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As the war in Europe winds down, a unit of battle-fatigued GIs are tasked in liberating the survivors of the infamous Verurteilt concentration camp, in theory a relatively simple rescue mission. Upon arrival, Sergeant Rance Hawkins and his four young charges are ordered to search an unmapped area beyond the main camp for evidence of a separate, clandestine compound, reportedly created for high-ranking SS officers to further torment and torture. Their quest will eventually lead them into a nearby coal mine, where a young camp survivor claims that her mother and other refugees are being held. Inside the murky caverns, the motley crew of dogfaces discover revelations so terrifying and vile as to make even the inhuman atrocities of Verurteilt seem tame by comparison.

EXCERPT

As implausible as it seems, here we all stand, gawking at a skinny, malnourished preteen girl holding us, well, to be fair, holding me, at gunpoint. Not quite thirteen-hundred hours and my ragtag unit is being held at bay by the equivalent of an armed midget with exactly zilch in the way of firearms experience. That said, she certainly appears confident enough.

“S-sarge, sh-she had it out of my holster before I c-could…” Knapp babbles, pointing an accusing finger with the hand not slapping his empty holster for emphasis.

In the moment, I need to keep my head, both for the girl’s sake and the others. A show of frustration or anger might conclude with my eating a bullet, courtesy of a panicked child with literally nothing to lose. Three-plus years of dodging shrapnel of assorted shapes, sizes and calibers and it comes to this.

Predictably, it’s the trusty corporal that prompts an instantaneous return of the power of speech from vocal cords posted temporarily out-of-order. This witnessed via a single, fluid movement so very familiar, a mere blur in my left peripheral as Moose frees the Remington from his big, broad shoulder in a graceful twirl.

My left hand reacts instinctively by reaching out with the palm facing my supremely loyal but overzealous pal.

“No need. I got this.”

Scary, but my own words ring hollow. Uncomfortably so considering the girl’s squinty-eyed, teeth-gnashing appearance. Most worrisome is how her gun-hand shakes and trembles in-between frantic wheezes, little nostrils flaring like a baby Brahma missing mama.

“Ya sure? I mean, she don’t look to be the bluffin’ kind.”

“Absolutely dead-certain.”

“Ah-right, cool hand. Can’t say much for your choice of words though.”

Nearly laughing aloud, I wisely refrain while turning my focus back to Knapp, who is down on one knee and spouting that foreign tongue with both arms outspread and palms bared to the sky.

It takes far too long before his incessant pleading ends or at least pauses, allowing me to interject in the calmest tone I can manage.

“Private. Knapp. Toby?”

At the mention of his given name, the kid professor’s head turns to me like it sat on a swivel, his mouth open and lips curled inward like a snarling wolf.

“She s-said she’d happily…die if we’re not going to attempt to save her mother and the others, but not before…shooting our…yellow leader first.”

Weird as it sounds, I felt a brief rush of pride in being identified as such, well, sans the coward portion, though it could be she simply counted stripes to arrive at this conclusion.

“Fine. Tell her we’ll go, at least most of us, but that in the meantime she’s being escorted back to the main camp.”

Briefly locking eyes with both O’Brien and Jeffries in the aftermath, I can read both relief and dread in their respective expressions at the mere notion of returning to Verurteilt with the girl in tow.

As Knapp commences with the updated negotiations, the girl’s expression eases a tad, from manic rage to merely stubbornly perturbed, at least ‘til he must’ve reached the part about her being taken back to the camp. The scream is full-throated and piercing, amazing considering the diminutive source and the previous damage done to such delicate vocal cords.

In the many incomprehensible words that follow, one sticks out as easily identifiable even to these limited American-English ears. That word is no, repeated over and over until it’s continued use seems to drain what remains of the child’s anger and passion while adding immeasurable weight to Knapp’s sidearm, which eventually topples from her fingers just moments before she follows suit, crumbling to the ground in a curled heap.

Kneeling, Knapp doesn’t dare console by touching, wise considering her earlier reactions, but instead maintains a safe distance and speaks to her in a low, soothing manner.

“O’Brien,” I announce, “the duty is yours.”

Surprisingly, the ginger shows nary a sign of disgruntlement at my decision, instead offering a quick nod of affirmation before shouldering his rifle, resetting his pack and stepping purposely towards the sagging child.

“Stay sharp, private, eyes peeled and aware of your surroundings. Might still be some Jerry’s crouching in the surrounding woods just pining to take out the first stray GI they see.”

“Will do,” O’Brien says between nervous sighs and eyeing the crumbled child as an older brother might a bothersome sibling he’s been tasked to supervise.

“Once you get to the camp, seek out Captain Mobley and explain our…the situation here.”

Without meeting my gaze, the private nods weakly, no doubt contemplating the potential dangers of the trail ahead from my previous remarks.

“Emphasize we need more men, as in dozens if possible. If what she said is true, we might be looking at roughly a third of the former camp guards currently taking up space in those tunnels. Holding up and still taking orders from their on-site commandant.”

Knapp rises slowly, delivering a final, whispered message and light nudge with an extended elbow to the girl, whose head ascends in my direction just as the translator moves away.

The bags beneath her tear-filled eyes give the impression she’s recently endured a flurry of blows, her flaring nostrils and lower lip dueling for which might extract the largest quantity of mucus.

Turning her wet stare from myself to O’Brien, now fumbling nervously with the thin ball chain keeping his dog-tags attached, and finally back to Knapp, she speaks between sobs.

At the conclusion of this hoarse oration, she and I again lock gazes and I find it a palpable relief when Knapp commands my full attention upon translating.

“She says you’ll…we’ll never find them without her, sarge. There are…she says the mine tunnels split in opposite directions at several intervals. On the way out from the cave-in, she purposely memorized the turns so she could return with help without getting lost.”

My jaws clinch involuntarily, assuming this child, this clever lass, has yet again found a way to skirt my orders. Not quite ready to submit, I pull out the deck and play the lone face card remaining in what is fast becoming quite the pitiful hand. Shamelessly yellow, I do this without ever directly addressing the child, thus avoiding yet another dreaded stare-down.

“She can’t just tell us…explain to you all these supposed twists and turns so we can avoid dragging her back into harm’s way?”

Unlike myself, the translator speaks to me while regarding the child with a pained expression that screams empathy. True leaders often are forced into the role of villain, I’d heard it said. In this moment, I can relate.

“Well, no, sir. From how she described these tunnels, they’re long and winding. I’m afraid we’d be like groping blind mice and worse, easy targets.”