I watched him, finally realizing that kid was my enemy. He was so young, too short, weighing just above a hundred pounds. I watched him for a moment. He was completely wet, head to foot. His boots looked too large and were heavy with mud. His weapon was shaking so much I doubted he could hit me. His eyes were huge with fear. I could see he was suffering from cold and hunger.
It had been months since I had allowed myself to see enemies as human. I wondered if and how many other children I had fought. Had I killed children? I desperately tried to squash those thoughts, but they poured in as I watched that poor kid. I realized I didn’t want to kill him. He was on the wrong side—he was shooting at me, but he was too young for this hell. I made up my mind to help that kid. I was not going to murder him.
I never liked killing but, when faced with death, I did what I had to do. Most of the time, I just didn’t have a choice—it was kill or be killed. That was war. This was different as I felt I had a choice. I could sneak out the side of my building, shielding myself until I was nearly on top of him. I doubted he would watch for me in the streets as he was too focused on my hiding place. I removed my helmet, laying it carefully in his sight, and then backed away.
I reached him in a few seconds. He saw me at the last second, his face full of terror. I simply took the weapon from his hands. I didn’t even have to hit him. Then, I dragged him from the street back into my hiding place and sat him down in front of me. He swore, in German, then in English. I ignored him. He swore again. I ignored him again.
The night before, I had scavenged some food from a cupboard in the house. There wasn’t much and I wasn’t too sure where it came from or how long it had been there but I was beyond caring. I took out one can. I was hungry. I could tell the boy was too. He stopped his swearing and watched what I was doing. His mouth slightly opened and a trickle of drool escaped from the right corner. I took notice; I had been right that he was hungry. I took my time offering him anything. I carefully took a couple of bites from the can of food and then looked up at him. Another trickle escaped from his mouth. I made him wait.
After a full three minutes, I handed him the can. He didn’t even take the spoon I offered. He just took the can, tipped it to his mouth, and ate the entire contents in a matter of seconds. I was already opening the next. He took that one as well and ate it all. Then, he closed his eyes and leaned back, falling asleep in what seemed like a matter of seconds. On closer inspection, I noticed dark circles beneath both eyes and wondered how long he’d been awake.
I never said a word, I just let him sleep. He reminded me of me when I was his age. That realization woke something deep inside me. Here was this kid who should have been in school, studying and making friends but was out shooting at men. I hated Hitler more than ever. He stole so much from so many.
Every day, we heard rumors of death camps and of the Jews he was murdering. Every day, we saw more and more people displaced and fatigued by a war that had no end in sight. I glanced outside; it was raining again which meant more mud, more cold, more dampness. Even the skies seemed like they were against us.
I let the kid sleep. I couldn’t believe it when he slept for solid four hours. When he woke, he asked for more food and water, which I readily gave. I didn’t really know what to do with him. I didn’t really want to just let him go, especially with no weapon. And I wasn’t about to give it back, either. It was time for me to move, so I just took him with me.
When we made it back to the line, I took him to the fenced off portion meant for prisoners. I was hoping some of the older German men would take care of their own. It felt wrong, as if I was abandoning him. He couldn’t stay with me, and I could never trust him. I didn’t want to end up killing him. As they pushed him behind the gate, he looked back at me, gratitude in his face. I never saw him again.
After that kid, I began noticing the world again. I noticed most of the villages we came across held more life than only war. People were helping each other. It was not only me; the entire European continent was tired. We all wanted that damn war to end.
As spring hit, I noticed the leaves and new blooms. I was happy to note that Hitler, who had caused so much pain and stole so much, could not stop the earth. Slowly, I began to hope again.
I hoped for the end of the war. I hoped to see my brother again. Through my hope, I began planning my life after the war. I wanted to meet a girl. I wanted to study and find a good job. I wanted to fish again. Spring brought me so much hope, but the war still raged on. I knew we had to take Berlin to end it.
As we marched towards our final target, the Russians were marching towards us. I was excited and confused. I wasn’t even sure what the end could mean after spending so long fighting. What would happen? Would we all just go home, leaving Europe to rebuild? Would it truly end? Or would it end for a few years and some mad man will start it all again? Alarmingly, I wondered how I could leave this life. How could I stop soldiering?
The war changed me and not for the better. Kill or be killed, survive or die. I no longer felt I was Jurak. I had no idea who Jurak was. Now, I was a paratrooper, a pathfinder, and a killer. I learned food was meant to sustain. I couldn’t remember the last time I had actually enjoyed a meal. I was a soldier through and through, weary of war but no other way to live. There was nothing I could do about such fears; after all, the war was still on. The war had to end. We had to end it.
Our last target was Berlin. We knew taking Berlin would mean winning the war. We all understood killing Hitler was the only way to end it; if he lived, so would the war. Most of us talked about taking him out. Everyone wanted a quick end.
As we continued deeper into Germany, we heard more and more stories of Hitler’s evil. Killing camps had killed thousands. Maybe even hundreds of thousands. As Germany ran out of young capable men to soldier, Hitler had pressed boys as young as fourteen into service and men well into their sixties into the hardships of soldiering. Young women were brainwashed to believe they were the mothers of the beginning of the greatest generation for Germany. They lined up to conceive, growing babies to be given over for state rearing. It was unthinkable, unimaginable what Germans did in the name of Hitler.
I thought back to my happy place, my home near the mountains. I could not imagine any one of my neighbors, cousins or anyone else resorting to the rumors we were hearing of what the simple German families were resorting to. It was all so criminal. They robbed people blind of any freedom, even the rights to raise their own children. It was chilling to witness how quickly Hitler turned German tradition and pride into such shit. There was no other name for it. His philosophies and his goals were all shit.
I hated him. I hated his war machine. I hated the Germans that bought into his shitty ideals and fueled his machine for war. I wondered if I would ever stop feeling that hate. Somehow, I hoped I would.
Hitler took life from all of us, though. He stole some of the best years of my life. He called me up to train, lose sleep, stand in never-ending lines, to fight, and to kill. He stole the same from numerous others and to what end? I couldn’t answer those questions—no one could and none of us were ever able to.
Weary, hungry, and thirsty, we finally marched into Berlin. The Russians were there, our supposed allies. Sometimes, we stopped them stealing and raping. Mostly, though, we could not. The same rumors went around about us, and we could not deny the violence we invoked on our enemies. No one was innocent, but the Russians seemed worse, at least to me.
Berlin was quiet for an invasion. It was so bombed, so destroyed, we could only help. Everywhere we looked, there was destruction. I was amazed to see as many people as we did. I had no idea how anyone could have survived. After a few days, we heard the news.
Hitler was dead. The war in Europe was over.
A Dare to Hope
The war was over.
I, alongside the entire world, had hoped for this longer and harder than anything else. I spent years hoping for this, beginning almost as soon as I disembarked the bus i
n North Carolina to begin training three years ago, nearly down to the day I had hoped for the war to end. We heard about all the celebrations throughout the U.S., in Paris, and London. Even in bombed-out Berlin, people celebrated, though I think it was done more quietly. Men and women wiped away tears from tired faces. Everyone was weary of fighting. That first night, a kid named Smith found alcohol from God knows where, and we toasted our survival.
The first went down smooth. The second and third followed. We drank to the brothers we lost. We drank to those who died. We drank to those who would never be found. We drank to Hitler’s death. I woke up, holding onto the earth for dear life, sick as I ever was, wondering why I had drunk so much. The next night, we did it again—and the night after that and the night after that. It was a wonder any of us survived the drinking.
The war was over, at least in Europe. We had plenty to do to keep us from worrying about fighting in Japan. Rumors swirled around. Some believed we would only help rebuild for a week or two, then ship out to Japan. Most of us wondered how the war in Japan could end without the Devils’ support. I didn’t want to go.
I never missed the fighting. I sure as hell didn’t miss the killing. My entire adult life I had been a soldier and even though I had no idea what I was going to do when I got home, I knew I was done with soldiering. I hoped Uncle Sam would understand. I hoped and prayed the Devils would stay out of Japan.
As June seeped into July, I began wondering how long we would have to stay in Europe. There was so much to do after the war. Everywhere I looked, there was destruction. Bombed-out buildings needed new roofs. Piles of debris needed to be removed. Whole villages had been reduced to rubble. There was so much debris, I thought it remarkable anything was left standing in Europe. Besides the damaged roads and buildings, there was the mess of the people.
People from everywhere showed up, all day, every day. They wanted to get as far west as they could, no matter where their homeland was. Germany was divided in half and from what I could tell, most folks weren’t too keen on becoming Russian.
We dealt with growing numbers of displaced people. Every. Single. Day. It was nearly as exhausting as the fighting, and I noticed my empathy lessened, just as it had with killing, while dealing with them.
They were a sore lot, to be honest. It was horrible seeing how little they had. Most had the clothes on their backs. Many wore mismatched shoes, others wore one. A few had blankets and small suitcases. No one had food. We set Red Cross supplies and all those people joined line after line, waiting for food, showers, or shelter. It was beyond pitiful. They all had questions with no answers. Desperate mothers asked after missing children who were surely dead. Desperate husbands called out for wives. One day, I saw a man, aged by war, stand up and run in circles shouting the name, “Freida!” over and over again. We caught him, wrapped him in a blanket, and led him to a med tent. I wondered if he could ever recover. I wondered who Frieda was.
Many Germans were happy to begin rebuilding. After all, most didn’t have jobs or homes; the sooner they rebuilt, the sooner they could get on with life. Many displaced persons took rebuilding efforts with no direct orders. It was good to see the coordinated efforts, but I wasn’t too sure Germany could every fully recover. All were affected, and I could tell some were lost forever.
They would sit at the edge of a street, eyes stuck open staring into nothing. A few lucky ones had loved ones around them, caring for them. They would fetch them food and drink or wrap blankets around their thin shoulders. Still, they would sit, unable to forget whatever horrors they witnessed. I thought they were the worse of the shell-shocked citizens. Then, came a busload of Jews.
Of course, all of us heard about the Jews. It was different seeing them. Even though they should be up several weeks after their liberation, many still looked like walking skeletons. They had no belongings. When they talked, I saw many gaps where teeth should have been. Everyone, man or woman, had short hair. Not one was with a blood relation. Most of them stared, their eyes stuck open. They had nothing. They didn’t even have debris to clear. Hitler stole everything from them. They huddled together still afraid to leave each other. As I watched them line up for food, I knew I would never get that awful sight out of my head, and I never did.
After a few days, the Jews left and I found myself hoping more than ever that I would stay the hell away from Japan. If Germans did this to their own people, what could Japan have done? I didn’t want to find out. That second week of July hit with all the heat of summertime, and we were called up.
None of us were surprised. US Devils had played too important of a role in liberating Germany from those damned Nazis. All of us seriously doubted the Allied forces could sustain much of a fight without us. So, when the captain called us altogether, I knew what was coming.
“Those Japs are dug deep, guys. I know we fought hard here and we won, but the war isn’t over yet. Get your things, we fly out in a few hours. After we get back to England, we’ll board a ship to the East.” The captain didn’t sound excited. He didn’t rally us all together with a good fighting speech. He was resigned to his fate and as I looked around, I realized we all felt the same. No one spoke as we walked away.
My heart sank at his words and it sank even further as I walked back to my bunk. I didn’t want to leave Europe for Japan. I didn’t want to sit my ass on some filthy ship as it sailed two oceans across the world to get me into another fight. I didn’t want to go.
I sank down on my bunk, content to sit for a few minutes. I wondered why I had survived so long and so hard a fight, just to be sent off to an even worse situation. At least Europe didn’t have malaria. I had heard some awful stories from Japan. I wondered if I was in good enough shape to survive Japan. I couldn’t resolve my mood to lift. I felt my eyes open and stare across the room. I wondered where Peter was, if their unit was going to Japan too.
I got up and packed my few possessions, all military related. Uniforms, check. Weapon, check. Boots, check. Irrationally, I felt like bawling. I almost felt as if I were leaving home again. As I took the last steps towards the door, I realized I lived here, in this room, for over five weeks. That was the longest I had lived anywhere since jump school. I couldn’t look back.
I lined up and boarded a plane. The engines drowned out any talking, and I took my place without saying anything to anyone, keeping my head down. It was too heavy a burden to look up. I felt the plane turn onto the runway and heard the rise of the landing gear. We rose into the air. I hated every minute of it. I knew I had used up all my chances on European soil. I would never make it out of Japan alive.
The flight was short. We made it to England in just a few hours and after we touched down, we were briefed on the new plan. A ship was waiting to get us all on board hopefully, the next morning, but most likely the day after that. Knowing the military by then, I figured we had two nights in England. I was right.
The boys and I lived it up. We were told to stay on base—an order we all ignored. I figured I had weeks, not months, to live and I was going to live. I drank and held onto some British girl with bad teeth, but nice hair. I vaguely remember thinking her waist was awfully thick and her accent slightly annoying when she climbed on me.
So much for really living it up. I woke up the next day in some back alley, covered in vomit I was sure wasn’t my own. My head pounded and the little bit of sun filtering through the English gloomy sky penetrated my aching eyes. Once again, I resolved drinking was no way to live and walked back to the base. Once there, I literally thanked the good Lord out loud, being right the day before. They weren’t ready for us to board the ship. I slunk back to my bunk and laid down without washing. I slept well into the evening until Smith woke me up with, “I figure we have weeks, not months. Let’s go live.”
I showered and met him at the gate. I repeated the night before but this time, I made it back to the base and collapsed on my bunk. I could never recall how I got there.
The next day, we lined up with our ach
ing heads and all our gear, ready to board. The water did not help my side effects of living. It was long before I found myself lined up against the rails, vomiting. I resolved never to drink again.
Two days into our voyage, and fully recovered, I kept to my resolution. I ate well and kept up my exercising, running laps around the deck. I figured the best way to survive the Japs was to gain as much muscle as I possibly could while I could. It felt good taking such a stand. I began to hope I could survive another war. After three days at sea, we turned back to collect another unit. We didn’t even get to leave the ship, we stayed in dock a couple of days, more people boarded, and we turned into the sea again.
July was well over by then, and I could feel August even though I hadn’t been keeping too good a track of the actual days. We were a little more than halfway to the United States when we got the news. Japan had surrendered.
I survived the war.
That night, we were given two beers with dinner and I relished them with gusto. I pawned another off a devoutly religious man and relished his. I almost couldn’t believe I survived the war.
That thought kept me up all night, and I watched the sunrise. I survived the war. I was no longer a soldier. I survived the war. Tears ran down my face. I stayed at the rail of that ship, watching the sky turn its glorious shades of pinks and oranges, and I prayed.
I began by thanking God for my life. I asked Him to keep all those who had died safe with him. My shoulders shook when I begged His forgiveness. I thanked Him for his Son. At the very end, even with all my gratitude, I couldn’t resist asking Him why so many had to die. I closed after I asked Him why I had to kill. My tears ran dry, and I watched the horizon for a long time but I never heard an answer. As far and as long as I watched that horizon, I never understood why such a senseless war had been fought. There were so many lives stopped and so much loss endured. No voice, from the darkness or light, ever answered my question.
Cold Determination Page 14