Why Are We Still Fighting?

(Source)

Grenadier Friedrich Holzmeyer watched from his concealed position as another American column rolled past him on the road some 50 meters away. The road led to Eger¹ and the Americans were heading there in full force. He glanced over at Gefreiter Max Hoffmann, his corporal looked even more astonished than Holzmeyer felt.

They had just watched a column pass by led by an armored car, loaded with infantry, with multiple tanks, halftracks, and the ubiquitous little jeeps. They had also seen flights of American aircraft passing overhead nearly all day. Holzmeyer couldn't believe the equipment the Americans had available.

Hauptmann Schuler had posted them here to observe traffic, he wanted to move further south as the American 1st Infantry Division had moved into their area. That unit was patrolling aggressively and Schuler wanted to move to an area with fewer Americans. But to do so, they had to cross this road.

Traffic had been fairly heavy ever since they had taken up their position shortly before sunrise. They had had to move in while it was still dark, otherwise they might not have gotten this close to the road.

The traffic on the road cleared, Holzmeyer knew that it would only be a short time before the next column rolled through. He risked standing up to look further up the road and sure enough, another column was approaching, this one led by a tank.

Hauptmann Manfred Schuler was looking through his map case, whatever was south of the road he wanted to cross wasn't covered by any of the maps he had available. As they were on their own, he couldn't exactly get some higher authority to issue him more maps, he was the higher authority in this area. As far as he knew, they might be the only organized German combat unit around.

He had sent his senior sergeant out the night before to reconnoiter a position which was now held by a new unit. He had hoped to discover who those new people were, so he had sent out a patrol to grab a prisoner, all that had happened was that he had lost his senior sergeant and three good men.

After spending the better part of the morning observing the new Amis across the way, one of the men had recognized the unit patch of the American 1st Infantry Division, a very good unit. Rather than stay in the valley and harass them, the Americans were harassing his men. In the late afternoon an American patrol had ambushed one of his patrols. Five more of his men lost to him, three dead, two taken prisoner.

So he'd made the decision to move south, away from this new threat.

"He says that he and his buddy here are from a makeshift platoon of stragglers and survivors from other units." Sgt. Melvin Katz turned to explain to Cpt. Stephen Hernandez.

"Probably the same bunch we caught coming up the hill the other night." Hernandez postulated.

"Actually yes, he mentioned that. Says the unit's senior sergeant was leading that patrol. His captain was pretty upset to find out that we'd spotted them and eliminated them."

"Ask him how many men they've got, any heavy weapons..."

"Already did Sir, he figures there's maybe forty men left, they have a single MG 34 but they're running low on ammunition for that. Most of the troops have submachine guns and assault rifles, three or four K98ks, but that's it. No mortars and, as he put it, damned few grenades."

"Does he have any idea what his captain's plan is?"

Katz turned to the man and they spoke in German for a few minutes.

"He says that he's not sure, but he heard one of the corporals mention moving south. They have a couple of guys watching the main road to Cheb. The number of convoys we have running up and down that road will make it hard to cross. Says the guys watching the road are supposed to figure out the best time to get across."

"This guy is pretty cooperative, any idea why?"

After another conversation in German, Katz answered, "He says that a quite a few of the guys in the unit are real fanatics, hard core believers, he just wants to go home, he's sick of the war. He knows the war is lost, can't figure why the others want to keep fighting."

"Huh, he probably answered his own question, the fanatics won't quit, not until they're dead I suppose." Hernandez shook his head, "Thanks Cat, I need to come up with a plan of our own, try and nail those fanatics before they get the chance to hurt our guys."

Three more men were waiting to join Holzmeyer and Hoffmann near the road. They were another hundred meters away, out of sight of the road. During a lull in the nearly constant traffic the three moved up.

Grenadier Ernst Schumann spoke first, "Hauptmann Schuler wants us to set up a roadblock."

Hoffmann, as the senior man on scene, shook his head. "The Hauptmann can get stuffed. We set up a roadblock and we all die. The Amis have halftracks with four of their 12.7 mm machine guns mounted on them, there seems to be one with every convoy."

Grenadier Horst Walder offered, "What the captain wants, he should get."

Hoffmann looked at the third newcomer, an actual Waffen SS soldier. "So Max, what do you think of this plan to kill ourselves?"

Sturmmann Max Bader shook his head, "F**k that." Then he stood up and moved towards the road.

Holzmeyer could see another column approaching, this one led by another armored car. That vehicle began to slow as the crew spotted Bader walking onto the road.

"Son of a..." Schumann, one of the few men to have a K98k, worked his bolt and chambered a round. As he began to aim at Bader, Hoffman brought the pistol grip of his MP 40 down on  Schumann's head, knocking him silly.

"Bader is right, f**k this."

Bader had thrown his StG 44 into the brush before reaching the road. His helmet followed. As he stood in the road, he raised his open hands as high as he could reach. He was demoralized, exhausted, and hungry. He had been asking himself for the past few weeks, 'Why are we still fighting? What is it we're fighting for?"

Unable to answer his own questions, he had resolved to give himself up at the first opportunity. He was surprised that Schumann hadn't shot him in the back, dirty little Nazi that he was. Bader was Volksdeutsch, having been born not all that far from here. By birth he was a Czech citizen, but his family had been rabidly anti-Czech and pro-German. His ancestry was German going back to the 14th Century.

He couldn't be drafted into the Wehrmacht as he wasn't a German citizen, but he had volunteered for the Waffen SS. He felt he had no choice, those who supported the Germans had privileges, those who didn't, suffered. Sometimes that lack of support cost them their lives. The lives of one's family could be forfeit as well.

Two years fighting the Russians made him regret the day the English and French had signed the Sudetenland over to Hitler. Now he no longer cared if he lived or died. He was sick to death of this war.

Sgt. Ken Nord was watching the German in the road as if his life depended on it, which maybe it did. He was ready to open fire if the Kraut even sneezed. He had the Greyhound behind him watching the trees away from the road, if this was an ambush, it would come from there. The right side of the road sloped up to a ridge and it was open terrain, no place to hide.

Nord knew a few words in German, his grandfather had emigrated to the States from Hamburg. So he yelled at the German to ask what he was doing. The German answered in oddly accented German which Nord had trouble understanding. That's when his driver, Dan Netolický², born and raised in Prague, yelled something at the German.

After a lengthy conversation, in what Nord assumed was Czech, Netolický said, "Guy grew up around here, said there's more Krauts over in the woods that want to surrender. Can he tell them to come out?"

"Hell, why not? Easiest capture we've ever made, but cover 'em, any of 'em acts up, I'll mow down the lot of 'em." As Nord spoke he swung the big .50 cal in the direction of the woods.

"Bader says the Amis want us to surrender." Holzmeyer was one of the few who could understand Bader's accent.

"Yes, I got that." Gefreiter Hoffmann was debating his choices, he was also starting to wonder if he'd hit Schumann too hard, the man was still unconscious.

Walder chimed in, "This isn't right, we have orders."

Holzmeyer just looked at him, the kid was maybe 18, if that. He'd been in the military since last fall and hadn't seen much action, he'd been an anti-aircraft gunner at Zwickau to the north. He and his mates had fled when the Americans overran the place. Which is how he wound up wandering the woods with Schuler's group.

"Well, I guess we're outnumbered." Walder said, as he tossed his MP 40 aside and stood up.

The rest of the men followed suit, discarding their weapons and helmets. Walder and Hoffmann dragged the limp form of Schumann between them, he was starting to come around.

Infantry from one of the lead halftracks had come up to take charge of the prisoners. They had their medic treating the semi-conscious German.

"Man, who cracked this guy on the head? I think his skull is fractured."

Hoffmann explained what had happened to Nord, who said to the medic, "F**ker was gonna shoot the SS guy who was trying to surrender, so this guy," he nodded at Hoffman, "clocked him."

"Damn, well I guess if you wanna play rough...," the medic stood up and pointed to two of the infantrymen watching, "Smitty, Jackson, grab a stretcher off the track, let's get this guy to the battalion aid station. He's pretty bad off."

"Will he live?" Hoffmann asked Nord.

"I don't know, you hit him pretty hard."

"Scheiße." Hoffmann muttered.

"Hey, if you hadn't slugged him, he'd have shot the SS guy, then we'd have opened up on you." Nord gestured at the vehicles nearby, all of which mounted machine guns, "Do you think you would have survived?"

Hoffmann looked around, then said, "I think not."

"That's right pal, now run along, we gotta get moving."

M8 Greyhound
(Source)

¹ The German name for the town of Cheb in Czechoslovakia (modern day Czechia).

² A rough pronunciation of that name is "Net-oh-lits-key."

Link to all of the Chant's fiction.