a cigarette and couldn’t keep a smile off his face.
“Quite a sight, Brooklyn,” said Von Leinsdorf. “Your amateur American Army. What did I tell you? Retreat’s too dignified a word-they’re bugging out after only four hours.”