The Red Line

Wurzburg Army Hospital

“Sarge!” Ramirez said. “Sarge, wake up. We’ve got to get out of here!”

Jensen’s mind struggled to escape its drug-induced, early-morning sleep.

“What is it, Ramirez?”

“We’ve got to get out of here. The 3rd Infantry’s units in front of Wurzburg have collapsed. The Russians have broken through. They’re moving on the city. They’ll be here in a little more than an hour. The hospital’s being evacuated to Landstuhl.”

Jensen, the sterile bandages tight around his eyes, could hear the commotion all around him. The hospital staff was frantically trying to save the lives of those placed in their care.

“Which one’s next?” a male voice at the end of the hall said.

“Specialist Johnson. Third bed on the left,” Lieutenant Morse replied. “Be careful with him. He was operated on just a few hours ago, and his stitches could easily come out.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Jensen’s muddled brain started to focus. There were scurrying feet in every direction. Urgency was in all the voices. The anxious sounds mixed with the ever-present groans of the injured soldiers in the open ward.

Ramirez crawled from his bed. He struggled beneath the cumbersome bandages covering his right shoulder and upper arm.

“Lieutenant Morse, what can I do to help? I’ve still got one good arm.”

“Can you get yourself dressed? It’s quite cold outside.”

“Yes, ma’am, I can do that.”

“When you’re ready, let me know. There’s lots to do and no time to do any of it.”

Robert Jensen lay listening to the turmoil. The air in the room was tense and electric. Fear floated on the moist morning.

“What about Sergeant Jensen?” Elizabeth Morse asked Dr. Wehner. “Medevac or ambulance?”

“He probably should be put on a medevac, but we’ve only got three left. Put him in an ambulance, but make sure it’s one where a doctor or nurse will be riding.”

“All right, Doctor, I’ll place him in one of the leading ambulances. What about Sergeant Larimer and Private Sill?”

There was hesitation in Captain Wehner’s voice. “They’re both too critical to move. Neither would survive the medevac ride. We’re going to have to leave them here. They’re putting the fifty unmovable cases on the third floor. A doctor and two medics have volunteered to stay with them.”

“Which doctor’s staying?”

His response was almost nonchalant. “I am, Beth.”

She knew what his volunteering would mean. Widespread execution of American prisoners was common knowledge. But they couldn’t just abandon the most severe cases. Someone had to stay with the wounded being left behind. There was nothing remaining for either to say. Wehner hurried off to move the critical patients to the third floor.

Morse motioned to the orderlies. “Over here. This one’s next. Make sure you put him in one of the lead ambulances.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“All right, Sergeant,” a male voice said, “we’re going to slide you out of bed and onto a stretcher. Just relax; we’ll take care of the rest. Will you do that for us?”

“What choice do I have?” Jensen said.

Four experienced hands went to work. In a half minute, the orderlies were carrying Jensen’s bouncing stretcher onto a creaking elevator.

Outside, the orderlies placed the canvas stretcher on the frigid ground. They turned and rushed back into the hospital for another human load. The severe cold was quite a shock to the platoon sergeant’s system. After two days in the warmth of the hospital, he’d almost forgotten how it felt to be shivering in the damp German snows. Still, in a way, it was a welcome relief to be out of the aging building. He was temporarily free from the omnipresent smell of suffering and death.

The morning’s first rays, and their fragile warmth, were three hours away. A late moon shone down upon the sightless sergeant. Around him, the sounds of frenzied activity were everywhere. The medical conv

oy’s drivers, and a military-police detachment, were working feverishly to load their countrymen into the olive-green ambulances with huge red crosses blazoned on their tops and sides.

A fierce Russian artillery bombardment sounded in the distance. With each exploding shell, the Americans redoubled their efforts.

“Load this one into the third ambulance.”

Strong hands once again gripped the ends of his stretcher. Robert Jensen was effortlessly lifted from the snows.

“Watch his IVs,” the voice at his feet said.

“I’ve got them. Go ahead and load him.”

“Where do you want him?”

“Put him on the bottom row on the left side.”

The stretcher slid into place in the rear of the ambulance. Jensen could hear the anguished moans of the wounded soldier in the position inches above his head. The cavalry sergeant lay in the darkness for what seemed a long time. One by one, the six spaces in the ambulance were filled. And they waited still longer while the massive convoy continued to load its precious cargo.

At last, the time had come to make their hurried escape. The drivers and escorts rushed to their vehicles.

Ramirez poked his head inside the rear of the ambulance. “Hey, Sarge!” he said. “We’re about ready to roll. Man, are you lucky. Lieutenant Morse is going to be riding back here with you guys. I sure wish I were going to be back here with you, too. Don’t worry about me, though. I’m gonna be right up front with the driver.”

“Okay, Ramirez. I’ll rest easy knowing you’re up there to protect us.” The hint of sarcasm in his sergeant’s voice was lost on the young soldier.

The ambulance started. The motor softly rocked the wounded soldiers. All around, the convoy’s vehicles came to life. The lengthy line of stretchers and stethoscopes began to move. An MP detachment was generously dispersed throughout the column. Stinger teams rode at its front and rear.

The Russians were thirty minutes from the eastern outskirts of the city.