Night of Flames: A Novel of World War II by Douglas W. Jacobson Page B
Authors: Douglas W. Jacobson
Ads: Link
was growing dark when they stopped in yet another shabby village with an unpronounceable name. This time the stop was longer. Schmidt leaned over the side of the truck, watching a group of offi cers engaged in an animated conversation with two old men who had been sitting on a bench in the village square when the battalion thundered in.
The conversation dragged on, and gradually soldiers began climbing out of the trucks and off the wagons. With considerable effort, Schmidt extricated himself from the corner of the truck and jumped down. Moving his head from side to side to work the kink out of his neck, he walked over to the small grassy area in the village square to take a piss.
He had just fi nished when Oberleutnant Kluge shouted at him, “Schmidt!
Komm! Round up your gun crew and get your asses back on the truck. We’re heading out. Mach schnell! ”
Schmidt started to complain but caught himself in time. Kluge was not someone who took any shit from the troops. He motioned to Willy, his ammo tender, and trudged back to the truck.
“Where the hell are we going now?” Willy griped. “We just got here for Christ’s sake.”
“Damned if I know,” Schmidt said. “I didn’t ask any questions.”
Night of Flames
47
Buchwald, the truck driver, had stubbed out his cigarette and was climbing into the cab.
“What the hell’s going on?” Schmidt asked.
Buchwald shrugged. “I think these dumb bastards are lost. Get on the truck.”
An hour later, the convoy entered a town situated along a river. The truck hit a pothole and bounced heavily. One of the ammo boxes toppled off the stack and landed on Schmidt’s foot.
“Verdammt!” he howled and grabbed the metal railing, struggling to his feet.
All he wanted was to get out of this damn thing and get some sleep. He leaned over the side of the truck and looked up ahead as the headlights illuminated a small wooden sign on the side of the road. It read, Walewice.
It was raining when they fi nally stopped at the north end of the town. The homes and shops all appeared intact, but the town was dark and quiet. Just as in most of the other towns they had entered, the locals seemed to melt into the background. Schmidt was about to jump off the truck when he spotted a group of German soldiers emerge from between two houses and approach the truck at the head of the convoy. A second group appeared as Kluge and two other offi -
cers jumped out of the lead truck.
Schmidt watched as a heated conversation erupted, the offi cers and the soldiers from the town all looking at a map in the headlights of the lead truck. Kluge was jabbing his fi nger at the map, yelling something that Schmidt couldn’t make out. Buchwald and a few other drivers got out of their trucks and wandered over to the group, standing back, listening.
A few minutes later, Buchwald came back to the truck, and shouted, “ Raus!
Raus! Looks like they fi nally fi gured out where we are. It’s another twenty kilometers to Glowno, so we’re spending the night here and headin’ there in the morning.”
Willy jumped down fi rst, shaking his head. “Maybe in the next war we should bring along somebody who can read Polish.”
“Who the hell are these other guys?” Schmidt asked, as he climbed off the truck.
“Sounds like they’re part of the 210th,” Buchwald said. “Supposedly, they’ve been here a couple of days, guarding the town. Kluge was pretty pissed at them; looks like they were all sleepin’ or just fuckin’ off.”
After seven hot and dusty days, the drizzling rain felt so good that Schmidt 48
Douglas W. Jacobson
just dropped to the ground next to the truck. He lay fl at on his back and let the cool rain wash over his face. He had just closed his eye when he heard a shout from Kluge to deploy the machine guns. He couldn’t believe it. Hell, it was the middle of the night and they were leaving fi rst thing in the morning.
Kluge stomped over shouting at them, “ Fertig machen! Get
The conversation dragged on, and gradually soldiers began climbing out of the trucks and off the wagons. With considerable effort, Schmidt extricated himself from the corner of the truck and jumped down. Moving his head from side to side to work the kink out of his neck, he walked over to the small grassy area in the village square to take a piss.
He had just fi nished when Oberleutnant Kluge shouted at him, “Schmidt!
Komm! Round up your gun crew and get your asses back on the truck. We’re heading out. Mach schnell! ”
Schmidt started to complain but caught himself in time. Kluge was not someone who took any shit from the troops. He motioned to Willy, his ammo tender, and trudged back to the truck.
“Where the hell are we going now?” Willy griped. “We just got here for Christ’s sake.”
“Damned if I know,” Schmidt said. “I didn’t ask any questions.”
Night of Flames
47
Buchwald, the truck driver, had stubbed out his cigarette and was climbing into the cab.
“What the hell’s going on?” Schmidt asked.
Buchwald shrugged. “I think these dumb bastards are lost. Get on the truck.”
An hour later, the convoy entered a town situated along a river. The truck hit a pothole and bounced heavily. One of the ammo boxes toppled off the stack and landed on Schmidt’s foot.
“Verdammt!” he howled and grabbed the metal railing, struggling to his feet.
All he wanted was to get out of this damn thing and get some sleep. He leaned over the side of the truck and looked up ahead as the headlights illuminated a small wooden sign on the side of the road. It read, Walewice.
It was raining when they fi nally stopped at the north end of the town. The homes and shops all appeared intact, but the town was dark and quiet. Just as in most of the other towns they had entered, the locals seemed to melt into the background. Schmidt was about to jump off the truck when he spotted a group of German soldiers emerge from between two houses and approach the truck at the head of the convoy. A second group appeared as Kluge and two other offi -
cers jumped out of the lead truck.
Schmidt watched as a heated conversation erupted, the offi cers and the soldiers from the town all looking at a map in the headlights of the lead truck. Kluge was jabbing his fi nger at the map, yelling something that Schmidt couldn’t make out. Buchwald and a few other drivers got out of their trucks and wandered over to the group, standing back, listening.
A few minutes later, Buchwald came back to the truck, and shouted, “ Raus!
Raus! Looks like they fi nally fi gured out where we are. It’s another twenty kilometers to Glowno, so we’re spending the night here and headin’ there in the morning.”
Willy jumped down fi rst, shaking his head. “Maybe in the next war we should bring along somebody who can read Polish.”
“Who the hell are these other guys?” Schmidt asked, as he climbed off the truck.
“Sounds like they’re part of the 210th,” Buchwald said. “Supposedly, they’ve been here a couple of days, guarding the town. Kluge was pretty pissed at them; looks like they were all sleepin’ or just fuckin’ off.”
After seven hot and dusty days, the drizzling rain felt so good that Schmidt 48
Douglas W. Jacobson
just dropped to the ground next to the truck. He lay fl at on his back and let the cool rain wash over his face. He had just closed his eye when he heard a shout from Kluge to deploy the machine guns. He couldn’t believe it. Hell, it was the middle of the night and they were leaving fi rst thing in the morning.
Kluge stomped over shouting at them, “ Fertig machen! Get
Similar Books
