The Winter Beasts

Chapter 2: Cold Hate

The patrol slogged through the forest while evening shrank the world around them to tall shadows. At dusk the icy rain changed to snow as the temperature dropped with the sun. Still the little group pressed on, stumbling over roots and stones that seemed to spring up out of the darkness under their feet.

The prisoner had a difficult time keeping pace. Caje and Kirby did their best to drag him along at a brisk clip, but his pinioned arms made it impossible to maintain his balance over the jumbled terrain. Kirby muttered as they dropped further behind. He could barely make out Doc's outline in the trees ahead and couldn't see Harris any more at all. Saunders moved restlessly up and down the line between the point and the stragglers, his frustration mounting. When the German fell for the fourth time, he jerked the man to his knees with fury-fueled strength. In spite of their speed and the many tumbles, the prisoner was still unwinded. Saunders scowled, fighting to slow his own panting breaths. Even wounded and beaten by the Frenchmen, the bastard had a lot more left in him than he was letting on.

He shook his prisoner hard. "Want to live, kraut?" He didn't wait for the answer he knew he wouldn't get anyway. "Then get on your feet and stay on them."

"Sarge," Kirby ventured, "there's no way he can move very fast trussed up like this, even if he wanted to."

The SS man looked up at Saunders with a mocking expression, as if to say, "Well, what do you expect?" The sergeant's fist clenched as he weighed the two evils: the trouble the prisoner might cause if given the opportunity against growing concern for their hampered progress. He wished he could check in with Lieutenant Hanley, but he was reluctant to stop and set up the radio until they found shelter. The snow continued to fall around them, silent and inexorable. Flowing beneath Saunders' deliberations was a gnawing guilt: he'd misjudged the timing and the weather, hadn't analyzed the data as well as he should have, and now they were in trouble. It didn't matter if it was the headache or the fever building in his exhausted body that clouded his mind. They trusted him—Doc, Caje, Kirby, Harris—and he was letting them down. Careless.

"Sarge?"

"OK." Saunders rubbed his hand wearily over his eyes. "OK, cut all that junk off and tie his hands in front of him. Tight. And keep him covered, both of you."

Caje dragged the German to his feet, holding him at bayonet point while Kirby untied him. The man rubbed his arms briskly when the ropes were finally unwound, ignoring the Americans' rough handling. Saunders found himself watching the SS officer's long, strong fingers with horrible fascination. He thought of them drawing a knife across the young woman's stomach, blood splashing onto a cold cellar floor, and quickly looked away, disgusted.

They bound the prisoner's hands and set off again, the German moving with longer, more confident strides. Satisfied that Caje and Kirby would be vigilant, Saunders joined Harris at the point. "Everything OK up here?"

The private glanced at him guiltily. "Sarge, I don't know if I'm still heading the right way. It all looks the same in the dark." His breath puffed in the frigid air.

"You're doing all right. Remember those rocks?" Saunders pointed to dark shapes looming close beside them. "Kirby took a smoke there this afternoon, right?"

"Yeah." Harris nodded, as if reassuring himself. "Yeah. I remember."

"Sarge!" Saunders spun at Kirby's cry. The prisoner had tripped Caje, taking advantage of the opening to pull free from Kirby's grip. Before the private could catch him, he bounded away into the trees.

Saunders released a stream of bullets and the German dove for the ground. They could barely see him as he wriggled a few paces on his belly before rolling to his feet and dashing off again. He was moving faster than he ever had as their prisoner, weaving surefootedly through the underbrush.

Caje and Kirby were off in an instant, Saunders close behind. He cursed inwardly as he increased his speed. Too slow. The German was unencumbered while they were loaded down with gear. Saunders felt like there were lead weights attached to his legs. The air he gulped into his lungs was cold enough to burn. Too slow. He forced his legs to pump harder, hearing Harris' and Doc's ragged breathing as they struggled to keep up. Ahead, shots and shouts bounced off trees and rocks, muffled by the heavy snowfall. Saunders wouldn't have been able to say what direction they came from if he didn't know already. Winded, he almost ran into Kirby when he crashed into a small clearing.

The private caught him, slowing his momentum as Saunders took in the scene. A cabin stood nestled between the trees, its rough roof coated with snow. It blended so well into the forest they could have passed by it in the darkness without realizing it was there. The German lay on the ground in front of the door, Caje's foot planted in the small of his back. He made no effort to rise but simply lay catching his breath, his face in the snow.

"You shoot him?"

Kirby shook his head. "Caje caught up with him and pulled him down."

Saunders' eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I'll bet. Convenient." He stalked over to the German, his boots crunching in the snow. "Get him up."

Caje and Kirby grabbed the man under each arm, prepared to haul him to his feet. "On his knees," Saunders growled. The SS man looked up at him steadily, his cold eyes shining in the darkness, and Saunders knew it was only a matter of time before what little control he still had shattered. Would they call it murder? Would anyone ask questions? Not after Malmedy. He had free rein and he knew it.

"You and I," he muttered, looking the SS officer straight in the eye, "are going to have a little talk."

"Sarge," Doc panted, coming to his side. "Are we staying here tonight?"

"I don't think there's any choice," Saunders said. "We can't go on in this storm." He scanned their tired faces. "Harris, keep watch out here and stay close."

"Sergeant…" the German began, and Saunders smiled to hear the first notes of anxiety in his voice.

"Shut up. We'll talk inside."

X X X

"What do you 'spose this place is?" Kirby asked.

"It's a hunter's cabin," Caje said, checking the corners of the room and satisfying himself that no one had been there for a few days at least. "They build them for just this kind of situation—a place you can go if you're deep in the woods and want to rest." He struck a match and lit a taper that stood on a crude wooden table in the center of the room. Shadows leaped on the walls, writhing in the glow.

"I'm sure glad it's here," Doc said, dropping his pack gratefully. He dug out a box of rations and slumped in the corner, his back against the wall. "Now if we could just light a fire..." he looked longingly at the cold hearth.

"No." Saunders kept his gaze on the German, not sparing Doc a glance. "He knew this place was here, so that means we could have company at any time. We'll take our chances being cold." He gestured to the prisoner. "Tie his feet, Kirby, and make sure his hands are still tight." He watched impassively as the private carried out his orders, pushing the SS officer to the floor and securing his legs.

The German remained quiet through the procedure but a muscle in his jaw leaped when Kirby cinched his wrists, the ropes digging into his flesh. "Hurts, doesn't it?" Saunders said. "Now you know how it feels, except you guys make it even tighter." He cocked his head, studying his prisoner's face. "Scared, kraut?"

"Naturally," the German replied. For once there was no insolence in his eyes. "I'm made of flesh, just as you are. I feel cold, pain, hunger, thirst." He looked at Saunders meaningfully. "May I have a drink of water, sergeant?"

"What do you think this is, a café? Think you can just give orders and somebody will jump?" Saunders snarled. All the tensions of the day—the unremitting cold, the chase through the darkness, the illness he could no longer deny was draining his strength—poured in on him at that moment, coupled with visions he couldn't stop. A girl lying dead in the woods. Corpses in a field, covered in a dusting of snow. Steiner offering his canteen to Gates—Drink, if you're thirsty. Come, take it.—and Gates scrabbling at his feet.

Saunders grabbed the prisoner by the collar and punched him hard enough to snap his head into the wall. He hit him again, feeling a warm satisfaction when he split the German's lip, blood smearing his knuckles. It wasn't enough for the girl, couldn't possibly pay the debt he owed her father, but it was something. A small victory to hit a SS officer the way Steiner had hit his men. Only then he'd been helpless, couldn't protect them from the torturer. He drew his arm back again.

"Sarge," Doc said quietly, "all he did was ask for a drink of water."

Saunders stopped, panting. The German's chin was slumped against his chest, his eyes closed.

"Can I give him one?" Doc was just doing his job but Saunders hated him at that moment.

"No," he croaked, releasing the prisoner and pushing him away. "No water. No food. He's played us for chumps once and almost got away. He's not tricking us again." He felt suddenly too weary to move, let alone explain himself to his men. Crossing the room, he sank into the corner, his hate-filled gaze fixed on the SS officer. I've got your number, monster.