Winner Take All

By C.W. Schuler

WINNER TAKE ALL: A NOVEL

AFTER THE SHOOTING STOPS

C.W. Schuler

The year is 1945! The war ends in Europe!
The American Armed Forces, flush from their victory over the powerful German Werhmacht, now becomes an army of occupation deep in the German Heartland. After disengaging from their combat mission in Czechoslovakia, an American infantry battalion is deployed back across the border into Germany as part of the occupying force.

This is the story of one battalion’s transition from the ethical certainties of combat to confronting the daunting complexities of security and civil administration of a foreign population traumatized by six years of war ruthlessly waged by a corrupt and brutal Nazi regime. For the battalion, this final mission was one that some of the young citizen-soldiers were neither properly trained nor temperamentally equipped to implement.

For both men and officers, temptations abound: the seductive allure of power and its consequent abuse; the opportunities for economic plunder through a thriving black market; the easy access to sexual adventure with a population of compliant young women starved by six years of war and deprivation who could often be seduced with as little as a package of cigarettes or a carton of American rations.

The story unfolds through the eyes of an idealistic young officer in the Intelligence Section of the battalion headquarters staff and his struggle to make sense of the moral ambiguities with which he is daily confronted; in addition he is haunted by feelings of personal guilt over an earlier incident at a combat river crossing of the Mosel River. He is also responsible for security at a camp for Displaced Persons, or DP’s, as they were known in the military. These were foreign laborers, mostly of Polish origin, conscripted to replace soldiers who had been working in the German armaments industry. Although a small Military Government detachment quartered in a nearby town was technically responsible for organizing some semblance of local administrative authority, the tactical combat troops retained control of all policies concerning internal security in the area.

Despite his best intentions, many of the lieutenant’s actions were sabotaged by the hard realities inherent in any military occupation of a foreign culture, both by German civilians struggling to survive, as well as the conflicting agendas of his fellow officers. Frustrated and disillusioned, he is finally led to accept the inevitable truth: that all human actions, no matter how well intended, are subject to the law of unintended consequences which is as implacable and indifferent to human desires as the law of gravity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 7, 2005
• ISBN: 9781453533659

C.W. Schuler

The novel begins in Czechoslovakia on the day the shooting stopped in the European Theater of Operations, May 8, 1945, and ends on August 8, two days after the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. The narrative follows a U.S Army infantry battalion as it disengages from its combat mission and moves back across the border into Germany. Along the newly established Czech border the battalion occupies an administrative district approximating the area of an American county where they are responsible for internal security within their zone of operation. In addition the battalion is required to monitor the flood of refugees crossing the border as they attempt to escape the Czech police and the Soviet army advancing from the East. The former German forced labor camps in the area, whose occupants are now officially designated “Displaced Persons”, await repatriation to their countries of origin as required by the Potsdam Accord. These also fall within the battalion’s jurisdiction. During this hiatus from combat the rifle companies are ordered to resume tactical training exercises in anticipation of possible early deployment to the South Pacific Theater of Operations as part of the massive build up to an invasion of the Japanese Home Islands. The story unfolds from the point of view of Lieutenant Henry Snyder, a staff officer, S-2 Intelligence Section, on the Battalion Headquarters Staff. In the early weeks of the occupation there is in place an official policy of non-fraternization, consequently Lieutenant Snyder, with the assistance of a small detachment of Security Guards, is made responsible for all contacts between the Battalion and the German Civil Administration. He is also expected to oversee the operation and security of a large Displaced Persons camp populated mostly by conscripted laborers of Polish origin. Although the small Military Government detachment quartered in a nearby town is technically responsible for organizing some semblance of local administrative authority, the tactical combat troops retain control of all actions and policies concerned with internal security in the area. The action that follows explores the many operational difficulties and moral ambiguities that surface during the transition from killing to administration, from the relatively black and white ethical certainties of combat where the mission was clearly defined and the enemy easily identified, to one of peaceful and, hopefully, non-coercive negotiation. However, this latter role was one that the soldiers’ military training and long exposure to the unambiguous brutalities of the battlefield has left them ill prepared to address. The drama takes place on a relatively small stage; the actors are mostly bit players from the lower echelons of the Chain of Command. There are no obvious heroes or villains in the traditional sense, only ordinary citizen soldiers pulled out of mostly ordinary civilian lives with all the weaknesses and vulnerabilities that “flesh is heir to” and thrown into situations for which nothing in their previous lives had prepared them. Consequently, the larcenies are largely petty and the homicides are acts of unreflective reflex. Each of the characters must come to terms in his own way with the many opportunities for economic plunder via a thriving black market and the temptations for sexual adventure with a compliant population of young women starved by six years of war and deprivation, many of whom can be seduced with as little as a package of cigarettes or a carton of American rations. Although each character adjusts to the realities of this unfamiliar environment in his own way, some are better able to adapt than others, hence the title: WINNER TAKE ALL. If there is any general theme to be derived from this story it may possibly be as simple as this: no matter how strongly we may wish otherwise, we are all subject to an iron Law of Unintended Consequences which is as implacable and indifferent to human desires as the Law of Gravity itself. But on that score the reader will have to come to his or her own conclusions.

Book preview

Winner

Take All

C.W. Schuler

Copyright © 2005 by C.W. Schuler.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

The characters and events in this book are fictious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Xlibris Corporation

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26800

To Nancy:

Wife, editor, typist, critic and

best friend for her unwavering

encouragement and infinite

patience.

It’s not whether you win or lose

It’s how you play the game.

Grantland Rice

Winning is not everything,

winning is the only thing.

Vince Lombardi

Contents

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2

3

4

5

6

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10

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28

1

It was the first thing they saw as the jeep crested the hill then coasted downgrade with the exhaust cracking like gunshots against the drag of the motor.

There . . . at the bottom of the hill, the lieutenant said, the factory.

The driver, a staff sergeant, gunned the motor and they jolted toward a cluster of buildings at the foot of the slope.

A smokestack, rearing erect like a monstrous phallus, pierced the filmy wraiths of low-lying morning fog: the Textilfabrik squatting in its own excrement of industrial waste. A ragged crowd of liberated foreign workers flooded over and through shattered glass and ruptured doors dragging clumsy bolts of uncut cloth through the dirt.

The jeep rocked through the open gate, scattering the crowd left and right, then skidded to a stop in the loose gravel. The lieutenant swung around the windshield and up onto the hood.

Halt! he shouted, waving his arms. Stop!

Parting, the multitude flowed around him in silence. Loose ends of cloth trailed in the dust, trampled and torn. They paid no attention to the jeep, as though it was no more than a chunk of rock embedded in the yard, an object to be skirted or climbed over.

"Halten! Back! Take it back . . . zurück!"

It was like trying to catch the wind in a net. Then, as they pressed on, a low murmur, like the hum of a great dynamo, rose from the crowd surging around and past him.

Finally he gave it up. Climbing down from the hood of the vehicle he spoke to the driver: There’s no stopping them now. The major will really be pissed.

The sergeant sucked on an unlighted pipe. He looked half-asleep.

Why not give them a quick burst? He nodded at the light machine gun mounted on the side bracket of the jeep. In the air, of course, he added, snapping a match with his thumbnail and then sucking the flame deep into the bowl of the pipe.

What happened? the lieutenant said. Suddenly you’ve become a real fucking hardass.

Ragged unwashed bodies jostled against him and he recoiled from the contact. Vaulting back into the jeep, he yanked back the bolt handle of the 30 cal. and rammed it savagely home. Once repeated. Ready. He swung around and leveled on the mob of looters. His left hand grasped the breech; his right forefinger tightened on the trigger.

A scream suddenly shattered the silence, rose in pitch, faltered, and then descended until lost under the shuffle and murmur of the crowd.

He hesitated. The sergeant’s face was wreathed in smoke, inscrutable.

The hell with it. We’ll wait for Gorsky and the rest of the platoon.

The sergeant shrugged.

They must be giving some poor bastard a real working over, the lieutenant said.

It’s no skin off my ass, the sergeant said. He knocked his pipe against the side of the jeep to clean out the ashes.

The lieutenant laughed. True enough, he said, but let’s have a quick look, just for the hell of it.

The sergeant gunned the motor and the exhaust cracked like an M1, sharp and menacing. As he eased the vehicle forward the crowd melted away, then closed immediately in their wake. Halfway across the yard they broke into the clear.

The lieutenant saw at once that what he now had to deal with were not liberated foreign workers but Czech partisans, full of bounce and out for a bit of sport. As the jeep slowed to a stop he slipped out, his momentum pitching him forward a half dozen running steps.

Let’s go, he called to the sergeant, and grab the tommygun.

The two Czechs had a civilian backed against the wall, and were in the process of beating him to a bloody pulp. They wore OD woolen shirts and baggy feldgrau trousers stuffed into clumsy black Wermacht boots and they both carried German Machinenpistole.

Goddamn! the lieutenant shouted, striding between them. What the fuck you jokers think you’re doing?

The two Czechs jabbered away, but he couldn’t understand a word they said. They laughed and waved their arms, excited as two farm boys turned loose in a Carnival Midway with a pocketful of change. Their eyes glittered with anticipation, and they each grabbed one of his hands and pumped away as though he was some long lost cousin.

Deutsche gewehr! they cried and waved the guns in his face. Then, pointing to their prisoner and scowling, Grosse Nazi!

They were as nearly alike as a pair of cartridges, with thick chunky bodies and close-cropped hair, yet one appeared to be slightly taller than the other. He was very excited and suddenly slugged the German with the butt of the Machinenpistole.

The man screamed and doubled over, clutching at his belly with both hands. Slightly built with thin graying hair, he appeared to be in his mid-fifties. His rimless glasses dangled from one ear and there was a ragged cut on his right cheek. Blood oozed down his cheek spreading a dark crimson blot on the high stiff collar of his white shirt.

Amerikanishe prima! The taller of the two, the one who had just struck the German, attempted to engage the lieutenant in a clumsy embrace.

"Zigarette? You cigarette, Joe?"

The lieutenant fished a crumpled pack of Luckies from his pocket and gave them each a cigarette. They appeared very happy with their work. They lighted the cigarettes and laughed and jabbered together and blew smoke in the German’s face.

A 6x6 truck came hurtling down the road in front of the factory, swung through the gate and into the yard with a squeal of brakes. A dozen men armed with automatic weapons spilled out of the back of the truck. They wore steel helmets with the letters SG stenciled across the front in white block capitals. Spreading out, the Security Guards began to herd the ragged mob of workers, still clutching their precious loot, into a tight circle in the center of the yard. They worked swiftly and methodically. They seemed to know exactly what they were about; as if they had practiced the same exercise, or something quite similar, before breakfast every day of their lives.

The lieutenant turned his attention back to the German civilian, who was now cringing against the cinderblock wall of a small outbuilding. A dark stain had spread down the front of his trousers and puddled in the gravel at his feet. As the two Czechs moved to resume their assault, the lieutenant quickly stepped between them and held out his hand.

The guns, he said quietly. Give me the guns.

Was es? They looked at one another and shrugged. Nicht verstehen.

Nick furstain my ass, the lieutenant said, moving closer. "Mach schnell with the damn guns. Dem Gewehr."

The two Czechs appeared not to understand. They laughed and jabbered. They pushed against him, competing for the honor of demonstrating to the Amerikanishe Offizier the fabulous nature of their prizes. The short one showed him how it was loaded and the working of the mechanism.

Prima, eh? Prima! He grinned, showing a mouthful of jagged yellow teeth, though it was more of a comical grimace as two of his upper incisors appeared to be missing.

Suddenly the taller of the two, firing from the hip, let go a short burst in the air over the German’s head. The old man immediately collapsed in the dirt. Bitte! Bitte! as he tried to shield his head with his hands, his body shaken with uncontrollable sobs.

Cursing under his breath, the lieutenant moved quickly to take possession of the Machinenpistole and then handed them off to the sergeant. At first the Czechs looked puzzled. Then at last they began to understand and the smiles faded as they saw the lights of their Carnival Midway suddenly dim.

OK, so far so good. Now put the Kraut in the jeep.

Are you serious, lieutenant?

He stared thoughtfully for a moment at the staff sergeant. Here’s the choice. Either you take that fucking Kraut weapon and shoot the little bastard or else put him in the jeep because we’re calling the tune now, not these two clowns. They haven’t earned the right, not in my book, not by a long shot.

The sergeant started to speak. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He looked at the man curled in the dust and then back at the lieutenant. Finally he slung the tommygun over one shoulder and the two Machinenpistole over the other. Then he walked over and sharply kicked the German in the rump.

Let’s go, he said. Heraus.

The German quickly scrambled to his feet and followed the sergeant.

And by the way, the lieutenant said, tell Sergeant Gorsky I want all the cloth returned to the factory.

Yes, sir.

And one thing more. Tell him, for chrissake, to take it easy. The major wouldn’t like any blood spattered on the merchandise.

As the German was led away the Czechs plucked at the lieutenant’s jacket and pointed at the prisoner and the sergeant who had their guns.

Nazi! Nazi! Immer Grosse Nazi!

Laughing, the lieutenant pushed them away. Come on, take it easy. You keep screwing around and somebody is sure as hell going to get hurt, furstain?

Was es? Nicht verstehn, Herr Leutnant.

It’s all very simple. This fucking carnival is closed for the duration.

They jabbered at him in Czech, both talking at once and pulling at his jacket, and then in broken German. Dem Gewehr. Was es mitt dem Gewehr?

"Beat it! Heraus schnell!"

He shoved them toward the gate. Disarmed, they started sullenly away, firing back angry looks at the lieutenant as they moved across the yard. The taller one was still jabbering and angrily pounding his fist into his hand. His comrade appeared to have nothing more to say.

As the lieutenant watched the two Czechs disappear through the gate he thought that at the very least he should have given them each another cigarette. It would have been a small gesture, of no consequence in the larger scheme of things. But now could we not afford to be more generous? After all, hadn’t we won the war?

2

Roosevelt was dead.

For the Freedom Loving Peoples of the World victory seemed assured on all fronts. Truman, Churchill, Stalin, all were confident of final and total victory.

Naha had fallen. The Japanese forces on Okinawa were reduced to a handful of fanatical defenders holding out in the hills and caves.

Already airstrips were being readied from which to bomb the Home Islands.

Mussolini was dead.

Von Vietinghoff surrendered all German forces in Italy. Blumentritt capitulated in Holland to the Canadian First Army. The American Third Army, advancing on a 140-mile front, sent XII Corps knifing through the Regen Pass in the Sudeten Mountains to open a road to Prague.

Hitler was dead.

Now, at long last, the end was in sight. Roadblocks, poor roads and rough terrain were the principal obstacles. And still it was a killing war.

Charlie Company of the 134th Infantry, moving to attack the village of Zhuri, had been engaged in a stiff firefight with an isolated detachment of Waffen SS. Seven men in the assaulting squad were killed, caught in the open and pinned down by a crossfire of machine guns and then shelled by the 12cm mortars. The engagement lasted a little over an hour; artillery and a platoon of tanks were called up; then the infantry went in and flushed out the holes. Thirty-five Germans were killed, twelve wounded, and forty-six taken prisoner. The transgressor was repaid fivefold for his presumption.

During the afternoon of 7 May, a Combat Command of the 4th Armored passed through the line, spearheading east. At nightfall the battalion moved into defensive positions around the town of Stribrne in Czechoslovakia with orders to stand ready to resume the advance on an hour’s notice. The general mission was to follow and support the armored assault on Prague.

By 0700 hours of 8 May, 1st Lieutenant Henry Snyder, battalion staff officer, S-2 Section, was able to report to Battalion Headquarters from a Charlie Company field telephone that it was once more, all quiet on the Western Front. We have met the enemy and they . . . .

It was at this point that Eugene Worley, Captain AUS, the Battalion S-3, having been roused from a sound sleep with a thumping hangover, chose to end the transmission.

Ya want s’more coffee, lootenant? the first cook said, dipping a ladle into the galvanized iron GI can.

So that’s what the fuck this is, Snyder said, turning to Sergeant Hanes and laughing. You hear that? He calls this shit coffee.

I thought somebody pissed in the pot, the sergeant said.

On their way back from the Textilfabrik they had stopped at the Headquarters Company kitchen for breakfast. The field ranges were set up in the middle of the street. The men moved in single file, first dipping their messkits in a can of boiling water and then shuffling past the cooks and KP’s who dished out the chow, one course slapdab atop the one before: a gelatinous mound of hot cereal that had the taste and texture of mucilage, a watery fluid made from powdered milk, two purplish plums with a spoon of juice, a thick slice of week-old bread, a slap of marmalade and coffee, all you could drink.

Hey, cookie, ya got that? the first cook called to the second cook who was dishing up hot cereal to the line of messkits. The sahgent’s a real comedian. An so fuckin early in the mornin’ too.

The second cook handed his spoon to a KP and sauntered over to the kitchen truck where Staff Sergeant Hanes and Snyder were using the tailgate for a table.

What’s new at the front, Lootenant?

Ain’tcha heard? the first cook said, looking over his shoulder as he ladled coffee into the passing line of canteen cups. The gawdam war is over, cookie.

In a pig’s ass it’s over, the second cook said. He went over and dipped himself a cup of coffee and lighted a cigarette.

Ya kin pack up ya pots and pans, the first cook said, we’ll be home for the fart of July, buddy.

Up ya bucket. That’s what they said at Mossoos Lee Mess and first thing ya know, we was stuck in the gawdamn Bulge. Ain’t that right, Lootenant?

Listen, farthead, the first cook said. He turned to glare at the second cook and poured a dipper of coffee on the feet of the next cup in line.

Watchout watcha doin, ya sonuvabitch! the GI cried as the scalding coffee splashed on his leg.

I’m tellin ya, the gawdam war is over, the first cook insisted. He paid no attention to the cursing GI, dipped another ladle of coffee and filled the cup. The man shuffled on to the cereal, pushed along by the line of men pressing him from behind.

What can ya do with a guy like that, Lootenant? the second cook said, wearily shaking his head. He’s the kinda guy still believes in Sandy Claws and Little Orfunt Annie. But I’ll tell ya what I think, Lootenant. This war ain’t neva gonna end. We ain’t neva gonna see the end of this fuckin war, that’s for damn sure.

Then they just stood by the truck with nobody saying much, smoking and drinking coffee and watching the GI’s shuffle through the chow line. After a moment Hanes said, Wonder how come we’re not moving out?

How should I know, Snyder said. You know as much about it as I do.

I thought we were supposed to follow the 4th Armored.

When the orders come, then we’ll move. Don’t be in such a goddamn hurry.

No hurry, Hanes said, I just like to know where I stand. He tipped his canteen cup and let the coffee dribble out on the pavement. Maybe I’ll go on back and pick up some extra sacktime.

I’ll be along, Snyder said.

He hung around for a second coffee and cigarette and listened to the running skirmish between the cooks and the GI’s drifting back to argue over seconds with the KP’s. Finally he took the jeep and drove over to the PW stockade to check out the situation with Gorsky.

They were using the local Gymnasium as a temporary holding area for PW’s. According to the last word from Gorsky, there was an accumulated total of fifty-two Krauts, all packed into a single room in the school building. For two days Regiment hadn’t made a move to pick them up and Snyder was becoming concerned. Normally they weren’t left at Battalion level longer than twenty-four hours. He had no authority to draw rations, he was short on personnel for guard duty and his transportation was completely inadequate. They were going to be a damned headache if the Battalion had to move out in a hurry, and yet he wasn’t about to turn them loose. The war was almost over, hanging by the sheerest of threads, but still hanging nevertheless, and a prisoner was still and above all a prisoner. But even the Krauts were human and you couldn’t sit back and deliberately let them starve . . . or could you?

Gorsky wasn’t around. The sentry on duty thought he might have gone to chow. Snyder poked his nose in the prisoner’s room and quickly withdrew and shut the door. They were packed in so tight that less than half could find room to sit, let alone stretch out full length on the floor. The stink of sweat and polluted air was strong enough to take his breath away. The human animal wasn’t physiologically designed to be packed together in a pen like cattle. It made him a little sick; but that was the way it had to be and, for the moment, there wasn’t much he could do.

He left the school and drove back to his billet. Along the streets life had exploded with a shout and a roar: tanks, trucks, weapons carriers, parked, moving, backing up, jeeps with stern visaged staffofficers with mapboards balanced on their knees, drivers cursing for the right-of-way, GI’s gawking out of windows, washing socks in their helmets, shaving, eating, chasing roosters around the privies, carrying a helmet filled with eggs, building fires, cleaning weapons, smoking cigarettes, sleeping, taking a crap, pissing up a storm.

As a temporary base of operations, Snyder had selected a house located off on a side street about two blocks from Battalion Headquarters; the idea being to stay far enough away so as not to be conspicuously available but close enough so they wouldn’t be left behind if there was a last minute change in orders. A platoon from Charlie Company had a building across the street but otherwise they had things pretty much to themselves. He gave the I & R Platoon the upstairs; he and Staff Sergeant Hanes shared a room on the ground floor, just off the kitchen. There was a wood cook stove, running water and, miraculously enough, the electricity was still on. Also, there was a strong dry cellar—just in case the Krauts decided to drop in a few rounds of HE as a parting salute.

Snyder ran the front wheels of the jeep up on the sidewalk so the tanks could get by on the narrow street. Hanes was back in the sack and already asleep. The fire was out in the cook stove: 0800 hours and still no orders to move. He went out behind the house to look for kindling.

In the corner a Black Forest cuckoo clock struck the half-hour. A tank destroyer rumbled past the house, dishes rattled and jumped in the cupboard and a gilt crucifix danced against the trembling wall.

Snyder slumped into a chair and rested his chin in his hands. Across the table Major Powers, Battalion Executive Officer, drummed his fingers sharply on the white enameled surface.

Offhand, how much would you say?

I don’t know, Snyder said. Plenty. Enough.

Just a guess. About.

I can’t say, maybe five hundred of the big ones and twice as many of the smaller bolts. To tell the truth I didn’t pay that much attention.

The major nodded. Snyder shifted wearily in the chair and lighted a cigarette. Across the room a fire smoldered in the cook stove. A teakettle hissed faintly. The cuckoo clock matched rhythms with the drip, drip, drip of the faucet leaking into the sink. Through the glass doors of the cupboard he could see jars of spice and condiment, packages of soda, flour, salt, sugar, cups and saucers and plates. Everything abandoned in a moment of terror, sudden flight, pellmell, all is lost. Like a room excavated at Pompeii, he thought, or the restorations set up behind plate glass in a museum—See, this is how they really lived.

How about some coffee? Snyder said.

What? Coffee?

You want some?

No. No coffee, the major said, not now. Between thumb and forefinger he slowly drew down his lower lip to reveal a wink of enamel, pearl-white moistly gleaming, then let it snap elastically shut. A maneuver thrice repeated, then asked: You set a guard I presume?

Guard. Oh yes, the guard.

"You did leave one?" The major’s voice rose, faintly querulous. He looked suspiciously at Snyder.

Sure. A couple guys from the Security Platoon.

Two, precisely?

Precisely two.

You think that’s enough?

I assume . . .

You assume! Affronted intelligence, he silenced Snyder with a look. His black brows snapping together in obvious disdain, he administered a sharp reprimand. Since when, Lieutenant, can we afford the luxury of assumptions? Attack a town assuming the Germans have withdrawn and you’ll have your goddamn head blown off. The road to hell is paved with assumptions.

Not good intentions?

There is no such thing.

There won’t be any trouble, Snyder said. Not now. Gorsky was there. You could set a helmet on a stick and plant it in the middle of the yard and they wouldn’t come within ten miles of the place.

I trust Sergeant Gorsky kept his enthusiasm within the limits of reason?

That depends on how you might define . . .

Put it this way. Were there any fatalities?

Of course not. I insisted on moderation. A few bloody heads. Possibly a broken bone or two, but only small ones.

We have enough trouble as it is, the major said with a sigh. I want you to keep a tight rein on those people, Snyder. You understand?

Not completely. But does it really matter?

The headline of a crumpled Stars and Stripes that lay on the table caught his attention.

May 5, 1945

Germans Talk With Eisenhower

As Resistance Crumbles in the West

On the contrary, Powers said, it matters a great deal. A very great deal, Lieutenant.

You mind if I make some coffee? Snyder said.

Without waiting for an answer he carried his canteen cup to the stove and filled it with boiling water from the kettle.

That’s the trouble with this army, Powers said. Scraped razorraw, his thin angular face tensed, the jaw thrusting to a compulsive point. No organization, no discipline, nothing. It’s a real goddamn miracle we won the war at all. Rising, he began to pace between stove and sink, regulating his steps to the checkerboard pattern of squares in the linoleum.

Snyder tore open the corner of a tinfoil packet of soluble coffee and shook the brown powder into the water, reading:

A spirit of enthusiastic confidence prevailed in all quarters today. However, informed sources warned against what they termed, the dangers of a premature and unwarranted optimism

He stirred the coffee with a German messkit spoon, watching the bubbles pop and break and the foam settle.

What are you going to do with it? he finally asked, hunched over the cup with eyes averted, the steam fanning his cheek like a warm breath. He heard Powers stop, turn and then come up behind the chair, leaning over his shoulder.

Do with what? the major said in his ear, almost in a whisper.

The cloth.

The major straightened with a little explosive laugh.

"Do? What the devil are you getting at . . . Do?"

I only assumed, since you . . .

Assumed! Powers cried. Snyder, you must be either a fool or a lunatic.

. . . sent me out to stop the looting, Snyder continued, I assumed you had special plans. He glanced covertly at Powers, who hovered behind his back like an angry wasp eager to sting.

Special plans . . . so that’s the way the wind blows. You’re a sly one, Snyder, no mistake. He sat down, rapped his knuckles sharply on the table, then hopped up and resumed his pacing.

What the hell do I care about a few bolts of Heinie cloth? Not a damn thing. There was looting and I had it stopped. It’s as simple as that. A war, yes—but that doesn’t mean anything goes, not by a long shot. There are still rules, laws, regulations. We’re not animals. Once you let that sort off crap get started, there’s no telling . . .

Abruptly, he sat down on the old gutbusted sofa and pulled off his woolknit cap. On the wall above his head the brass pendulum of the cuckoo clock snicked monotonously back and forth.

No telling, he repeated, scratching furiously at his head where the hair had been matted and tangled by the wool cap. The cloth belongs to the factory. No one, so far as I know, has requisitioned or given permission, written or verbal, for its removal. So it is our responsibility—and you, Snyder, in particular—to protect all property, public and personal, until disposition has been determined by duly constituted authority. In this case, the United States Army.

Amen, Snyder said, and long may she wave.

What’s that?

Nothing. I thought I heard music.

Look, are you trying to be funny?

Funny? Me? Snyder laughed.

Okay, cut it. The major rocked to his feet and stood glaring at Snyder. Then he suddenly looked back over his shoulder at the clock.

Christamitey, it’s 08:50 already.

The moving finger writes, Snyder said. He raised the cup and sipped cautiously. Jesuschristmas! Hotdamn tin cups.

General Hubbard was here.

Say, that reminds me of a joke . . .

This was no joke, I assure you.

"Ach zzo? No doubt to distribute well deserved decorations for conduct above and beyond. Our beloved and glorious CG casting pearls to the swine, nicht wahr?"

You mean you haven’t heard what those two people from Charlie Company pulled off this morning?

No, sir, I haven’t a clue.

They grabbed an SS non-com from your PW cage and shot the bastard down in cold blood with half the civilians in town watching. A regular damn circus.

So what’s the bind? This is something new? Maybe it’s not SOP, strictly speaking, and you wouldn’t find it spelled out in a SHAEF directive. But you know and I know and everybody knows, anyone who should or could know, no matter what it says on paper or the staff generals at the Pentagon or some PR colonel in Comm Z, this is not the first and it sure as hell won’t be the last.

No, not the first, Powers said, but the bygod last. He walked over to the table and kicked aside the chair. "General Hubbard found out, and that makes one—not the only—but one big difference. With the colonel at Division and now this, and you sit there cracking wise. Don’t forget, Snyder, we could always find room for you in a rifle company. There’s always room at the bottom."

Snyder shrugged and lowered his eyes. He thought of Garret, away at Division Headquarters. The colonel might have sacked him but it would come like a fist in the mouth, sudden and clean. No talk, no threats. No one talked back to Garret—but then Powers wasn’t Garret.

Here’s how it is, Major, Snyder said, slapping the table and deliberately leveling his gaze at Powers. Attempted escape, how does that strike you? Hell, there are a dozen ways we can pass this off. Anyway, what does one Kraut, more or less, count when they add up the final score? So a couple little ol’ half-ass GIs needed a good story, maybe something to tell the boys back at the poolhall, a ticket to a free piece of ass, got carried away by their enthusiasm. Goodcleanfun, Major. But look at it this way: if the Kraut was SS, he probably deserved it and even if he didn’t, who gives a shit? How can you stop in the middle of a war to settle moral questions? There’s no such animal as a fair war, and there never will be. You only win or lose. It’s so simple it’s crazy.

Powers regarded him gravely. He pulled down his lip. Softly, plop. Plop (softly).

I thought you knew, he said. The war’s over, Snyder. It’s not a moral question but now it’s become a legal problem. He paused and scratched his head, the matted hair faintly graying at the temples.

Goodgod, Snyder cried, jumping up, not that old pitch again. He snatched up the Stars and Stripes and waved it in Powers’ face. Extra, extra, read the latest: Germans talk, Americans talk, British talk. Everybody talks, soldiers fight. And how about this? Resistance crumbles, hell it’s been crumbling since Falaise. Get the boys out of the trenches and home for Christmas. Bang! Along comes the goddamn Bulge. Always crumbling but never quite crumbled.

Powers took the paper, gave it a cursory glance and then tossed it back on the table.

You’re a little behind the times, Snyder. About three days worth. The talking is over—no, that’s not right either—but the shooting is. The order came down from Regiment about two hours ago. All signed, sealed and delivered, neat as a Christmas box from home. So your poolhall commandos have been caught hunting out of season, that’s about the size of it.

It struck him hard—why, he couldn’t understand. Perhaps the abruptness, even when you knew it was only a matter of time, which you could never really anticipate, how you’re going to feel, like a sudden death in the family—like anything sudden and final, an end or a beginning, at first you can’t take it in. Like hell it’s over he thought, crying out impulsively: I don’t believe it. But Powers only smiled and shook his head.

Snyder walked to the window. The first shock of disbelief was gone; and now, strangely, he felt a terrible emptiness, a brooding sense of irreparable loss and futility. He stared down into the mud-spattered jeep parked under the window, a litter of canvas bedrolls, canteens, messkits, entrenching tools, tactical maps, empty ration cartons, crumpled cigarette packets, candy wrappers and torn scraps of paper. The light machine gun pointed impotently at a vacant sky; a belt of ammunition, the lean brass cartridge cases held rigidly in the khaki webbing like a formation of toy soldiers, was draped across the base of the mount, and the thought kept running through his head, senselessly reiterated: so this is the way it ends, so this is the way . . . .

He raised his eyes. Across the street two soldiers in greasy mud-caked fatigues, their heads pillowed on their packs and their rifles propped against the iron railing, were sleeping in the sun on the front steps of a two-story building. A third man lay on his back on the sidewalk, smoking and staring at the sky. In an open window just above their heads, a potted geranium, like a splash of dried blood against the motionless white curtains, stood balanced on the edge of the sill.

Good material for a correspondent, he thought, the human interest angle, they all had an angle. The three, four counting the geranium, picked up by the press service and sprawled across the back pages—human interest went in the back—of a thousand newspapers: Weary GI’s Sleep As War Ends In Europe. Or perhaps something terse and ironic for the Sunday supplement—Repose or The End Of The Trail.

And at his back he heard the faint clack clack of the clock, marking time like the footfalls of a soldier alone on an empty drill field, and the vaguely familiar voice going on and on . . .

You hear? the major was saying. "That changes the picture, doesn’t it? There are always rules. Situations change and the rules change, too, but not the need to follow rules, that never changes. You always have to work within the rules, Snyder, take them for what they’re worth, good, bad or indifferent. The people who can recognize the change and adapt themselves quickest and easiest—re-orient, that’s