He walked another half-hour, searching for someone, something, anything that looked familiar, that would mean he wasn’t alone. He halted on the edge of a clearing, some instinct making him go still even before he saw the three soldiers standing by a mounted machine gun, smoking.
How to pass them? He didn’t trust his own ability to take them all out, and standing there, he realized he’d never killed a man. He’d never actually hurt anyone before, and yet he had two grenades dangling from his belt, another in his pack.
He must have made some movement, some sound, without realizing, for one of the soldiers looked up, sniffing the air like a wolf as he dropped his cigarette and ground it beneath his jackboot.
“Wer ist da?” he called. “Zeigen Sie ich!” Show yourself. Matthew stayed still, every muscle quivering with tension, with expectation. “Zeigen Sie ich!” the man called again, louder this time, his voice mo
re strident.
“Unteroffizier auf Patrouille,” Matthew called out before he could think through his response. It was as if some instinct were taking over, possessing his mind, but as soon as he said the words, he knew they were wrong. A corporal on patrol would not be alone.
Sure enough, the man started walking towards the sound of his voice, his pistol now drawn.
“Zeigen Sie ich,” he said for a third time, and he didn’t sound friendly.
It couldn’t end like this, all because of a stupid mistake. Matthew fumbled at his belt, his hands curling around one of the grenades.
The man kept walking, the other two coming up behind him, pistols drawn as well. Three against one.
Matthew pulled the safety ring and hurled the grenade towards the men.
He didn’t wait to see whether the grenade had hit the intended target; he tore through the woods, his heart feeling as if it could beat right out of his chest. He heard the crack of a pistol and he jerked instinctively even though he realized after a few tense seconds that he hadn’t been hit.
He kept running, clawing at the undergrowth as he barreled through the forest, his panting breaths tearing at his chest, everything in him rearing up, wild.
He heard footsteps behind him, too close, too fast, and he whirled around, his hand on his pistol, only to stumble back in shock at the sight of Tom Reese chasing him, his face spattered with mud, the whites of his eyes almost glowing as he stared at him.
“What the hell…” Tom choked out and Matthew saw he was clutching his knife. He knocked it out of his hand with one sharp movement, borne of instinct rather than intention.
“Why were you chasing me?” he demanded.
“Why were you speaking German?”
Matthew stared at him; he felt as if his mind had gone very cold and clear, that first fog of fear and disbelief dissolving completely as his breathing slowed. He wasn’t being chased. He wasn’t going to die. Not right now, at any rate. “We’re not safe here,” he said shortly. “Those Nazis were following me.”
“I was following you. I heard you—”
“Why didn’t you make yourself known?”
“Because there was a damned German right there!” Tom stooped to pick up his knife.
Matthew stared at him coldly.
“Let’s walk.” He turned and started striding through the woods, conscious that if his grenade hadn’t met the intended target, the Germans were not far behind him. Were they still looking for him? Had the sea assault started?
The sky was lightening to pale gray, streaked with pink. The whole world might have changed forever, and he was stuck in a pine forest with Tom Reese.
“Who are you?” Tom demanded hoarsely.
“You know who I am.”
“But you spoke German—”
“I am German.”
Tom made a choking sound.
“I’m a Jew,” Matthew explained shortly. “I emigrated to the US in ’38. I was trained and brought here to interrogate German soldiers for military intelligence.”