The Winter Beasts
Chapter 1: An Execution
Sergeant Saunders dug his fingers into his eyes, wishing he could stab out the throbbing behind them. In spite of Doc's aspirin the nagging pain persisted. He could hardly remember ever having a headache before the war, except that time he stepped inside Fred Brown's swing on the sandlot. Fred had cussed him for a careless fool. Careless. Saunders' mouth twitched up in a mirthless smile. Nobody could accuse him of that now.
The lives of his men depended on his ability to constantly absorb and analyze information around him, however insignificant. Trudging through the damp forest, wearier than he had any right to be, Saunders let the data flow over him like a teletype newsfeed. How far up was the point? Was the branch that moved to his left just a squirrel settling its fat rear end or something more sinister? Were the clouds building off to the west going to drop a bucket of icy rain on them again before they got back to the farmhouse?
He sighed, shifting the Tommy gun cradled in his arms. Caje had the point and was still within view, the squirrel was just a squirrel, and they might make it back from patrol before the skies opened if nothing delayed them.
Caje made an abrupt gesture, instinctively folding into a crouch, and Saunders waved for the others to scatter into the undergrowth. Headache forgotten, he moved swiftly and silently to the private's side.
"You should've let Kirby stop and rest when he was whining about it back there," Caje whispered, his tone as dry as dead leaves. "Looks like we got to the party five minutes too soon." As Saunders followed his gaze, the Cajun felt a jolt of surprise run through the sergeant's body.
A dozen local men were gathered in a secluded glen beneath them. Trees grew tall around it like a stockade, their bare branches slickened to icy points. The men had arranged themselves in a circle, each grasping a stout wooden stick. A SS officer stood in the center of the group, his arms tightly bound to his sides with thick ropes. As the Americans watched, one of the Frenchman stepped forward with his club raised and the German retreated a step, casting a quick glance over his shoulder at the men behind him. Saunders narrowed his eyes as he watched the drama unfolding below. There was no shouting, no cat-calling, no pleading—no sound at all to break the quiet of the winter afternoon. It was like that silent movie he'd seen when he was just a little kid, The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Only this time Saunders wasn't afraid of the mob and he wasn't jumping out of his seat to rush to Quasimodo's defense, either.
Beside him, Caje shifted restlessly. "That's Dubois," he said in surprise, recognizing the leader of the group. "I met him on patrol three days ago. He's big with the maquis in this district." He glanced at Saunders. "What do we do, Sarge?"
"What do you mean, 'What do we do?'," Saunders said irritably. "What do you think?" The Frenchman swung his club and the German staggered as it connected with his shoulder. He didn't cry out. Instead, he threw his whole weight against his assailant in a sudden burst of vicious energy. Purposeless bravado. A mad dog cornered, snapping at anything within reach. Typical of the SS. "Did you tell Dubois we need prisoners?"
Caje nodded, perplexed. "Yeah, I told him." They watched as another man grabbed the German's arm, pulling him away from Dubois and flinging him to the ground.
"Doesn't listen too good, does he?" Saunders rubbed his hands over his eyes, contemplating rescuing the SS officer with distaste. It didn't help that it felt like someone had put a band around his skull and was slowly tightening it. "I wish I'd let Kirby take ten, but it's too late now." Gesturing for the others to advance, he began to carefully pick his way down the steep hillside, Caje at his heels.
X X X
"Arrêtez, mes amis!" Caje's voice broke over the glen and the Frenchmen whirled, shotguns and rifles quickly replacing the clubs in their hands.
Saunders sauntered forward, nonchalantly pushing cold barrels aside as he made his way to the center of the circle. His disdainful gaze fell on the German at his feet. Saunders suspected the man was tall, but it was hard to tell when he was curled on his side, legs drawn up to protect his stomach. The silver at his temples told Saunders he wasn't a young man and the dried blood on the side of his torn jacket spoke of a hidden wound. Probably how they managed to capture him. Satisfied the prisoner's ragged breathing meant he would live, Saunders studied the sullen faces surrounding him. "What's going on here?"
"It's not for you to concern yourself," Dubois said, his face red with cold and fury. "Go on your way!"
"I'd like to," Saunders said, "but I have orders to bring back prisoners. Private LeMay told you we need them." There had been very few taken in the last week, since news of the massacre at Malmedy had circulated through the front. Saunders understood his fellow soldiers' feelings all too well. A job was a job, though, and sergeants didn't get to make the rules. With effort, he swallowed his anger and forced himself to touch his enemy's hated uniform. Grimacing as he dug his fingers into the dirty wool jacket, he dragged the German to his feet. "This guy will do."
"You don't want him," Dubois snarled. "That one won't talk. He only knows how to kill. Tuer! Tuer! This is all he knows!"
Saunders shrugged, sizing the prisoner up. Tall, just as he'd thought. Now that the German's eyes were open his expression was as haughty as any SS officer's, but there was something else in his face—relief, maybe, that death was delayed. If the man wanted to live that badly, the boys back at headquarters would have something to work with. "He'll talk," Saunders said, satisfied. "Kirby, Caje!" He gestured to his men. "Take him."
There were angry mutterings in the group and a middle-aged man stepped forward, remonstrating with the sergeant. Caje paled as he listened to the man's impassioned speech. Before he could translate, Dubois whirled on Saunders. "This man here, Jean-Claude, had a daughter. Seventeen years' old! That butcher," he gestured to the German, who seemed to have regained his equilibrium and was now regarding them with undisguised contempt, "took her for questioning. Her father found her body near these woods, not two days ago. Her clothes were torn away, sergeant, and her belly ripped open. And you tell me he has no right to kill this man?" Spittle flew from Dubois' mouth in his fury. "What would you do if the monster who tortured and murdered your daughter was standing right in front of you?"
"Sarge…" Kirby began doubtfully.
"Can it." Saunders shifted the Thompson minutely. "I'd want to kill him, too," he admitted, "but my lieutenant's orders come before your revenge." He gestured to a German pack and gun belt lying at the edge of the glen. "Those his?"
"Non," Dubois said shortly, visibly trying to get the better of his anger.
"Ja, they are mine." The SS officer's voice was low, but it cut through the air like a knife. Saunders wondered how much English the man spoke and if he understood French, as well. He glanced quickly between them, the stocky Frenchman bristling with indignation and the tall German who regarded him with an expression filled with loathing.
"Doc, get those things. Harris," he nodded to the private who stood nervously at Caje's side, trying not to make eye contact with their prisoner, "you take point."
As he turned away, he heard the angry voices still arguing behind them. Then Dubois called out above the others, "Écoutez-moi, sergeant! As long as that man is with you, you are in danger!"
"Do you think that's a warning or a threat?" Kirby muttered.
Saunders ignored him, trudging forward through the trees as cold pellets struck his helmet. They'd wasted too much time and the frozen rain had started again, a final insult. He hunched his shoulders, feeling a fevered tremor run down his spine. Like he needed to get sick now, still miles from their lines with night coming on and a psychopath in tow. He shook his head. This patrol's getting worse all the time.