Gunther's War
Few soldiers looked up as the door to the bombed out house creaked open. Those who did saw a baby faced lad in an oversized jacket and boots. His helmet sat askew on his head, being so much larger than its perch that if not for the tightly cinched chin strap, it would have tumbled off. His belt was wrapped so far around his waist that extra holes had to be punched in it, and his holster and pistol seemed to hang almost to his knees. His rifle hung barrel upwards from its sling at his back, causing him to kick the stock with his heel every third or fourth step.
His field pack was almost as big as he was, and though he must have strained to carry its weight, he gave no sign of it except that he crumpled to the ground immediately with a rattle of kit and cartridge as he reached the bottom of the steps. The men watched him struggle out of the straps of his pack. He had not yet learned the correct contortions of arms and torso that would cause it to fall away quickly.
Finally freed from his burden, he removed his helmet, revealing the sheared head of a recruit. “Fresh Meat!” the corporal said, “Pick up your rifle!” The recruit looked around, as if looking for a dropped coin, then, spying his weapon where it had fallen beneath his pack, he picked it up. Dirt and filth had stuck to the grease on the bolt. His cheeks grew red and he sat about clean the rifle.
The corporal watched every move, as he reiterated the importance of keeping one’s weapon clean. “Treat your rifle like your dick,” he said, “Keep them both clean and you will stay out of trouble.”
The recruit finished cleaning his rifle and presented it to the corporal for inspection.
“Well, at least they taught you something at Berlin.” He said. “What is your name, fresh meat?”
“Where’s you sergeant?” Gunther asked.
We’re fresh out of seargents a private said. You want be him?
The men all laughed.
“Gunter, Gunter Voglesang
“From?”
”Cologne. A farm near Cologne”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen, Sir.”
The Corporal glared at him. “Seventeen?
“--Soon, sir, I’ll be seventeen soon.”
“Seventeen or dead,” The Corporal said.
“More likely dead, said one of the other soldiers”
Several men had formed a circle around the corporal and the recruit. Their faces and hands were filthy. None had shaved for several days. Several had bandages in diverse places. One had a rope tied around his waist for a belt. Two had replaced their tunics with American field jackets. One had a German issue boot on one foot and an American paratrooper’s on the other. One had no shoes at all. Their tattered, stained and stinking uniforms contrasted starkly with Gunter’s new outfit, which still bore the shelf creases.
“What sorry lot the Führer has been sending us lately.” One of them observed.
“At least I know how to take care of my uniform,” The recruit retorted, “Like a proper soldier of the Fatherland.”
This was met with bemused silence from the veterans.
“Yes, said the corporal, “we should all endeavor to look like proper sons of the Führer, but there are other priorities out here at the front.”
A soldier went over and rifled through the boy’s pack.
“Hey!” the recruit shouted, but the corporal grabbed his arm. The man fished out two oranges and three packs of Chesterfields and gave them to the corporal, along with the recruit’s medical kit.
“We can use these to barter,” said the corporal. How did a boy like you get drafted in the first place?”
“I wasn’t drafted,” he said “I volunteered.”
“They’re taking boys, now?”
The boy nodded.
“Where is your father?” the Corporal asked.
“My father was killed by the Americans at Bastogne.”
“And you are here to avenge his death.”
The boy’s face filled with rage. He pulled himself to his full 1.6 meter height “I want to kill the enemies of the fatherland or die in a hail of bullets like my father.” A tear streamed down his face.
The corporal’s voice softened. “Ah, my young patriot,” he said, just above a whisper. Out here, the enemy is not always who you think it is, and dying in hail of bullets doesn’t always make one a hero.”
A pair of planes passed overhead the men all looked up as the ME 109’s passed so low that they could feel the heat of the engines.
“How much ammunition do you have?” The corporal asked.
“One hundred rounds.”
“Divide it equally among the men. I’m going to see if I can barter for some more.”
The corporal left the private in charge and went up the steps and out the door.
The house they were in looked like it might have been owned by a prosperous family at one time, but an artillery shell had ruined it, crashing through the roof, before the penetrating two floors and exploding in the basement. The basement, being below ground level, had absorbed the blast, but it had devastated the two floors above, leaving only a few rafters of the roof and a pile of rubble in the basement. All of the wood that had not burned from the explosion had been pulled from the pile by soldiers to make fires, leaving only plaster and brick and mortar and the crumpled odds and ends of domestic life; a ruined iron bedstead, the guts of a piano, a shattered mirror.
The recruit retrieved his rifle cartridges and passed them out among the men so that they all got eight rounds apiece. The men set about loading refilling their rifle magazines.
“Where is the rest of your ammunition?” Gunter asked the private who seemed to be in charge.
He held up the clip he had just loaded. “This is it.”
“What town is this?” Gunter asked.
“Eberbach” the corporal replied “The Rhine is 60 kilometers that way.” he said, pointing to the West.
“Where’s the enemy?”
“The Americans are 500 meters in the same direction.”
Gunter looked in the direction the soldier had pointed. All he saw was the pockmarked western wall of the basement. “When are we going to go kill them?”
“We’re not”, said the private. “We’re waiting for them to come to kill us.”
The door swept open and two officers stomped onto the stoop, causing all the men to jump to attention. One of the officers was from their own unit, but the other, the one who seemed to be in charge was not. Instead of the insignia of the Werhmacht, He had twin lightning bolts on his collar. “I need two men.” He barked. No one moved. “I need two men NOW.” He barked again.
The private whispered to Gunter. “This may be your chance.”
Gunter stepped forward. The SS officer glared at him. “Fresh meat.” He said. Are you sure you’re up to it?
“Yes sir,” He said.
The officer stared for a moment. “Well, we shall see. The officer looked at the group. “Come on, I haven’t got all day.”
The private nodded at one of the other men, “Karl” he said and pointed his chin toward the door.
Karl took a step forward. Gunter heard a sigh issue from the other men, and turning, noticed a look of relief on their faces.
“Come with us.” The other officer said.
Gunter went over and picked up his helmet.
“No need for that,” the officer from his unit said. “Just your garrison cap.”
He fished the wool cap from the pocket inside his tunic and out it on. He reached for his rifle.
“No rifle. Just your pistol.” The man said.
The two soldiers climbed the four steps to the landing. The officers turned and walked out the door. The other soldier followed. With raised eyebrows, Gunter turned to the private who was watching them from below.
The private shrugged and turned away.
They walked through the bright sunlight down the rubble-strewn street toward the edge of town. The village sat on a low bluff that angled down to a flat area that stretched about 50 meters to a hedgerow that bordered a small stream. There were rifle pits all along the stream and machine gun nests every few meters. A wall of concertina wire stretched along the field about twenty meters out with crudely painted signs posted every few meters carrying a skull and crossbones and the words Vorsicht! Minen!
Several hundred meters across the field was another hedgerow with a similar line of wire. Gunter could catch an occasional glint of metal along the opposite tree line, and the dull roar of a diesel engine as it moved along the line out of sight. The other soldier caught him looking. He nodded in the direction of the sound. “The Americans,” he said.
They walked along a dirt road along the creek with the line of defense to their right and the town on the bluff above them on their left. The officer s walked few paces ahead, conversing, but Gunter cold not make out much of what they said. After a couple of hundred meters, a ditch appeared on their left. The ditch was about fifty meters long, with about half of it filled in. There was stench in the air like the smell Gunter remembered of the time they had found one of his father’s cows dead in the pasture. They stopped at the point where fill ended. The officers told them to wait. There was no sound except the buzzing of hundreds of flies. A breeze kicked up some dust from the fill. Dirt was piled on the opposite side of the ditch.
The other soldier was silent. He seemed to be brooding over something. The officers were in a buoyant mood. They smoked cigarettes and joked with each other. The SS officer turned to Gunter. “What brought a young sport like you to enlist in the Führer’s army?”
“I want to kill the enemy, sir.”
“Ah,” He nodded. “A true patriot. I think you shall get your wish today.”
The sound of a truck growled in the village. Gunter looked around at his environs. The town stood on the hill with burned out and pockmarked facades overlooking the river, the trees on the bluff just turning green with the new growth of spring. In the ditch in front of him, where the filling had stopped, he noticed something. He didn’t believe what he saw at first, and squinted to try to make the scene understandable. Then, as he made sense of it, his blood ran cold. Sticking out of the dirt, just enough to make it recognizable was a woman’s shoe. Above the shoe was just the vague outline of an ankle. He stared in disbelief and in his staring, another image became recognizable: The hand of a child sticking out of the dirt. He silently cursed the Americans with their snipers and bombers and tanks. He cursed The British. He cursed the damned French resistance who had killed so many sons and daughters of the Fatherland. He cursed the war that left his countrymen with no time to properly bury the dead.
Gunther turned to the SS officer. “Sir? How many are buried here?”
“200, 300, doesn’t matter.” the Officer said. “All enemies of the Reich must be eliminated.”
What a fitting end, he thought to bury the American dead anonymously among the Germans whose lives they had destroyed.
The truck was getting closer. The Officer took a last drag on his cigarette and tossed it into the pit. “Let me have your pistol,” the officer said. Gunther un-holstered his Walther and gave it to the lieutenant. The officer removed the magazine, examined it and slid it back into the handle. He chambered a round and put the safety on and handed it back.
“You are a gallant lad,” he said. “Many of your compatriots seem to have lost their interest in defending the Reich. They want to go home to their wives and mothers.”
He nodded to the other soldier who was standing with his arms crossed as if he were cold, staring dejectedly at the ground. “It did not go unnoticed that he had to be ordered to join us. He’s a disgrace to the Reich.”
“My father is dead.” He said. “And I came to do my duty to my father and my country; to kill the enemies of the Reich.”
The truck rolled to a stop. Gunter held his pistol at this side, his finger was on the trigger; thumb resting against the safety release. His body seemed to hum with hope and dread. He had never seen an American up close. What did these monsters look like? Were they the giants who came to haunt him in his dreams? Were they the whimpering fools that he imagined dispatching as he practiced with pistol and rifle in boot camp? Would they be normal looking men, indistinguishable from a German if they met on the street?
They were standing by the cab of the truck so that they heard the flap jerk open on the back. They heard a man shouting in German: “Jump Out! Jump Out, Swine!”
“Let’s make this quick.” the Lieutenant said. He jerked his head towards the enemy lines. “There are snipers in the trees.”
They heard the sound two bodies landing on the ground and then the truck started to move. Gunter’s grip tightened on his weapon. His heart raced. He trembled with anticipation. The truck pulled away, revealing two boys on their hands and knees in the dirt. They were trembling with fear. Gunter thought someone should go help them. He took a step toward them.
“Stay here!” the officer commanded. “I’ll get the swine.”
Gunter felt bile rising in his stomach. He thought he was going to retch. The officer grabbed the boys by the hair and lifted them up. He manhandled them over to the soldiers and forced them down on their knees facing the trench. The boys looked to be about twelve or fourteen. They whimpered and cried and shook with fear. Up on the bluff a group of townspeople looked on. Several of the women were crying. He could hear them wailing up the hill. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. He looked at the other soldier, who refused to look at him.
“Get it over with!” the officer barked.
”With respect sir, these are just boys.” Gunter said.
“Enemies of the Reich come in all ages, private. These boys were caught stealing bread in the market. That makes them enemies of the Reich. They shall have their punishment. Aim at the back of his head and shoot.”
Out of the corner of his eye Gunter saw the other soldier bring his weapon to bear on the other child, but his own arm seemed to be paralyzed. He could not lift his weapon. The boy on his knees in front of him sniffled and whimpered; “I didn’t do it,” he whined. I am innocent. I swear on my father’s grave!”
Gunter’s hand was shaking. He wanted to throw his gun down and run. He stood staring at the whimpering lad unable to move. He heard the sound of a pistol being cocked. The Lieutenant was pointing his pistol at Gunter’s head.”
“Get it over with, fresh meat, or you’ll be buried beside them.”
With great effort, he raised his pistol and aimed at the back of the boy’s head. The gun seemed to weigh ten kilos. His shaking hand made the barrel leap and jerk around the target.
The soldier next to him fired first. The report of the man’s pistol caused him to jump. His own pistol went off. The recoil jerked and stung his hand. The boy in front him shrieked and grabbed the side of his head.
”You idiot!” screamed the Lieutenant.
The boy sprang up in a panic and ran away. “Kill the swine, you fool!” the officer barked. Gunter’s pity turned to shame. He had let down the Reich.
Gunter took off after the boy who was running at full speed back up the road to the town. The right side of his face ran red with blood. Gunter raised his pistol and fired. The boy jerked. A could of dust sprang up about ten meters in front of him. He fired again. The boy stumbled. A bloom of red grew on his right shoulder. He regained his feet and ran again. Gunter fired again. Again the boy jerked. Another red bloom issued lower down the boy’s back. He screamed in agony, but kept running. The fourth shot hit the boy in the back of the right knee His leg collapsed, and the boy pitched face first I the dirt. Gunter ran up to him. The boy writhed and cried in pain. He rolled over on his back as Gunter stood over him and aimed. The boy put out his hand, his eyes pleading. His mouth moved, but nothing came out. Gunter felt the recoil of the pistol once more, and the boy was still, a pool of blood forming under the his head. He noticed something at the boy’s chest. A small gold crucifix that had hung on a gold chain around the boy’s neck gleamed in the sun. A spot of blood clung to it, still wet and glistening. The boy’s eyes were wide with terror. His right eye bright white, the left a bloody mass where 9mm bullet had smashed through.
He seemed so innocent. The vision of the wounded, frightened boy trying to flee filled his mind. The pleading eyes. The hand held out naively trying to stop the final bullet—Or was he reaching for Gunter? Begging his assistance? How could a boy so young be an enemy of the Reich? If this young catholic boy could become an enemy, then who was safe? The wailing from the town ripped into his soul.
Gunter’s eyes filled with tears. The world became a watery mess. He dropped the pistol. He covered his eyes. He yanked off his cap and grabbed his hair and pulled at it. In the distance he heard the officer ordering him to pick up his weapon. He started running, his eyes filed with tears. He couldn’t see where he was going. He tore off his tunic and threw it on the ground. He was cognizant of the lieutenant shouting at him. He passed something on his left. Some sand bags, a long barrel of some kind. A man shouted a question at him. He ran through a line of trees and splashed through a shallow creek and was suddenly running across the scorched field, his boots sinking in the soft dirt, causing him to feel as if running in a vat of concrete.
Behind him, the Lieutenant had reached the tree line and the machine gun emplacement that Gunter passed by. The lieutenant pointed at the figure running across the field and barked at the machine gunner. ”Shoot him! “Shoot the deserter.”
The gunner, disciplined by two years at the front, was so well-trained that his muscles alone reacted without awaiting input from his brain. He worked the bolt of his weapon. The air erupted POP-POP-POP-POP-POP with a well-aimed, efficient burst that echoed across the field.
A flock of ravens erupted from the tree above the gunner.
Jolted by the impact of the bullets, Gunter lurched forward onto the gleaming concertina wire. The barbs slashed his chest and arms. He lay looking at the dark red slick pool that grew on the ground beneath him. Then all went black.
The End