The Ten Thousand (59 page)

Taking two deep breaths, Buhle prepared to climb down off of Seydlitz’s tank, but paused. “You know, I’d rather face enemy fire than to tell my drivers that we’re not staying here for the night. To a man, they’re dead on their feet.”

Seydlitz laughed. “Don’t give me that shit, Rudi. Your drivers haven’t used their feet all day except for pushing the accelerator down.”

With a chuckle, Buhle corrected himself. “Okay, they’re dead on their asses. Now let’s get on with this. I have a feeling this will be another long night.”

Though they were only five kilometers northwest of Bad Hersfeld when she woke up, Hilary Cole had no way of knowing that. As if awakening from a drunken stupor, it took her several minutes to realize that the truck was stopped, the engine was running at an idle, and the driver, leaning against the door and window on his side, was sound asleep. Looking outside the cab, she noticed that they were parked off on the side of the road right behind a truck only a few feet to their front. Though she wondered why they were stopped, she felt no great desire to go out into the cold and find out. The driver had left the heater on, the cab was warm, the steady hum of the engine had a tranquilizing effect, and she couldn’t do anything anyway to improve their situation even if she knew. They were stopped, no doubt, by some MPs waiting for the road ahead to clear or for another convoy to pass. The military police were always doing things like that.

That they were sitting behind an engineer bridge unit that was waiting for their orders to move didn’t matter to Cole. What did matter was that she was being left alone and that she could go back to sleep.

Someone no doubt with more horsepower than she had was out there in the cold night stumbling around trying to sort the column out. Best to stay where she was and get some more sleep while she could. That, she knew, would end soon enough.

The rearming and refueling of Seydlitz’s company had taken longer than Buhle would have liked. That it did shouldn’t have been a surprise to anyone. Both his men and Seydlitz’s were dead tired. Most wandered around during the resupply operations like zombies, barely knowing what they were doing or even where they were. While he watched, it amazed Buhle that anyone could expect men in that condition to think and act, let alone fight. Perhaps, he thought, this was what everyone meant when they said that war was insane.

Though he would have liked to coil up behind Seydlitz’s tanks for a few hours and allow his drivers to sleep before pushing on back into the night, the news that the battalion was preparing to continue the attack to the west demanded that he continue. For if the fuel levels of Seydlitz’s tanks were any indication, the rest of the battalion would not be able to go very far with what they had. So with great reluctance Buhle ordered his drivers to mount up, re-formed his column, and led it back out onto the hard-surfaced road that had taken them there.

When Buhle’s column reached the juncture where the forest trail that they had been following met the hard-surfaced road that would take them back to Hünfeld, Buhle tapped his driver on the shoulder and pointed to his right. The driver, barely awake, simply turned the wheel and pulled out onto the hard-surfaced road. At first he slowed, since the trucks following needed time to make the turn and catch up to Buhle’s little Volkswagen staff car. To make sure that all of his trucks were still with him and made the turn, Buhle opened his door slightly, leaned out, and turned his head to the rear to watch. His senior sergeant, riding in the cab of the last truck, would flash a green-filtered flashlight toward the head of the column when he was on the road. Until then, Buhle simply hung on to the door with his right hand, the dashboard with his left, and stared off into the darkness watching for the signal.

Actually, Buhle thought, this wasn’t half bad. The cold air flowing around his neck felt good. It helped to wake him up and clear his mind. He needed to stay alert. He needed to keep himself, his driver, and every man in his column awake and alert. Before this night was over, Buhle mused, he was going to have to use every leadership and motivational skill and trick that his tired brain could conjure up.

Like a beacon at the end of a long dark tunnel, Buhle saw the green light from the last truck flashing.

But he didn’t react at first. It took several seconds for Buhle’s tired mind to make the connection between the image of the green light and what he was supposed to do next. Finally a thought snapped and Buhle sat up, turned to his driver, and ordered him to begin to pick up the speed. While doing this, Buhle missed the red light to their immediate front, now only a few meters away, flashing wildly.

Buhle’s driver, however, didn’t. Between Buhle’s shaking him out of his stupor and the sudden appearance of a red light shining in his eyes, the driver shot upright in his seat, clutched the steering wheel in both hands, and slammed down the brake without hitting the clutch, stalling the Volkswagen and throwing Buhle forward into the windshield. A sudden jerk that shook the whole vehicle told Buhle that the truck behind them, still following closely since there had been no time to assume the proper convoy intervals between vehicles, had also been caught off guard by his driver’s sudden stop. The thought that his little Volkswagen staff car could have been crushed by the huge Mann supply truck never crossed Buhle’s exhausted mind. At that point it could only deal with one thought or one action at a time.

Pushing himself up and away from the dash, Buhle looked at his driver in wide-eyed surprise. He still had no idea why his driver, staring to the front with mouth agape, had stopped. It wasn’t until he heard a rapping on his side window that Buhle turned away from his driver. When he did, he realized that his vehicle was surrounded by several figures. Where in the hell, he wondered, had they come from? Now it was Buhle’s turn to gaze outside in wide-eyed amazement at the apparitions that had sprung up from nowhere.

After what seemed like ages, the soldier standing at Buhle’s door opened it. Shining a red-filtered flashlight from Buhle’s face over to the driver and then back to Buhle, the soldier said nothing. Only slowly did it dawn upon Buhle, now blinded by the flashlight despite its filter, that he not only didn’t have any idea who these people were, he didn’t even know whose side they were on. Seydlitz’s warning that there were enemy units infiltrated into their rear drifted into Buhle’s slow-moving mind and caused him to start.

Seeing this, the soldier with the flashlight paused but kept the flashlight aimed in Buhle’s face. “Oh, excuse me, Herr Hauptmann. I was simply checking to make sure that you and your driver were all right.

We seem to have given you quite a surprise.”

As with everything that night, the fact that the soldier at his door responded in German with a heavy, very formal northeastern German accent took several seconds to register. When it did, Buhle could feel himself go limp with relief. The soldier also noticed Buhle’s response and introduced himself. “Sorry to cause you such concern, Herr Hauptmann. I am Oberstleutnant Kramer, Feldjäger Company 75.”

While this sank into Buhle’s mind, dulled by lack of sleep and the stress of wandering about the countryside in search of his battalion, Oberstleutnant Kramer continued to talk. “I am afraid I must divert your column. This road is no longer open to German military traffic.”

More alert, Buhle shook his head. “You mean that there are American units operating this far to the rear?”

“Yes, Herr Hauptmann. In fact, they are very, very close.”

With the
Feldjäger
‘s flashlight still in his eyes and his inability to deal with anything beyond the most immediate and obvious problems, Buhle never took note of the soldiers moving around or behind the lieutenant. Nor did his drivers, given a chance to lay their heads on the steering wheels in front of them and rest a minute, hear the movement of other soldiers as they moved out from the cover of the woods on either side of the road and crept up to the cabs of their trucks.

Standing upright and stepping back away from Buhle’s door, the [_Feldjäger _] lieutenant named Kramer dropped the red-filtered flashlight from Buhle’s face and turned to face toward the rear of the column.

Buhle, wanting to talk to the [_Feldjäger _] lieutenant, began to climb out of his Volkswagen. This prevented him from seeing Kramer raise his red-filtered flashlight and wave it toward the rear of the column. Buhle, however, did catch the glow of green-filtered light at the rear of the column being waved at them.

For a moment he looked at the green light and thought. His sergeant, he was sure, had already signaled him that all of the trucks had made the turn onto the road. Why was his sergeant signaling him again? Perhaps the sergeant was tired, just like Buhle, and wanted to make sure that he had seen it. Or maybe, Buhle thought, the sergeant was under the impression that Buhle had stopped the column to allow the last trucks to catch up before continuing and it was he, Buhle, waving the red light. Well, no matter.

Everything would be clarified in a few minutes. Turning back to the [_Feldjäger _] lieutenant, Buhle realized that he was looking down the barrel of a pistol held inches from his face.

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 units? was 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.