Messner checked the dead Germans, two of them just teenagers, while the other dead man looked to be in his sixties. They wore the insignia of the Volksgrenadier. He knew that Germany was scraping the bottom of the barrel for manpower, but boys and old men? He shook his head, because these Volksgrenadier would be no match for battle-hardened American forces.
Another German body had been smashed to jelly by a passing tank. Even now, having seen his share of war, Messner hadn’t gotten used to such a sight. What should have been on the inside of the soldier was now on the outside, his body smashed into a patty like so much raw sausage. He looked away, hoping that the man had already been dead when the tank rolled over him. He knew for sure that it wasn’t Bauer, because the dead man wasn’t wearing an officer’s uniform.
“He is not here, Herr Hauptmann,” Gettinger reported. He had checked the dead Americans, but they did not seem to have been part of Bauer’s escort.
Messner grunted. On the one hand, it would have been easier for them if Bauer had been among the dead. On the other, Messner would have felt shortchanged if he hadn’t been the one to kill the Obersturmbannführer.
“Herr Hauptmann!” Dietzel shouted from the edge of the clearing. He was standing over something in the snow that Messner could not identify.
“What is it?”
“You had better have a look.”
Messner started across the snowy clearing, Gettinger on his heels. Once he had moved closer, he could see that Dietzel had indeed found something interesting in the snow.
It was a German officer’s hat, emblazoned with the insignia that was sometimes derided by enlisted men as “cabbage leaves” for its resemblance to that humble vegetable. In this case, it was the insignia of an Obersturmbannführer.
Bauer’s rank.
Dietzel slung the rifle over his shoulder, then picked up the hat and studied it. “It belongs to Bauer,” he announced, pointing out a name tag sewn into the liner.
“If he lost his hat, perhaps he is dead,” Messner said.
“No blood,” Dietzel said. “The tracks go off into the woods. Three Americans and one set of German boots. I see a few cartridges on the ground, but I suspect that they were trying to escape the fighting on the road.”
Messner nodded, feeling some of his excitement return. Not only were they on the right track, but their quarry must be that much closer. “Gettinger, go fetch the Kübelwagen. The trees in this direction are just far enough apart for us to drive through.”
Gettinger scratched his head and studied the woods doubtfully. “Herr Hauptmann—”
“What are you waiting for?
“Yes, sir.” He ran back through the snowy open space toward the Kübelwagen.
Dietzel tossed the hat back into the snow, almost as if in disgust at having handled the officer’s hat. “We do not have much daylight left.”
“Then we had better hurry,” Messner said.
“Heading into the woods at this hour—”
“I don’t care about that,” Messner insisted. “We are going after him.”
Gettinger pulled up long enough for them to get in, then started driving through the trees, trying to pick a route through the woods, keeping the tracks in sight the whole time. Who knew where they were going? There didn’t seem to be anything out here but more trees. Perhaps Dietzel was correct and their quarry had only been fleeing the fighting with no real destination in mind.
Their chances of catching up to the men were much better with a vehicle, especially if they ever got clear of the trees. However, it was slow going, and the Kübelwagen picked up a few more dents as it careened off first one tree trunk, and then another.
Despite the cold, beads of sweat appeared on Gettinger’s face as he wrestled with the wheel, throwing it first one way and then another to avoid the trunks that blocked their path. The tires rolled up and over rocks and fallen logs. Bouncing along in the Kübelwagen, the other two men held on for dear life. The journey down the frozen road now seemed like traveling on the Autobahn in comparison.
But the effort was worth it. A few minutes later, they emerged on a snow-covered lane. The lack of tire tracks or tank treads indicated that no vehicles had passed down the lane, but even in the fading light, they could clearly see four sets of footprints in the snow. It seemed likely that their quarry had come this way.
“Now we have him,” Messner said with satisfaction.
“Those are German boots,” Dietzel noted, nodding at one set of tracks in the snow. “The others look like they are American, or maybe British.”
Messner squinted at the footprints, but they all looked roughly the same to him. “How did you get to be such a tracker, Dietzel?” he asked. He had seen the man’s skill before, but it had never occurred to him to ask about it.
“I grew up hunting, sir. There is nothing on this earth that I cannot follow. Of course, the snow makes it easy, like reading words on a page.”
