Blood of Vipers by Michael Wallace Page B

for me?”
    “Yes, of course. What is it?”
    “I’m going to give you my family’s address in
     the United
     States. When you’re settled again, with a roof over your head,
     and a way to send
     mail, I want you to write to me. When I get my letter, and I’ve
     been
     discharged, then...well, I don’t know. We’ll see what happens.
     Will you write
     to me?”
    She looked up at him with her eyes shining.
     “Yes, Cal. Yes,
     I will do that, I promise.”
    “Okay, here goes. My street address is...”
    #
    They marched for what seemed like most of the
     night. Every
     fifteen or twenty minutes they would pass another Russian
     checkpoint, some of
     them manned by sketchy-looking irregular troops, but Osimov had
     cleared the way,
     and the dozen armed guards the man had sent to guard the
     prisoners took offense
     at any challenges. Whenever they stopped, Cal looked around him,
     counting
     prisoners, making sure he could spot the two German soldiers and
     the old
     minister, that they hadn’t been dragged off somewhere and shot.
    Finally, deep into the night, when Cal
     thought he couldn’t
     continue five more minutes, a dark black shape blocked the road
     ahead. As they
     approached, he saw that it was three tanks in a roadblock,
     shoulder to shoulder,
     with their barrels facing east, toward the marching refugees. To
     either side
     sat sandbagged bunkers with mounted machine guns, and when they
     drew within
     fifty yards, spotlights flared to life. The road turned shades
     of bright white
     and gray shadow and Cal flinched from the glare.
    A man stepped forward with his rifle lowered.
     “Lieutenant
     Jameson?”
    The man’s raspy, Texas-accented English was
     the most
     beautiful sound Cal had ever heard. He let go of Greta’s hand
     and stepped
     forward without a backward glance, unwilling to draw attention
     to the girl.
    He lifted his hands. “I’m Jameson. Stand
     down, I’m walking
     over.”

14.
    Mercifully, they didn’t brief him long. A
     USAAF major by the
     name of Wythcliff sat him in a tent and took his statement,
     which a young corporal
     wrote down in shorthand. Wythcliff knew about his interference
     with the British
     Spitfire, but that was the last news anyone had of his position.
    Cal told everything. Or, rather, almost
     everything. He left
     out the old grandmother, poisoned by her own family, and didn’t
     tell them about
     Greta putting her hand into his when they marched down the road.
    Wythcliff did very little talking, and only
     interrupted to
     ask for clarifying details. When Cal finished, he rose from his
     seat.
    “That’s enough for now, Lieutenant. More in
     the morning
     before we ship you out to your unit. Corporal Horne will show
     you to your
     quarters. Sleep well, it sounds like you could use it.”
    Cal returned a salute. “May I ask a question,
     sir?”
    “Go ahead.”
    “How many prisoners did you take from the
     Russians?”
    “No prisoners, so far as I know. Just a sorry
     bunch of women
     and children.”
    “What about the Wehrmacht soldiers?” he
     asked.
    “No soldiers, Lieutenant.”
    “But I saw them on the road. Not five minutes
     before I
     reached our lines. There were two men, and an old minister.”
    “I heard your story, Jameson, and I’m telling
     you, there are
     no men. Your friend is waiting outside. Ask him.”
    By friend, Wythcliff meant Colonel Osimov.
     The man stood
     with a pair of American majors, smoking Camels while leaning
     against a Jeep,
     chatting about the Brooklyn Dodgers. Osimov excused himself when
     Cal approached
     with a frown.
    “Thought you’d never get out,” Osimov said.
     “If I don’t
     report soon, I’ll be facing my own interrogation. Only it won’t
     be so pretty as
     yours.”
    “You gave me your word.”
    “I told you they would be fine. I didn’t say
     I’d hand them
     over to the Americans. And I meant it. Unless they have some
     hidden secret,
     they won’t be tried as war