“How the Mighty” Chapter 16 — Rudi

Kiss of Death

Busted and broke in France

Rudi was regretting the milk now. There was water in his canteen, but he’d left the milk behind, and that dog was probably curled up in a corner of the barn digesting it.

Without Gefreiter Schmitt to feed him ammunition, he had to cease firing every now and then to get a fresh belt. Or a swig of water. The day was warming up, and not just the temperature.

Someone was shooting at him from along the ridge. Not close, like the last lot, but accurate enough to worry him. The mortar in the next bunker had fallen silent. Maybe they had worked their way through the load of rounds he had hauled up to them earlier, maybe the Americans had killed them, maybe they had surrendered or abandoned their position.

Schmitt, when Rudi took a look at him, remained as dead as before. He appeared as if he was just sleeping face down in a puddle of blood. He hadn’t surrendered. He hadn’t had the chance of sitting out the war in a comfortable American camp, eating steak and ice cream.

Feldwebel Bock had left him as well. He’d shouted out that he was going off for more ammunition, even though they were well-stocked, and hurried off along the trench.

The easy targets on the beach had dried up. No more boats landing; the Americans were all hiding behind the shingle bank or behind the few vehicles that had managed to get ashore and were now up to their axles in the water surging in with the tide.

The bay was still full of grey ships. Maybe the little boats weren’t shuttling back and forth between the armada and the beach, but they were there, waiting patiently for an opportunity to move in again.

Nightfall, perhaps.

If anybody down there on the beach moved, they moved cautiously or quickly, and were out of sight by the time Rudi had swung the machine-gun onto them.

“Fick es,” he said to himself.

If he stayed here alone, the Americans would eventually return and drop a grenade into his Tobruk. If they didn’t just shoot him outright. Sure he had a machine-gun spitting death, but every time a belt ran out, he had to grab a fresh one and change it, and while he was doing that, he wasn’t looking for Americans to kill. They could walk up and piss on him fumbling with the gun.

A child could see how it would end.

He could try to surrender if he picked the right moment, but if he was sending out automatic fire one second, and holding his hands high the next, things might not flow the correct way.

The correct way was to find a superior officer and follow their orders.

Or to find a place to hide until the shooting stopped and surrender when the enemy might not be so hasty in their actions.

“Fuck it,” he said again.

He sent one last blast of duty down onto the beach, dropped out of sight, picked up his rifle, and took the trench toward the lane.

Nobody moved. Where were the floods of reinforcements full of fresh hands to mow down the invaders and push the survivors into the sea?

Was the high command all asleep? Surely the legendary Field Marshall Rommel, whom nobody ever accused of not knowing how to fight, was personally leading a battalion to the beach?

Was there truly nobody in command here? Nobody at all to give him orders, tell him what to do, praise him for his duty?

Maybe Arthéme would take pity on him, keep him out of sight until the Americans were rounding up German prisoners instead of making them into corpses.

Maybe he could get through to the church, claim sanctuary from the priest. He would certainly be safe in the house of the Holy Father.

He turned into the old farmyard. No dog to greet him, but he didn’t have any morsels of food to offer Henri, so that was probably just as well.

Véronique had vanished too, but she always spent her day in the field, placidly turning grass into milk. Rudi went into the stall, made himself comfortable on a bale of hay, and waited for his war to end.

Now there were voices raised inside the farmhouse, carrying out into the yard. Then a shot, no, two shots.

Rudi leapt to his feet.

Inside the kitchen, there was Arthéme, full of rage, her bare breasts pointed at Feldwebel Bock. Rudi goggled. He had spent months dreaming about Arthéme’s tits soft and bouncing under her spring clothing, and now there they were.

“Hurry boy, help me fuck her, and then she’s all yours.”

Bock was looking at him, now. He had a pistol in his hand, and he was a superior officer issuing orders.

Rudi raised his rifle, but that pistol moved until it was aimed directly at his left eye.

“Think very carefully, soldat, before you move your next muscle, otherwise you will be with the dog over there.”

He jerked his head towards the hearth, where the black and white dog was lying, like Gefreiter Schmitt, in a pool of red.

Poor Henri.

But the image that really caught his eye as Bock kept his on Rudi’s, was a bare-bosomed fury leaping forward, picking up a bottle of wine, and cracking it over the sergeant’s head.

Bock grunted, dropped his pistol and tried to get his hands on Arthéme, who was now looking about for the kitchen knife.

Rudi reversed his rifle and slammed the butt into Bock’s face. “Yob tvoyu maht!”

The two teenagers stood there together, breathing hard, looking at the fallen Feldwebel. Rudi knew he would regret it — like putting a bag over the Mona Lisa — but he stooped, picked up Arthéme’s discarded blouse and chemise, and looked elsewhere while she covered herself.

“Pauvre Henri,” he murmured, examining the old dog. “Il est tot.”

Well and truly dead. But what to do with Bock, who was moaning and jerking his arms?

Arthéme was in no doubt. She had found the kitchen knife, and there was a matching gleam in her eyes.

“No, Arthéme, please. It would be a sin. He is no danger. We can give him to the Americans.”

Arthéme hesitated. “Are they coming? For real?”

“Vraiment. There are thousands of them. Today the war ends for we two.” He indicated Bock. “I came here to hide and give myself up to them when they are thinking calmly instead of fighting a battle.”

“And this sale cochon?” She kicked at Bock.

“He will not hurt you. Not while I am here.”

She examined him dubiously. “Merci, Rudi. Perhaps you could stand by the door? You are covered in shit.”

There was the sound of boots in the gravel outside.

“Here they are. Goodbye Mademoiselle Osmont. May the Holy Father grant you peace and prosperity.”

Rudi leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek.

“Et tu, soldat Rudi.”

The kitchen door opened and two men rushed inside. There were rough hands grabbing at him, angry French voices in his ears, and then he was being dragged outside, along with Bock, to the old grey stone wall.

When a German soldier defending Omaha Beach decided that further resistance was pointless, it was rare that he got to make any practical use of that decision.

In most cases, he either fought to the end, or he was killed rather than being taken prisoner. The assault troops who had been massacred on the beach — or at least the survivors who made it off the beach and actually encountered Germans at close range — were in no mood to observe the niceties of the rules of war.

Likewise, the French civilians who had endured the Nazis for four years were unwilling to be compassionate. Least of all towards the Germans, but any collaborators were treated harshly when liberation arrived.

As for my story, this episode is full of action, but I’m more comfortable describing Rudi worrying about his duty. Perhaps I need a gung-ho co-writer to cover the battle scenes while I do the introspection.

Britni

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