Hi, my dear readers,
I have to apologize for the late update, but I learned last Friday that I could re-open my praxis the following Monday, and had to make a lot of preparations for it. Glassy walls had to be installed to separate me from my customers and patients so that only the hands and feet are reachable, I had to re-equip my praxis, because I took the most expensive equipment with me home and that I had to clean everything. After seven weeks, since I could work there, a lot of dust had gathered.
And since Monday I find barely time for anything. I'm almost reminded of a 'run' and I've to do extra-hours. Of course I'm happy to see my customers again and to earn for once some money again, but by now it's tiresome and I fall into bed like a stone in the evening.
But finally I get a few minutes spared to publish the next chapter.
Like I said, it's about Schultz' youngest son Max and what he lives through in Coblenz, will change the fate of the Schultz-family in the end. I hope, you like it.
Thank you so much for the feedback of the last chapter,
Enjoy the new update,
Love
Yours Starflight
Chapter 89 – Kismet
The resistance the Germans put up in Coblenz wasn't great, but fierce mixed with stubbornness. For most GIs it was pesky, because even if their opponents were low in number, they seemed to be everywhere – using the ruins, heaps of debris, and even fallen trees to ambush the Americans. Backyards of house blocks, still standing walls and empty shops became traps – yet, like a wonder, the number of casualties and killed men remained low. Fate seemed to have its own idea on how the seizing of this town would proceed.
First Lieutenant Muller, Second Lieutenant Hansen, and the two non-coms, who had ascertained Coblenz two days ago, accompanied the striking troops of the 87th Division. Thanks to them, the losses on America's side were low – but the same also went for the Germans.
Staff Sergeant John Milford, who belonged to the striking troop Lieutenant Muller led, pressed himself against a house wall before he peeked around the corner. Behind him two of his comrades did the same. Shots came from the other side of the crossing roads, but they were directed towards other GIs running for cover.
"Now," Milford ordered, and leaving cover, they closed up on the enemy. Shots were exchanged, one of his comrades cursed as he was grazed by a bullet, and John briefly looked back. "David?"
"I'm okay," the other man said, and they all sought new cover, when something came flying – a hand grenade that landed between them.
"RUN!" Milford shouted, and his men did the only thing possible; they split up and hurried into different directions to confuse their opponents and escape from injuries or death.
John threw himself behind the remnants of a torn down wall, let his rifle fall, and pressed his hands over his ears. The detonation behind him was strong. Debris was hurled through the air, but miraculously, he wasn't hit. The air pressure and heat were horrible. For a minute, he lay there waiting. Then – after the last stones and grit had fallen to the ground, and the blast wave had quiet down – he carefully rose on his knees.
"Anybody hurt?" he shouted, and he only got negative answers from afar, much to his relief.
He heard gunshots nearby and gripped his rifle to fire some shots for a distraction, but realized only now that his weapon was empty. Cursing quietly, he began to reload his rifle only to hear some soft noises from above.
Looking up to the end of the wall, he saw movement. A second later he glanced directly into the muzzle of a rifle held by someone in a German uniform. And at that moment, the world seem to come to an abrupt halt.
*** HH ***
Max watched as Heinrich Schenkel, one of the 16 year old boys and fanatical fellow of Hitler's ideas, took the safety catch off a grenade and threw it into the direction they had heard heavy steps approaching in and male voices speaking English.
Schultz's youngest son didn't know why, but he felt his stomach clenching at the thought of this fist-sized thing that would cause men to die within the next few seconds.
Max barely found enough time to cover behind a half wrecked wall and clap his hand over his ears as the detonation went off. Debris, grit, and dust hurled through the air and made him cough, while he felt a slight push from the blasted wave. It was clear that it must have given the men on the other side of the street far more problems than him and the others.
"Quick now! Before they reform the strike formation," Heinrich shouted from a few meters away, rose, and raced away with the others.
"Max, come!"
Frank had only accompanied the others a few meters before he stopped and looked back at his friend; waiting for him. Max was about to obey as he heard someone shouting in English from behind the wall. One of the GIs was there – and he would be a big danger for Frank and the others the moment he overcame the rest of the mural.
Max felt sick to the core as he realized that it was up to him to cover for Frank – and the others, too. He had avoided shooting until now. Hell, he hadn't even had any active part in the combat, but now this period of grace came to an end. The mere thought of hurting – killing – someone made him nauseous, but he had to protect his best friend.
His hand trembled as he waved towards Frank to follow the others, then he quickly climbed up the half collapsed wall. Taking a deep breath, he cowered down and quickly brought up his rifle; aiming at the man who…who knelt three or four meters beyond him in the dirt and looked up at him, gun lowered on his lap.
Their gazes locked, and Max saw the rising fear in the man's eyes, while the stranger's face drained of all color. It was the same fear Max felt – the fear of death.
Weapon at the ready, the boy could only stare at the GI, who was maybe ten years older than him. Then his glance found the man's hands and the realization hit him: The American had been busy with reloading his weapon. In other words, the man couldn't fight – he was without any chance to defend himself. Max broke out in a cold sweat.
His aim was perfect; he couldn't miss in such a short distance – and his friend, comrades, and he himself could retreat without being in danger to be caught from behind, but…but all he saw were those eyes green like grass.
*** HH ***
The moment John Milford looked up straight into the muzzle of a ready gun, he knew that he was lost. A second ago he had been happy to survive the grenade, and now death was above him, ready to take him with a cruel bullet. John felt an icy fist gripping for his inner being; dread spread through him while his stomach turned upside down. This was the end. Everything was over. He would die here and now. In the west of Germany in a wrecked and almost abandoned town at the Rhine River.
Yet the shot didn't ring out, but his enemy's eyes found his own – large, round eyes almost black with fright. Only then he recognized that his opponent was small – a boy; not more, not less. And the boy's gaze mirrored the same fear that filled his own being.
For a few seconds, time stopped. The noises of battle, shots, shouts, detonations – everything seemed to come from afar through thick fog, and only this boy and he existed now. Milford didn't dare to move a finger; knowing instinctively that the teen would pull the trigger then.
Another moment passed by, and he watched the fight on the boy's face and how bad his hands shook, then – suddenly – the kid screamed in something like despair, whirled around, and vanished; taking a few loose stones of the wall with him as he climbed back down on the other side of the hindrance that separated them.
*** HH ***
The rifle in Max's hand seemed to be made of glowing iron, yet it felt cold as ice. His finger was paralyzed around the trigger. He knew he had to pull and make the move. Frank, the others, and he himself would gain a head start and relative safety until they would be back behind their own lines, but…those eyes full of mortal fear…the ashen grey face…they shared one and the same fright. And the man couldn't even fight back; his gun was useless at the moment.
Soldiers fought, and they killed if they had to. But it was something else to shoot someone who was completely helpless.
It would be murder; nothing else – and Max couldn't do it. He knew that many of his comrades, most members of the Wehrmacht and SS, wouldn't even waste a single thought about it. One enemy less – so what? But Max didn't see an enemy cowering below; he saw a young man, maybe the age of one of his older brothers. He wore a different uniform, yes, but…but he was a human being. Someone with a family, friends, and feelings just like him.
The rifle in Max's hands shook as his heart and soul fought with his mind. And even his mind wasn't fully into it – to take a life. He couldn't do it – order or not. Frank and the others…If they hurried, they would be safe without him killing a defenseless man.
"Isn't it hard for you – to see all those locked up enemies every day? To endure their mockery and threats?" he had asked his father two years ago while on home leave.
His father had smiled down at him. "They're men like my comrades and I are – and they're not so bad. Sometimes we even joke around, and I have to remind myself that they're opponents, because they don't differ from us. Other languages, other uniforms, yes, but they're all humans. And some of them I would like to call friends, if it were allowed."
Max stared down at the GI – '…they don't differ from us…' Yes, it was true. The man was troubled and scared like he was and…and to hell with duty!
A shout was ripped from his throat as he lowered his weapon, whirled around, and climbed down the wall like the devil was after him. An inner voice murmured that the devil was not behind him, but in front of, because there would be no mercy if Glockner or another SS-man found out that he spared an enemy. Yet there hadn't been any other choice for Max. He doubted that he could kill someone in defense, let alone murder. So he ran. There was nothing else left for him to do.
*** HH ***
The moment the boy turned around and fled, John Milford was unable to do anything for a few seconds. Relief and disbelief washed over him, but the dread didn't want to leave him so soon. Looking down on his weapon, he saw that his own hands were trembling, too. He couldn't do anything else other than close his eyes and take a breath of the cold air while trying to calm his fleeing nerves.
"John!" One of his comrades hastened towards him.
Trying to get a grip of himself, Milford forced his eyes open and glanced up at Jim Wright, whose face was pale beneath the dirt.
"Sweet Lord, the Kraut…I saw him and thought…" Wright began, and Milford nodded.
"Yes, me too. I also thought he would…" He gulped and quickly finished reloading his rifle. "It was a kid," he said quietly. "A kid no more than 13 or 14 – but he didn't shoot." He moistened his dry lips. "It's insane, but…but I hope he doesn't get hurt."
*** HH ****
Max staggered to his feet the moment he reached solid ground, crossed the street, and almost collided with Frank, who had waited for him.
"What the hell happened up there," the older boy demanded, while he pulled Max along with him. "I thought I heard a voice from there, and you went all 'grrrr' as you climbed up the wall, turned into a pillar of salt, then fled like a demon was coming for you. I thought there was one of those Amis or…"
"There was," Max panted beside him while they raced into a cross road.
"Did he have a canon pointed at you, or…?" Frank asked, irritated.
"No, he was defenseless." Max replied, fighting for air.
"And you didn't shoot?" Frank stared at him and almost tripped had Max not gripped for him. For a moment, both boys paused, and Schultz's youngest son used the given chance to clarify.
"He. Was. Defenseless! He was reloading his weapon and couldn't fight back. It would have been murder!"
Frank blinked. "Do you think he would have spared you if the roles were reversed?"
"I don't know," Max puffed. "But…he was scared. His fear was the same one I have. I…I couldn't…"
"HURRY UP!" The Unterscharführer screamed from the next corner while waving at them. "The damn Amis are readying new artillery fire!"
Frank pelted away and dragged Max with him. "So much for 'the poor guy was scared'. Guess what I am."
"Don't you think I'm afraid, too?" Maximilian snapped. "I have the jitters, but that gives me no right to murder someone."
The hollow whistle of incoming projectiles interrupted them, and somewhere nearby new detonations ripped through the air. The two boys ducked, pressed themselves against a house wall, and protected their heads with their hands despite the fact they wore steal helmets. Steal helmets that were too large for them.
"Dammit!" Frank cursed, and raised the moment the shots paused. "Cut and run!" He shouted, and pelted towards a half-intact gateway that led into the backyard of a city block. Maximilian followed him. They dashed down the small driveway between the houses and reached the backyard, where remnants of a small garden, a burnt down fruit tree, and some garages with wooden doors were. The walls of the houses around them were partly intact, partly in ruins.
New artillery fire was heard, and Frank pointed to the left. "There. The building seems to be stable."
They hastened towards the backdoor that led into the house, no more than ten meters away. They didn't make it. Something howled above them and exploded over their heads.
"DUCK!" Frank yelled, and pushed the smaller boy away, while the house wall to their right gave in. Schultz's youngest son fell, let go of his rifle, and rolled away. He couldn't do anything else but curl up into a tight ball and wait for the shock wave, falling debris and din to stop while screaming his fear into the world. But Frank's shout was louder.
Forgetting the danger, Max looked up, but couldn't see much in the whirling dust and ashes. Then he saw with horror how his best friend was hurled away by the power of the blast wave, and the house wall collapsed down into the backyard. Somehow Frank had enough wits to crouch away the second he fell to the ground, but he wasn't fast enough. Horrified, Max was dammed to do nothing else than watch how disaster evolved and his friend vanish between stones and dust. Several hard things hit Max, but he didn't care. All he could think about was Frank.
The second the world seemed to calm down again, Max began to rise. The smother had turned the air smoky, and stones fell and rumbled down. With a fearful "FRANK," he regained foot and stumbled towards the place he had seen his friend last while his soul and heart screamed to the Lord not to take Frank.
Again calling the other boy's name, he suddenly heard coughing and desperately tried to find his friend in the chaos of dust, ashes, stones, and grit.
"Max…" It sounded weak, but heavenly alive.
"Frank, hang on. I'm coming." He coughed and blinked in the biting dust, but finally saw the shape of his friend. His legs were buried beneath stones and dirt, and as Max knelt down beside him, he saw that Frank had a gash at his temple.
"My legs," Frank moaned. "They hurt."
Max bent forwards and took his friend's head between his hands. "Frank, can you see me?" he asked.
"Yeah – you're dirty," the other boy replied, spirit flaring up for a moment, then the pain increased and groaned as he closed his eyes.
"Hang on. I'll get you out," Max said hoarsely, and began to push the stones away. A low rumbling warned him. Alarmed, he looked up at the heap of debris and rubble in front of them. The collapsing wall hadn't hit Frank fully – otherwise he wouldn't have survived it – but the heap of stones covered most of the backyard. And it was about to pile. If the large piece of the wall lost its footing, it would fall down on Frank and kill him instantly.
Max felt even more despair rising in him. He couldn't help Frank – not alone. A few men would be necessary to underpin the piece of the wall and pull Frank out of the trap he lay in.
"We need help," he said hoarsely; peeling off his jacket. "I'll get a few of the others." He folded his jacket and carefully placed it beneath Frank's head.
"They ran away – and the Amis are closing up," the other boy croaked. "You have to flee and…"
"You hit your head harder than I thought if you think I'll let you down!" Max interrupted him. "I'll get help, no matter what!"
Voices came nearer – voices of grown men. And they spoke English.
Max bit his lips and looked towards the gateway. "And I don't care from whom," he added quietly.
Frank stared at him. "You want to ask the Amis…You're crazy!" he burst out, and gritted his teeth as the burning pain in his legs seemed to come in hot waves now. Parallel, he felt cold – icy cold.
"Maybe I am," Schultz's youngest son answered, and rose.
"Max, NO! They'll kill you on sight," Frank gasped, terrified for his friend.
"They won't," Max answered firmly. "They're Americans. They won't kill a kid." He hastened towards the gateway while ignoring Frank's scared calls. From the street, he heard the men's voices again. Not wasting a further thought, he sped up.
"HELP!" he shouted in English, knowing instinctively that the men would hesitate to attack if addressed in their own language. "WE NEED HELP!" He reached the pavement and stepped out of cover, hands up to show that he didn't mean any harm.
A dozen men in US uniforms were in the street, a few already turning towards him. Confusion filled their faces as they heard a kid's voice shouting in English. The moment they saw him and his uniform, they aimed their guns at him, and Max came to a slithering halt. Both hands still over his head, he called, "I'm unarmed – we need help because…"
"Stay where you are!" one of the GIs shouted, face hard. "Steh'n bleiben!" he repeated in broken German.
Max's breath flew. "Please, my friend is buried alive, and I can't get him out alone. We need help, or he'll die."
A few of the men drew nearer, rifles at the ready. Eyes sizing him up, faces grim. Max felt his mouth going dry, and iciness crawled down his spine while his heart seemed to travel between his throat and his gut. Yet he held his ground. Frank's life depended on him, and he wouldn't give into the fear that enveloped him as he realized that a dozen guns were directed at him.
And then someone pushed through the soldiers. Green eyes bore into Max's blue ones and widened ever so slightly. "You?" asked the man quietly. "It's you – the boy who spared me."
Max felt relief wash over him. The man, who was only a few meters away, was the same one he hadn't found the heart to shoot only five minutes ago. There was no doubt that it was him. That face, those eyes had burned themselves into Max's mind.
"H-h-h-hello," Max replied tentatively, asking himself at the same moment if he really had lost it to greet a hostile soldier – an officer eventually, seeing the half triangle stripes on his sleeves – like this. Yet politeness was something his parents had always set great value upon and taught him and his siblings.
"Beware, but don't shoot," the man said forcefully to his comrades, while he closed the distance to the German boy. Never would he forget those boyish features and those big, round blue eyes – eyes that again held despair and fright, but this time for another reason.
"Please…we need help," the kid said again.
"How many are with you?" Milford asked, while he stopped in front of the boy; ready to react should this be an ambush.
"Only my friend; the others ran away," Max answered breathlessly, and nodded backwards. "One of the house walls collapsed during your last artillery fire, and Frank didn't get away quick enough. Please, his legs are stuck, and he has a wound here." He touched his temple as the word for it slipped his mind. "I can't get him out alone, and…" The man lifted his free hand, and Max shut up. For a long moment, the American observed him critically, and the boy began to realize why. "This isn't a trap, sir," he said softly. "Please, Frank will die if we don't do something soon."
Milford's first impulse was to offer help – these were kids, after all – but this was also war here. The combat for a town – a city with a strategically important location. It could be true what the boy said, but it could also be a trap. And then it hit him.
"You speak my language," he stated, surprised.
'Obviously,' the humorous part of Max thought, but aloud he said, "I learned it in school." He moistened his lips, the ugly taste of dirt coming with the gesture. "Please…Frank…"
"Lower your hands. There is no need to try and catch the wind," the man interrupted him calmly before turning around. "Five men with me; the rest secure the street," he ordered.
Max's knees weakened in endless relief. The man and his comrades would help Frank. Thank the Lord. "Thank you," he whispered, only now becoming aware of his closed eyes as he opened them.
John watched the boy, whose reaction spoke volumes: sheer relief. Yet Milford wasn't naïve. This still could be a trap, and the boy's relief was because he had fulfilled his given order. The chance that some Krauts waited for him and the others in the backyard was very real. Yet, if there was really a kid stuck, then…"You go first – and no hasty movements," he said firmly, and the boy nodded.
"Okay, sir." He turned around and walked back into the gateway he just came from; Milford and five GIs following. He had almost reached the backyard as the man behind him whispered sternly, "Stop, and don't move."
A strong hand came down on his shoulder, and Max looked up at the man, who watched the vicinity with utter tension. "Tom, Jim, David, Jarik. Check the backyard for any unwanted surprises."
"Aye, sir," one of the men answered, and passed by with three others on his heels.
Frank, who had only heard voices from outside, yelped as four men in sandy-colored uniforms jumped into the backyard; rifles at the ready.
The four soldiers aimed towards the heap of debris and stones, up the standing walls, and towards the backdoor Frank and Max had wanted to use originally as shelter. But nothing moved. No one was there. Only the smaller shape of a boy who was half buried beneath stones and wall parts.
"Everything clear," one of the GIs shouted, while straightening his shape before walking towards Frank. A moment later, more people came out of the gateway – among them Max.
Schultz's youngest son didn't hesitate as he dashed towards his friend's side. Kneeling down, he reached out and stroke through the other boy's dirty hair. "Everything is all right," he tried to comfort him. "They will help you."
Another man stopped beside them. Max looked up at him; deep worry, but also something close to trust in his eyes. "This is Frank," he explained unnecessarily.
Milford nodded. "I thought so," he deadpanned, and cowered down beside Max; watching the other boy attentively. "Does he speak English, too?" he asked Max, turning an eye at him.
"Yes, we both were in the same class." He cupped Frank's cheek that had become icy cold. "We're neighbors and grew up together. He's like a brother…" he murmured.
John glanced at the boy beside him. As he saw dampness in those big eyes, unwanted compassion awoke in him. "Calm down; we'll get him out," he said almost gently before addressing Frank. "Are you in pain?"
Frank gulped and nodded slowly. "My legs and my hip…they burn like fire."
"Don't fret; we'll get you to our field hospital." Milford glanced at one of his men. "Joe, go out and get a stretcher. The boy needs medical attention."
The man in question nodded, held his rifle in both hands, and jogged back towards the street using the gateway.
Milford drove his attention to another member of his troop, who had examined the heap of debris. "David, what do you think?"
"Three or four of us stem the wall piece and the stones away, one pulls the boy out," the man replied. "But we have to be quick. This damn heap is as stable as a pile of sand."
"Alright. Start at once." He glanced back down at Frank and carefully pulled the jacket away from under the boy's head. "Stay calm. You'll be safe soon." He looked at Max and gave him the dirty jacket. "Step back out of the danger-zone."
"But…" Max began to protest, yet he closed his mouth as the man said strictly, "You go over there and remain there." He pointed towards the still intact building. "When the heap comes down, I'll have my hands full with getting your friend and myself away."
Schultz's youngest son gulped. "O-okay," he murmured, and accepted the offered jacket before he bent down again. "Frank, don't be afraid. I'm just over there and…"
"Just go," the other boy croaked. "I'll be all right."
'Brave kids,' John thought to himself. 'I'm glad they'll survive this damn battle.'
Hesitantly and looking back a few times, Max backed off towards the building nearby and stopped at the backdoor. Instinctively, he tried the door and, to his surprise, found it unlocked.
Milford watched him and called, "Go inside and get some distance from here. Return when I call for you. What's your name?"
"Max," came the answer, and John nodded.
"Okay, Max, just go inside. Should the heap be bigger than I thought, it will reach the house. I don't want you to get hurt."
The boy nodded with a dry mouth and took a deep breath before doing as ordered.
Three GIs began to underpin the debris, stones, and wall pieces with their rifles, while the fourth made himself ready to use his own weapon as a lever. Milford bent down and shoved his hands under the boy's shoulders, who looked with big eyes at him; dark with fear now. "It's all right, kiddo," John said quietly. "I'll get you away before the heap comes down; don't be scared." Tensing his legs and ready to react when the right moment came, he looked at his men. "Now," he ordered.
It was a matter of a few seconds. The four men stemmed away most of the weight, and Milford pulled. Frank screamed in pain, but the staff sergeant couldn't take any considerations for the boy's injuries right now. The instant he got the smaller body free, he lifted Frank in his arms and ran towards the building where Max was. Behind him his men let go of everything and sprinted after him; rifles in hands while the pile of stones, debris, cement, and wall pieces crashed down behind them.
Milford reached the backdoor and was about to shout at the boy to open the door for him as it was torn open from inside. Racing into the building, the others on his heels, he didn't need to look back to know who had kept a clear mind. With a hard "Max, follow us," he hastened through the hallway towards the front door and the street. Pressing himself against the wall beside the entrance, he nodded at one of his men to check the situation in the street, while Max stopped beside him.
"Frank, you okay?" he asked, pale with worry. Horrified, he saw the torn trousers and blood that seeped through the material.
Frank heard his friend's voice from afar, but somehow he couldn't answer as the enormity of what happened reached finally his mind. He felt so cold and out of instincts he snuggled closer into the warm, strong arms holding him, wrapping his own around the man's neck.
Milford cursed inwardly. The boy was going into shock. "Frank, I want you to tell me a little bit about you. Where you're from, which class did you attend, etc." He tried to keep the kid awake. One look at Max, and he realized that the boy understood his intentions, because he reached out and lay a hand on Frank's shoulder.
"Frank, remember Herr Klaßen, our math teacher?"
"Hm-hm," came the answer, while two of the GIs called from outside, "All clear, sir."
Instantly, Milford left the building with the others and saw to his relief two comrades coming down the street bringing a stretcher. The combat had moved more towards the Rhine, and John assumed that three or four crossroads lay between them and the fights he could hear shots, shouts, and the rumbling of tanks from.
The two soldiers had closed the distance to him, and he carefully placed Frank on the stretcher. Another man came running with a bag in hand. It was one of the medics, who waved the others away and bent over the German boy. "Dammit, that's quite a mess," he said.
Max knelt down beside the stretcher and took one Frank's hands into his. As he met the American's glance, he said, "He's by best friend."
The medic grimaced while opening his medical kit.
"MILFORD!" a voice shouted from down the street, and with a sigh, John turned around.
"I'm here, Lieutenant," he called back, then looked down at the startled Max. "Don't be afraid. You two are under my protection."
"Thank you," the kid nodded before he returned his attention to his friend and the medic.
Milford cracked a ghost of a smile. The boys' shown courage and clear minds within the last few minutes impressed him. Taking a deep breath, he headed towards the officer, who came to a halt.
"What's the matter here?" the lieutenant asked, alerted.
Milford sighed. He didn't know the man well, after all the lieutenant belonged to the 69th Division of General Patten. Hopefully the officer understood his, Milford's, decision to help the teens. "One of the two boys here was caught under a heap of debris and stones. We got him out, but he's injured." He looked back over his shoulder and moved a little bit aside to give the officer a chance to see for himself.
Claus Muller glanced at the scene a few meters away from him and frowned. "No trap?" he asked, while watching the buildings around them carefully.
"No trap," Milford affirmed. "The boy who kneels beside the other one got us for help." He wasn't aware that another hint of a smile played around his lips. "The kid is…different. Not a Kraut, so to say. He spared my life ten minutes ago."
The lieutenant looked confused at him. "I beg your pardon. He spared you?"
John sighed again. "I was reloading my rifle a street away as the boy caught me. He had a clear aim on me, but he didn't shoot. He rather…spared me and ran away."
"Not enough guts then," Claus grumbled.
"No," Milford shook his head. "He didn't want to shoot. He's forced to be here, no doubt."
Taking a deep breath, Muller headed towards the two boys and the medic only to stop dead in his tracks. His eyes became wide as saucers, then he grimaced. "Just have a look: The little informant of two days ago," he said quietly.
Milford had accompanied him and lifted both brows. "Sir?"
Claus nodded into the direction of the kids. "When my men and I scouted this town, I spoke with this boy over there. I'm absolutely sure that's him."
John chuckled for a moment. "Fate has a funny sense of humor sometimes. The boy gave you information without knowing it – and I owe him my life only to run into him again and agree to help him now. Better to say help his friend. The two seem to be very close."
With a grunt, Muller closed the distance to the stretcher and looked down at the kneeling boy.
Max heard the approaching steps, glanced up, and his jaw almost hit the ground as he recognized the man despite the different uniform.
"H-H-Herr Leutnant?" he stuttered, thunderstruck.
Claus' left corner of the mouth curled. "Der Rang stimmt, nur die Anrede ist falsch." (The rank is correct, only the addressing is wrong.)
Max stared at him. "You…you're an American." As the lieutenant nodded, he groaned. "That's the reason why you thanked me for my help. I guess I gave you a lot of information you and your comrades needed for today."
Muller didn't have a bad conscience. Certainly not. Yet he felt…almost a little red-handed. "Well…yes," he admitted.
"Super," Max grumbled, rolling his eyes. "I was surprised of your kind way; now I don't have to wonder about it anymore." He grimaced. "Next time you pretend to be a German officer, be more nasty. Those guys really think being mean means strength."
Milford chuckled beneath his breath, while Muller gaped at the boy before he grinned. "Thanks for the advice. I'll take it to heart." He cocked his head. "Yet you didn't realize the truth."
"I didn't want to," Max deadpanned. "You were the first who had a few nice words for my comrades and me." He moistened his lips, before he added quietly, "And my wish for you to be safe was real."
"Just like mine concerning you," Claus replied before changing the topic. "You speak English rather well."
Max, still holding Frank's hand, who moaned softly as the medic examined him, shrugged a shoulder. "My father always said that it is important to learn a foreign language and preferably one that is often used within the world. It makes understanding easier – and talking is better than fighting."
"You should tell that Hitler of yours," the medic murmured, while preparing an injection with painkillers.
Muller pursed his lips. "A wise man, your father." He watched the boy attentively. "What's your name?"
"Maximilian," the kid replied. "Maximilian Schultz. But my friends call me Max."
Claus' eyes widened as his jaw headed downwards. "Maximilian…Schultz? From Heidelberg?" He saw the bafflement on the boy's face and gestured towards the other kid. "And this is Frank Heindel?"
Max didn't trust his ears. "How…how do you know that?" he stammered, flabbergasted.
Muller stared at him for another two or three seconds, then he snorted – half amused, half disbelieving. "Fate really has an odd sense of humor; you're right, Sergeant," he said towards Milford before looking back at Max. "I wracked my brain on how to find you within this large town, then you're sitting here after speaking with each other the day prior to yesterday and a big encounter with one of our non-coms now." He shook his head and laughed quietly. "My brother-in-law would call it 'kismet'."
"You…you tried to find Frank and me?" Max asked. "Why? And how do you know about us at all?"
The lieutenant stemmed his hands on the waist. "One of our most important…men behind the hostile lines asked us to find you two and get you to safety."
Max understood nothing anymore. "One of your most important men? Why? I don't…"
"Your father and he are working hand in hand and have become friends. Your father asked for his help as you were transferred to Coblenz, and the man in question contacted my superior giving him the task of locating you two. More I can't tell you."
Max scratched his head. "Dad asked him…He knows one of your…spies?" He shook his head. "Dad is a Sergeant of the Guards in a POW camp, and the only Americans he deals with every day are the POWs and the senior POW officer – a colonel, he told me once."
Muller glanced at him, and the boy caught the hint to shut up. "O-o-o-okay," he mumbled. "No more questions." Now it was him who snorted. "Dad works with an American spy. I always knew he's a hero, but to take such a risk…" He grinned proudly. "My dad fights Hitler and his fellows. The next time he comes home, he gets an extra hug."
Milford smiled at Muller. "Still doubting if the boy is a Nazi or not?"
"No," Claus replied softly. "I knew that he was clean the moment I talked to him two days ago." His eyes were gentle as he glanced down at the teen. "Like father, like son."
TBC…
Well, Max indeed has many streaks from his father, yet he shows courage in a different way than our 'Strudel-King'. He and Milford are going to learn a lot from and also about each other.
In the next chapter, Burkhalter gets another (tiny) shock, Hogan does another 'dance between the rain-drops', there is also some fluff between him and Klink, and Max and his friend are brought into the US-camp, where Schultz's son faces tolerance but also grudges…
I hope, you liked the new chapter, even if it is without hour heroes and love-birds. Yet I think it holds some sensible scenes, and not only action, what maybe is to your liking.
Like always, I'm absolutely curious of what you think.
I'll publish the next chapter sooner, so don't worry (smile).
Have a nice weekend,
Stay safe,
Yours Starflight
