Chapter 6: Legacy of the Soldier

" They're catching up to us," Hilden said.

Cold and shivering in the dampness of the tunnel, the four men paused in unison. Their breathing was ragged; their bodies were stiff at the joints and tender everywhere else. In the narrow corridor, their ears picked up the clatter of footsteps. The winding passage blocked out any sight of the enemy, but the piercing beams of flashlights cut towards them.

Metz frowned. " Berlitz, how is it?"

Berlitzmanaged a solitary grunt of pain and acknowledgement. For him, the realities of the world had evaporated into a hazy dreamscape. He saw himself sitting on the banks of the Elbe, back in Hamburg seven years ago. Lena was leaning in his arms, her head on his shoulder, as they watched the world go rushing by. In the cool breeze of the river, he kissed her and pressed his warmth against her. There was no need for discussion. Only quiet, peaceful...

A hand slapped him. Hard.

" Stay awake, you idiot," Schmidt snapped. "You're too damn heavy to carry."

" Damnit, Opa!" he growled. " Give me my gun and leave me here."

Metz was studying the tunnel walls around them. The Leutnant's eyes locked on to a point on the ceiling, about five yards back. Where the thick stone had crumpled years ago, that area had been patched up with wooden beams.

Angrily, Berlitz said, " I'm slowing you down. Leutnant, please, give me my gun. Remember our code of honor…"

" Shut up, Berlitz. You aren't dying," Metz answered. Fumbling through his vest, the Leutnant unhooked a grenade and moved towards the portion of dilapidated ceiling.

No less than a hundred meters behind them, loud boots could be heard beating down the pathway. The dim haze of flashlights bounced around the sharp turn in the tunnel. Voices were audible, muffled in their numbers. No less than ten soldiers.

Schmidt tossed an anxious glance ahead of their position, where the tunnel melted into darkness. The corridor was a straight line, which meant that they would have no cover when the British came around the corner.

Hilden helped lower Berlitz to the ground and then propped the MP-44 in the soldier's arms. He bent down next to his friend and whispered, " There's only part of a clip left. Use it wisely."

Calling over to them, Metz ordered Hilden to hold the flashlight. " Point it at the ceiling. There! Schmidt, pick up Berlitz and pull him back. We're not going to fight. Not here. Not now."

The British were close now, perhaps fifty meters just around the corner.

The Leutnant leapt upwards, his brittle hands clasping on to one of the support beams. With a grunt of effort, he lifted his body up high enough to lodge his pinless grenade into a hole in the rotting wood. He dropped down like a cat and sprinted madly towards the rest of his men.

A flashlight wheeled around the corner, followed by three others. Someone shouted in surprise, and a machine gun opened fire. Simultaneously, the grenade exploded with a shattering power. The flashlights disappeared behind a cascading wall of dust and debris. With a deep rumble, portions of the ceiling caved inwards. The domino effect rippled outwards, as if the entire tunnel was collapsing in on itself.

Berlitz watched blearily, waiting for the world to come crashing down on him. The others around him were dragging him backwards with a frantic effort. A hungry monster with yearning jaws seemed to appear in the rushing clouds of smoke.

Just when the ceiling above them threatened to smash down, the process suddenly ended.

They sat there, breathing hard, gazing with disbelief at the massive pile of rubble only three feet away. Dust constricted their throats and stung their eyes. The trembling earth could still be felt under their fingers. Nothing from the British could be heard through the obstruction.

At last, Hilden said, " Our last grenade, I take it?"

Metz nodded.

" We're on our last clips of ammunition. We have no more grenades. What are we going to fight with, our knives?" Schmidt demanded.

" We'll worry about that later," Metz replied. " Now, let's-" he broke off into a fit of coughing. " Let's get out of this tunnel."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They emerged in the dusty, cobwebbed cellar full of old crates and barrels. Sunlight crept in at awkward angles, throwing a spectrum of golden hues across the dirty floor. The air was musty and permeated with faint traces of meat.

Tired, bruised, dampened with sweat, the four soldiers shrugged off their weapons and sank to the ground. Berlitz groaned at his pounding headache. The bleeding from his skull had stopped, for the most part, and his knee quickly reassumed its role as the primary source of pain. His throbbing leg was bloated from so much walking.

None of the other soldiers were in the best of condition, either. Although he tried to cover it, Hilden's bad shoulder seemed to be afflicting him terrible. Schmidt was physically exhausted, his older face creased in weary wrinkles. Even the iron Leutnant Metz sighed and rubbed his eyes.

" Opa, any chance you're carrying morphine?" Berlitz asked groggily.

" Nein, I gave my last dose to Gefreiter Deidrich two days ago," Schmidt answered.

" Too bad…" Hilden murmured.

" Yes, too bad," Berlitz repeated. A wave of disorientation swept over him.

Schmidt scuttled over to him and withdrew a line of graying bandages from his dirty knapsack. The doctor then wound these diagonally across Berlitz's head, covering the cranial wound gently. He secured it with a clothespin.

" We'll have to find some alcohol for disinfectant, as soon as possible," Schmidt muttered. " But that should keep out the dust for a while."

Berlitz tried to speak, but another surge of darkness cascaded over him.

…when it had gone, his eyes could see Metz sitting several meters away from him. A stream of light bathed the Leutnant's rigorous face, as if in heavenly splendor. Dirty and spattered with mud, Metz's silver hair had lost its brilliance, but his cold eyes remained piercing and firm. In his strong hands was a tiny medallion, which glimmered in the light.

" What is that, Leutnant?" Berlitz inquired.

Metz smiled, sadly. " This? This is an Iron Cross. It's all that's left to tell the story of one of the best soldiers I have ever known. It belonged to Hauptmann Merhoff, and somehow, I will make sure that it gets back to his family."

Metz paused, fiddling with the medal, deep in thought. Then he said, " Merhoff sacrificed enough for his country that he deserves to be remembered. Remembered by his children and his grandchildren and their children beyond. And although his body remains buried under dust and debris, perhaps one day the world will pay him homage. Perhaps one day, we will all be remembered. Not as Germans. Not as enemies. Not as losers. Not as statistics."

" But how, Herr Leutnant?" Schmidt demanded.

Metz let his head lull back for a second, resting against the wooden beam. He spoke up into nothingness. " We'll be remembered for what we were—soldiers."

A deep silence filled the air, broken occasionally by a ragged breath.

" It would be nice to think that none of this has been in vain," Hilden mused.

With a grunt, Metz rose to his feet. " Don't think for one moment that what we've done has been in vain." He shouldered his pack and his materials, pocketing the Iron Cross securely at his breast. " This war will be remembered years after our bones rot to dust. They will look back at their books and say to themselves, 'Once there was a Roman Empire, shadowed only by the greatness of the German Empire.'"

From where he was still seated, Gefreiter Berlitz felt a stir of pride in his gut. Patriotism seeped into his wounds, soothing them, invigorating his muscles, clearing his head. With Schmidt's help, he hobbled to his feet and picked up his MP-44. He snapped out the magazine and weighed it in his hand.

" Less than half full," he announced.

"That won't be a problem," Metz said. " Hilden spoke on the radio to our commanding officer, who is camped near Bologna. We're to cross the Ponte Vecchio quietly and move west to St. Trinitia Piazza, where a certain Victor Granzoli lives. Granzoli's an important and revered physicist who has engaged in many of the Reich's secret weapons programs, and the Reich wants him out of Allied hands.We will escort this man from his apartment to the plaza. Exactly thirty minutes from now, another squad will arrive and escort us out of the city."

" We're still going to need bullets," Berlitz said.

" We are to proceed with stealth," Metz answered, sternly. " Our commander believes that the British and the Americans have not penetrated very deeply into the city. We shouldn't encounter too much resistance."

Hilden rolled his eyes. " What do you think, Leutnant?"

" I think that the Amis have made it a priority to secure the Ponte Vecchio. However, it's the only remaining bridge over the Arno, so unless you're feeling strong enough to swim the current, we're out of luck."

" How about a boat?" Berlitz demanded.

Schmidt shook his head. " We'd be spotted immediately as the only boat on the river. It would make too much noise, and it would set them on our trail again."

" Then let's stay and wait for darkness to come. The sun is beginning to set, already," Hilden pointed out.

" No," Metz answered. " We have thirty minutes. I'm afraid our friends on the other side of the river won't have the nerve to wait for us. The Amis will be swarming into the city by nightfall. In exactly thirty-one minutes, our ride will disappear."

Berlitz objected, " What about Victor? They won't leave without him. They've been given the order also, haven't they? It's their duty. It's…" he trailed off.

Turning at the base of the cellar stairs, Metz smiled sadly. " If the world were full of honorable men, Berlitz, we would not be fighting this war now."