Reluctant Warriors (37 page)

The enemy soldiers came together and, beginning to talk, turned away from him. At
first he could hear little more than their voices. Strangely, he half expected them
to speak English. As he got closer, the words became more distinct. Obviously, they
weren't speaking English. He had no idea what they were saying.

The first man, a taller and bulkier man with a Schmeisser submachine gun, laughed
loudly. “Das Leben ist Kurz!” He continued to talk rather quickly. The scout paid
no attention to what he said.

The smaller man, obviously inferior in rank, stuttered when he spoke. “Jaden s–s–s–ommer
fahren wir aufs s–s–schreiben.”

“Ja, ja, das ist gut, Heinz,” the larger man responded.

Wiley could wait no longer. He stood only twenty-five feet from the two Germans.
The bigger man saw him and began to react. The little man never saw him.

THUNK. THUNK. The Browning reported, and both Germans were thrown backward and down.
Neither moved again. Wiley stooped down and spent almost thirty seconds motionless,
listening and looking.

How stupid could they be?
he thought, as the seconds ticked by.
They're on guard
duty and let some shit sneak right up and shoot 'em! Are these two the only guards?

Neither man had moved. They had to either be dead or so badly hurt that they were
no threat to him any longer. Wiley got up and walked quickly toward the plane.

It was a big silver plane, much larger than he'd ever imagined in all the times he'd
seen P-38s fly overhead in Africa and Europe. The light was poor by now, but one
look told him that the photo cartridge was no longer there.

Where's the pilot?
he wondered.

A glance at the rest of the plane told him a lot. From just behind the nose, most
of the rest of the plane was badly burned. The metal was twisted and charred. He
edged back toward the cockpit. The bubble canopy was gone. He came aside what remained
of the cockpit. There was no sign of the pilot.

“No cartridge, no pilot,” he muttered, all of his hopes sinking again. “This whole
damn thing is just shit!”

With the light almost gone, he wasted no time in heading south toward his lines.
More guards could appear at any second. He held the .45 ready. He felt uneasy for
several reasons.

“I wonder if Kuehl made it back,” he said to himself. “At least he didn't have far
ta go. Well, I can't think about him now. Gettin' back won't be easy for me! It's
almost directly south ta our lines, all through unknown country, and all of which
I'll have ta go through at night.”

Wiley was some distance from the plane now. He stopped, put his poncho over his head,
and got out his map and flashlight. As soon as he turned the flashlight on, he could
see that the batteries were about gone.

Maybe it's better that they're weak,
he thought
. At least nobody can see me.
The
light lasted just long enough for him to see that he was right: his lines were directly
south. No time for his usual oval.

He turned out the light and proceeded south. The moon peeked through the clouds occasionally,
and he could see some things in the thin silver light. He'd seen a road on the map,
but at night he avoided roads just as he preferred them during the day. At night,
troops were just going to sit on a road, which they wouldn't usually do during the
day. Following a road would get him shot for certain.

He went overland and looked for paths that weren't very visible in the light. Three
times in the next hour, he startled things in the woods that ran away from him, animals
no doubt.

This is like livin' in a shootin' gallery
, he thought.

About 2200, the terrain headed downhill. Wiley began to have an uneasy feeling. For
a time, he stooped and waited. His scalp became itchy. He continued, but soon stopped
again and again waited.

There was something here. He could feel it.

He heard a bird's tweet and felt a soft breeze that caused a rustling in the trees.
For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he could just sit down for a few minutes and
not face this problem.

Aw
, he thought,
I got information. And everything seems normal.
Still, he couldn't
shake a strong feeling of apprehension.
I can't stay here.

Then, in a few more steps, he saw it ahead.
It's a train! I smelled it.

It lay in a gulley about ten feet below him, directly across his path. He crept up
on it ever so slowly, every nerve alive. It was like a gigantic black beast, some
kind of worm that had died in a trench. The Germans must have parked it here so the
Allied planes wouldn't see it. He had the .45 ready, the silencer still on.

Despite inching carefully forward, Wiley tripped over something about twenty feet
from the train. He fell headlong toward the train with much crashing through the
underbrush, actually sliding several feet. Fearing he might accidentally shoot himself,
he let the .45 go, and it fell away from him. He scrambled for the little Colt in
his pocket. Then he lay motionless, expecting the worst.

But no sound of rushing enemy came to his ears. He listened with such intensity,
and yet there was only an eerie silence. He felt around in the muddy
leaves for several
seconds, looking for the .45. He found it and put the .25 back in his pocket. It
occurred to him that he hadn't reloaded it, and it had only seven shots left.

Unbelievably, no one appeared. He got up to a crouching position, waited a long time,
then crept the rest of the way down to the train and the tracks. The silence was
so eerie that for a second he wondered if he could still hear.

I wonder if the fall turned off my hearing
, he thought. He listened for what seemed
like a long time and was relieved to hear a low hoo, hoo.

That's an owl! I can hear. Is this train unguarded?

In the darkness, he squinted to see the train. There were tracks going away from
him, fairly straight, in both directions. Then he saw a light, a conductor's light,
far down the track to the right. It moved away from the train and back several times.
Wiley turned and saw the same from the left.

This thing is about to get under way!
Again he forgot about his mission.
I gotta
find out what's in these boxcars.

He walked several cars to the right and ahead saw one with open doors. He frowned.
There was no other way to do this, other than to come abreast of the door and just
look in. There was no time!

Wiley edged up to the opening, his scalp tingling. He quickly poked his head in front
of the opening and then drew back. There didn't seem to be anyone inside.

Then he stood in front of the opening and peered into the car. Nobody, no sleeping
guys! A wave of relief came over him.

The train began to lurch forward off in the distance. In a few seconds, the car he
was looking into jolted several inches.

It won't be long now
, he thought,
and this thing'll be gone
. He peered in again.
He could see the car was packed with hundreds of boxes bearing the sign of the skull
and crossbones.

“Explosives!” he said softly. “If this is an ammunition train, I can't let it go!
I better try ta blow it up.”

Then his thoughts clouded. “I don't know if this whole train's loaded with explosives.
For all I know, this is the only car with ammo.”

He didn't pause long.“Well, at least I know this car has some stuff in it! Hey, time
ta get out the Bag a Tricks. If I don't blow this thing up, this stuff will kill
a lot of our guys.”

He grabbed a lantern hung on the outside of the car, intending to light it and toss
it in. He quickly changed his mind. “I'll blow myself up!”

Two alternate ideas came into his mind simultaneously. He looked and listened for
just a few seconds as the car began to move. Then, placing the lantern in the car,
he hauled himself up and into it. Again, he squinted in the poor light to make sure
no one else was in the car.

“I don't know if either will work, but I'll try 'em both if only I got time.”

He
took out a match and lit the lantern. “I gotta have this light for just a minute.”

He noticed a stack of only five of the foot-high boxes on the other side of the car
next to the far door, which also was open. “Yeah, I can move that stack.”

The train had not yet reached walking speed. His heart rate jumped, imagining that
guards might see him illuminated by the lantern as the train stepped by.

Wiley went over to the short stack of boxes. “These will be perfect.”

His hands began to shake, and he had to take a deep breath. The train lurched again,
and he almost lost his balance.

“This is better than perfect. I'll get this thing out.”

He pulled the candle McMurtha had given him out of a pocket, lit it from the lantern,
and then blew out the lantern. He stooped down and placed the candle on the car's
floor, against the lowest box in the stack on its backside.

“I doubt anyone'll be able ta see it glow as the train goes by. Maybe it'll catch
the box on fire in a few miles, if it doesn't roll off.”

He considered the setup. Then he picked up the candle, turned it so the melted wax
would fall in the same spot, and seated it on the wax. “Now it's not gonna roll off.”

With some effort, he moved the higher boxes so that they overhung the
candle. “That
oughta catch that whole stack on fire in a few minutes. Now, for trick two.”

He pulled his only grenade from his belt and went to the side of the boxes next to
the door. The standard American grenade, it had a pin like all grenades but a safety
handle as well. If a man pulled the pin and let the spring loaded safety handle pop
off, the device would blow up in about four seconds. But if he pulled the pin and
held on to the safety handle, it wouldn't go off.

Wiley pulled the pin. Holding the handle, he wedged the grenade carefully between
the open door of the car and the lowest box.

“If this car lurches one time too many or if someone closes the door, it'll be too
bad, too sad.” He looked out the door both ways, and chuckled. “Can you beat this,
no guards! This is the easiest job I ever pulled.”

He glanced back at the grenade.
I hope that holds till I get outta here
, he thought.

He sat down in the doorway, made sure he had his gear, looked both ways again, and
jumped out. The train was going no faster than a slow walking pace, and he had no
trouble maintaining his footing as he hit. He ran up the other side of the embankment
as fast as he could and dove into the woods, visible for only a few seconds.

The train rolled on. In a few minutes, it was out of sight. Even the great rumble
of the awakened beast soon faded. Wiley felt relieved, back in his element, the woods.
Tired from the ordeal, his adrenaline still flowing, he decided to sit for a minute.

He put the poncho over his head again, brought out his map, and frowned. How was
he supposed to see the damn map without a flashlight or a candle?

Surprisingly, the batteries still had a little life left in them. He found the railroad
on the map. He was maybe six miles from his lines. Before the batteries gave out,
he saw that it was 2308.

I got seven hours ta go six miles. Hell
, he thought, much relieved,
I ought ta be
able to do that one. Maybe two miles in an hour.
He nodded, knowing full well that
things could happen to make it impossible.

Without realizing why, he decided to remain sitting. With perhaps ten hours of sleep
in the last sixty hours, and the mission all but concluded, his body began to let
down. He was so hungry, so dead tired!

“When did I have that stuff ta eat with Kuehl?” he asked himself, finding it difficult
to concentrate. “Was that today? Sure, that was this mornin', how stupid can I get?”

Wiley started in on one of the chocolate bars the Swede had given him and thought
of Kuehl again. When had they had breakfast? Half conscious, he took off his knit
cap and ran his fingers through his hair a number of times as he ate, scratching
here and there. In what was almost a reflex, he took a drink from his canteen.

“Wonder if he got back? I can't remember, he only had six miles ta go?” He was slurring
his words. “He musta made it, musta.”

He took out a k-ration. At first he couldn't remember why. Then he could barely muster
the strength to tear off the wrapping and open the container.

“This tastes good,” he mumbled, without taking a bite.

His head ached. He set the ration down, no longer sure he was seeing it very clearly.
His right foot, which he had twisted while being shot at the week before, throbbed.
His head hung to one side. Exhaustion had such a grip on him that he drooled out
the side of his mouth, not really aware of where he was. Though he sat upon an obnoxious-looking
rock, it seemed completely blissful to him. He didn't feel his carbine slide off
his shoulder or hear it clunk onto the ground.

In this stupor, a scent came to him that he had not smelled in many months: peppermint
ice cream. He loved peppermint ice cream!

“That's a nice taste.” He stuck out his tongue to taste it. “Good, isn't it?”

The smell and taste went away as mysteriously as they had come, which puzzled him.
His brow furrowed. He stared into the darkness for a minute, completely oblivious
to his surroundings. Another smell then wafted into his nostrils. He tilted his head
back to make sure.

“It's sugar maple trees!”

Soon the delicate smell went away as the peppermint had. Puzzled as to whether he
had actually smelled anything real, he was bothered enough to
blink his eyes and
become more awake. Soon he was alert enough to get up. He picked up his rifle by
the strap and started walking south, dragging the butt on the ground.