Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) by Douglas Niles, Michael Dobson Page A

American jacket when he was brought in, but now he wore only a hospital robe, like the other patients. Most of the American wounded had been transferred to American field hospitals earlier in the day; because this patient was a downed aviator, he’d simply been overlooked, because he was no one’s direct responsibility. Probably the Americans would come for him in the morning. Another night made little difference, especially now with the war nearly over.
    “American—yes, you. How are you doing?” he asked.
    The American pointed to himself. “Staff Sergeant Franklin O’Dell, Three Hundred and Ninety-second Bomb Group. Serial number T-zero-zero-one-nine-two-one-six-five.”
    Clausen knew he was receiving the obligatory “name, rank, serial number.” He knew that “sergeant” meant Feldwebel . He pointed to himself. “Feldwebel — ‘Saarjint.’ Carl-Heinz Clausen. Verstehen Sie?”
    The American replied, “Carl-Heinz,” and pointed at the German. Then “Digger. American. Feldwaybul,” and pointed back at himself.
    “Dig-ger,” replied Clausen. “Sehr gut. Willkommen in Deutschland.”
    The American thought about it for a second, then replied, “Danke shone.” His accent was terrible, but at least he was trying.
    Another scream. The wounded in the ward took up other activities or started loud conversations to drown out the noise. It was about all they could do. Anything beat sitting still and listening to the sounds of agony.
    Clausen kept up his conversation with the American aviator, in part to keep himself distracted, in part because he was genuinely curious. This was the first American he’d actually met in person. And even though he was a terrorflieger, he seemed like a nice enough fellow.
    Finally the screaming ceased. The poor bastard in the operating room was done. Slowly the room returned to normal. Conversations that had been started only to drown out the sound ceased.
    But suddenly there was a new type of noise: the noise of marching boots.
     
    “Danke schön, Herr Major Doktor,” Obersturmbannführer Peiper said. His face was now stitched together, and although the agony was still intense, nothing would ever equal the sensation of being held still while a needle and thread was stuck through the skin of his face over and over again. With fresh hospital bandages covering the wounds, he could only imagine what his ruined face now looked like. Peiper had been a handsome man, but would be considered handsome no more.
    “Bitte schön, Herr Obersturmbannführer,” replied Schlüter. “I recommend you rest here a day or two, but technically, you’re all right. Have your bandages changed regularly and keep clean. Within a few weeks those stitches will be able to come out. I’m pretty sure I saved your eye, though you may have some difficulties with it. Too early to tell.”
    “I would take you up on your kind hospitality,” said Peiper, “but as this field hospital is about to move, I don’t think there will be much rest for anyone.”
    “Move? I’ve heard nothing about a move. In fact, with Armeegruppe B’s surrender, I can’t see us doing anything other than remaining here.”
    At the word “surrender,” Peiper’s eyes narrowed. “There has not been a surrender. I spoke to the führer personally early this morning. It is true that some traitors have ceased their struggle for the Third Reich, but I am under direct orders of the führer to bring all units of Armeegruppe B back to the safety of the Westwall and the Fatherland. Please prepare your hospital for
immediate movement. You will be escorted east by Kampfgruppe Peiper of the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler.”
    The doctor was obviously shocked, and equally obviously had embraced Rommel’s surrender. “But Obersturmbannführer—that’s impossible! We are a simple medical facility and we have wounded, both German and American.” Peiper’s cold glare shut him up.
    “Americans? You will point out all American patients to me.