not seen him or he was dead. The gun was pointed directly at him.
Then the German moved. Only slightly with his right arm. He was trying to reach his weapon but in too much pain to accomplish the task.
Scarlett rushed forward and fell upon the wounded soldier, trying to make as little noise as possible. He could not let the German fire or raise an alarm. Awkwardly he pulled the man away from the gun and pinned him on the ground. Not wanting to fire his revolver and draw attention to himself, he began to choke him. Fingers and thumbs on his throat, the German tried to speak.
“Amerikaner! Amerikaner! Ich ergebe mich!” He held his palms up in desperation and gestured behind him.
Scarlett partially released his grip. He whispered. “What? What do you want?” He let the German raise himself as much as he was able to. The man had been left to die with his weapon, holding off whatever assault came while the rest of his company retreated.
He pushed the German machine gun out of the wounded man’s reach and, while alternately looking forward and backward, crawled several yards into the forest. All around were signs of evacuation. Gas masks, emptied knapsacks, even bandoliers of ammunition. Anything too heavy to carry easily.
They’d all gone.
He rose and walked back to the German soldier. Something was becoming very clear to Ulster Scarlett.
“Amerikaner! Der Scheint ist fast zu Ende zu sein! Erlaube mir nach Hause zu gehen!”
Lieutenant Scarlett had made up his mind. The situation was perfect! More than perfect—it was extraordinary!
It would take an hour, perhaps longer, for the rest of the Fourteeenth Battalion to reach the area. B Company’s Captain Jenkins was so determined to be a hero he had run hell out of them. Advance! Advance! Advance!
But this was his—Scarlett’s—way out! Maybe they’d jump a rank and make him a captain. Why not? He’d be a hero.
Only he wouldn’t be there.
Scarlett withdrew his revolver and as the German screamed he shot him in the forehead. Then he leapt to the machine gun. He started firing.
First to the rear, then to the right, then to the left.
The crackling, shattering noise echoed throughout the forest. The bullets entering trees thumped with a terrible finality. The sound was overpowering.
And then Scarlett pointed the weapon in the direction of his own men. He pulled the trigger and held it steady, swinging the gun from one flank to the other. Scare the living Jesus out of them! Maybe kill a few!
Who cared?
He was a power of death.
He enjoyed it.
He was entitled to it.
He laughed.
He withdrew his pressed finger and stood up.
He could see the mounds of dirt several hundred yards to the west. Soon he would be miles away and out of it all!
Suddenly he had the feeling he was being watched! Someone was watching him! He withdrew his pistol once again and crouched to the earth.
Snap!
A twig, a branch, a crushed stone!
He crawled on his knees slowly, cautiously into the woods.
Nothing.
He allowed his imagination to take over his reason. The sound was the sound of a tree limb cracked by the machine-gun fire. The sound was the sound of that same limb falling to the ground.
Nothing.
Scarlett retreated, still unsure, to the edge of the woods. He quickly picked up the remains of the dead German’s helmet and began to run back to Company B’s position.
What Ulster Stewart did not know was that he
was
being watched. He was being watched intently. With incredulity.
A German officer, the blood on his forehead slowly congealing, stood upright hidden from the American by the trunk of a wide pine tree. He had been about to kill the Yank lieutenant—as soon as his enemy left the gun—when he saw the man suddenly turn his fire on his own men. His own troops.
His own troops!
He had the American in his Luger’s sight but he did not wish to kill this man.
Not yet.
For the German officer, the last man of his company in that small forest—left for dead—knew
Then the German moved. Only slightly with his right arm. He was trying to reach his weapon but in too much pain to accomplish the task.
Scarlett rushed forward and fell upon the wounded soldier, trying to make as little noise as possible. He could not let the German fire or raise an alarm. Awkwardly he pulled the man away from the gun and pinned him on the ground. Not wanting to fire his revolver and draw attention to himself, he began to choke him. Fingers and thumbs on his throat, the German tried to speak.
“Amerikaner! Amerikaner! Ich ergebe mich!” He held his palms up in desperation and gestured behind him.
Scarlett partially released his grip. He whispered. “What? What do you want?” He let the German raise himself as much as he was able to. The man had been left to die with his weapon, holding off whatever assault came while the rest of his company retreated.
He pushed the German machine gun out of the wounded man’s reach and, while alternately looking forward and backward, crawled several yards into the forest. All around were signs of evacuation. Gas masks, emptied knapsacks, even bandoliers of ammunition. Anything too heavy to carry easily.
They’d all gone.
He rose and walked back to the German soldier. Something was becoming very clear to Ulster Scarlett.
“Amerikaner! Der Scheint ist fast zu Ende zu sein! Erlaube mir nach Hause zu gehen!”
Lieutenant Scarlett had made up his mind. The situation was perfect! More than perfect—it was extraordinary!
It would take an hour, perhaps longer, for the rest of the Fourteeenth Battalion to reach the area. B Company’s Captain Jenkins was so determined to be a hero he had run hell out of them. Advance! Advance! Advance!
But this was his—Scarlett’s—way out! Maybe they’d jump a rank and make him a captain. Why not? He’d be a hero.
Only he wouldn’t be there.
Scarlett withdrew his revolver and as the German screamed he shot him in the forehead. Then he leapt to the machine gun. He started firing.
First to the rear, then to the right, then to the left.
The crackling, shattering noise echoed throughout the forest. The bullets entering trees thumped with a terrible finality. The sound was overpowering.
And then Scarlett pointed the weapon in the direction of his own men. He pulled the trigger and held it steady, swinging the gun from one flank to the other. Scare the living Jesus out of them! Maybe kill a few!
Who cared?
He was a power of death.
He enjoyed it.
He was entitled to it.
He laughed.
He withdrew his pressed finger and stood up.
He could see the mounds of dirt several hundred yards to the west. Soon he would be miles away and out of it all!
Suddenly he had the feeling he was being watched! Someone was watching him! He withdrew his pistol once again and crouched to the earth.
Snap!
A twig, a branch, a crushed stone!
He crawled on his knees slowly, cautiously into the woods.
Nothing.
He allowed his imagination to take over his reason. The sound was the sound of a tree limb cracked by the machine-gun fire. The sound was the sound of that same limb falling to the ground.
Nothing.
Scarlett retreated, still unsure, to the edge of the woods. He quickly picked up the remains of the dead German’s helmet and began to run back to Company B’s position.
What Ulster Stewart did not know was that he
was
being watched. He was being watched intently. With incredulity.
A German officer, the blood on his forehead slowly congealing, stood upright hidden from the American by the trunk of a wide pine tree. He had been about to kill the Yank lieutenant—as soon as his enemy left the gun—when he saw the man suddenly turn his fire on his own men. His own troops.
His own troops!
He had the American in his Luger’s sight but he did not wish to kill this man.
Not yet.
For the German officer, the last man of his company in that small forest—left for dead—knew
Similar Books
