Untitled WWII Story
Notes/Warnings:
Like most people who grew up in the '00s, I was exposed to the abundance of WWII first person shooter games. I have a soft spot for that kind of stuff. I also have a personal vendetta against Nazis (see: the burning of the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft), however I still feel like there were a few Germans who were dragged into a war they didn't believe in. The validity of that isn't known to me, but one of the characters featured in this relies on that being true.
Has Nazis in it. Most likely has historical inaccuracies. And Google translated German lol
September, 1944 - Vosges Mountains, Southern France - Nearing the End of Operation Dragoon - Cpl. Anthony Grant, United States Army
“Es tut mir leid,” whispered the German infantryman as he took my 1911 from its holster. His tone was sincere.
I had no idea what he said. I only knew that I was screwed. I was the last of my platoon, now captured by the enemy.
“Bring ihn zu den anderen,” said his commanding officer, nodding to the bed of a troop transport truck. His finger was on the trigger of his MP40 and his eyes were on me. A triumphant and cocky smile had formed on his lips.
The infantryman was gentle as he bound my hands behind my back. He led me to the truck, providing assistance as I climbed the step into it. He followed and sat down on the bench across from me. He didn’t let himself meet my eyes, but I could tell his face had a sorrowful expression.
The soldier wasn’t really much of a man, from how he appeared. He was more of a boy. He clearly was no more than twenty. Perhaps even younger. I had at least ten years on him. His face was pockmarked, clean shaven, and the only hint of age were a few laugh lines. Judging by the insignia on his uniform, he had to be a very low rank, possibly only recently enlisted.
“You speak any English?” I asked, trying to get a better look at his face.
“Entschuldigung, ich verstehe nicht,” he said nervously, shaking his head. He then put a finger to his lips, indicating for me to stay quiet.
He held his rifle across his lap. It was a Gewehr, but it showed little signs of usage. He quickly adjusted it, setting it vertically at his side as his fellows boarded the truck. One turned, spitting on me as he strode past. I was just able to make out what he said as he went by. Something along the lines of, “Amerikanischer Schweinehund.”
The ride to their encampment was short, which I suppose was a good thing. When we arrived there, I was the last to exit the truck. The kid was the one who led me out of it, bringing me to the passenger side. The door opened and out stepped his commanding officer, closing the door before stepping up to the two of us.
“Oberleutnant Leitz,” the kid said, saluting the man. His stiff arm was shaking as his hand pointed to the sky.
“Ganz entspannt, Schütze Hummel,” said Leitz, nodding his head. His MP40 was at his side, his right hand on the barrel, ready to bring it to use. Leitz reached out, gripping my chin firmly and examining my face. He used a gloved finger to brush some dirt from my cheek, giving a sadistic smile. “Sprichst du Deutsch?”
I gave him a blank stare, not understanding his words. Leitz only groaned, rolling his eyes before speaking again.
“You are lucky I speak some English,” he began, in his gruff, thick-accented voice. “Your rank and your name, what are they?”
“Tony Grant. Corporal,” I said, looking him right in the eye. He nodded, looking over to Hummel.
“Bindet Herr Grant an einen Baum in der Nähe der Latrine. Ich organisiere morgens den Transport für ihn,” Leitz said in an authoritative tone.
The kid - err, Hummel - offered me another frown before offering a somber, “Jawohl,” to Leitz.
Hummel led me near the camp’s latrine, readjusting my ropes and loosely tying me to a tree. He started stepping away, but hesitated, looking around the encampment. He must've been satisfied with what he saw - or didn't see - because he turned back around, pulling a Hitler Youth knife from his belt.
I thought I was finished. Maybe the boy had snapped or something, was about to gut me like a fish. But I was wrong. My fear was replaced with confusion as he put the knife in my hand. He then pointed to the sun, arcing his finger to below the horizon. Afterward he put the same finger to his lips, telling me to stay silent once more.
As night began to fall, I watched as the soldiers went into their tents. I made sure to keep track of where Hummel was. As the sun finally set and the moon appeared in the sky, I followed what I was told, cutting into the rope that bound me. Everyone was asleep, except for me.
I rubbed my wrists and held the knife in front of me, watching the blade reflect the moonlight. Creeping toward the tents, I made sure I was the only one still awake. But I didn’t want to keep it that way. Entering Hummel’s tent, I gently touched his shoulder, before putting a finger to my lips and silencing him as his eyes opened.
He snapped awake and his eyes met mine as he nodded in understanding. I wasn’t leaving this camp alone.
We had somehow made it out of there. I’d found my confiscated weapons and brought Hummel along for the walk to the next Allied camp. We made little attempts to communicate, but we stood on a hill overlooking a British-occupied encampment and watched the sun as it rose.
He had a firm handshake, and a genuine smile on his face. The last thing I’d think to happen would be a German saving me.
A throat was cleared behind us. A British soldier stood at the base of the hill. I met his eyes as Hummel and I turned around.
“You two are an interesting sight,” he proclaimed, holding a Webley revolver in Hummel’s direction. Keeping his aim on Hummel, the sentry looked towards me. “Would you be so kind as to explain this situation?”
Explanations were given, there were brief, yet humane detainments, and in the end the Englishmen brought me back to a nearby American unit. Hummel was kept with the British, but we did have a conversation, more or less, using a translator. He wasn’t afraid to lose the war, but he was afraid to die a cowardly death. He wanted to do the right thing.
I kept in touch with Hummel after the war ended, the two of us each learning a bit of the other’s language. Letters were sent to each other and war stories were shared. In the end, he let me keep the knife, which I was grateful for. It was a simple gesture, but one done out of an unlikely friendship.
Shh... don't wake her up.
