Children of the Promise

by Dean Hughes

  “I don’t think you’re as committed as you should be, Peter. In my group, you would have been severely chastised, perhaps even reported. I wonder whether it’s your parents who have put these ideas into your head.”

  “No one has put any ideas into my head. I’m on my way to fight, the same as you. I only said that I hope it turns out as well as you predict.”

  “It will, Peter. And you must be just as sure of it as I am–the same as Karl and Helmut. Doubt will destroy us more quickly than anything.”

  “You’re right, Hans. I shouldn’t ask such questions.”

  Hans nodded and smiled, seeming satisfied. He glanced over his shoulder, apparently to see how long the food line was now, but the line was not moving fast. Peter noticed the smell of sauerkraut wafting in from the next car. He hoped there was something decent to go with it. Rations were sparse these days. The smell of food was at least a welcome change from the odor of men tightly crowded into the train car–the musty smell of wet wool, all of the men having stood in the rain before they boarded, and the smell of bodies that hadn’t been in a shower for several days.

  “What does your father do, Peter?” Hans asked. “You’ve never told me that.”

  “He works in a government office. He spends his life filling out forms, moving paper.”

  “Why hasn’t he been called up for service now? Is he in ill health?”

  “No, no. It’s not that. His job is important. It only seems dull to me, I suppose.”

  Hans nodded, and then he leaned back and laughed. “You’re so mysterious, Peter. You never tell me anything unless I ask you, and then as little as possible. Why are you so secretive?”

  “I’m not. I’m just not the talkative kind. My parents always teased me for being so silent.”

  “It’s not such a bad trait. You’re the best fellow I’ve ever met–except for Karl and Helmut. I’m glad we met you that day.”

  “I’ve never had a good friend, Hans. Never in my life. I’m glad I met you, too.”

  Hans leaned forward and slapped Peter on the knee. “We’ll kill us some Popovs together, distinguish ourselves, and then we’ll go back and help bring Germany to its rightful place in the world. It’s exciting what lies before us. Herr Pfefferle always told us we were the finest generation of Germans ever because we’ve been raised under our Führer’s great influence. There’ll be no stopping us in the future.”

  “That’s right,” Peter said.

  “And here’s my promise: We’ll always be friends.” Hans offered his hand and Peter reached out and shook it. He liked this boy so much, and he longed to speak honestly with him, to become his close friend, but the chasm between them was deeper than Hans could ever imagine.

  Late that afternoon, the train pulled into a station in a small Polish town, the name of which Peter couldn’t pronounce. The troops were commanded to bring their gear and leave the train. Then they formed up and marched to a camp that was a couple of miles away from the train station. It was not such a bad march, but the garrison bags became heavy along the way. Many of the men in the company were young, like Peter and his friends, and except for some of the smaller boys, they kept up easily. But the older men, some of them in their late fifties, became fatigued and out of breath. No one broke ranks, but Peter heard them gasping for air and pushing themselves to keep going. Training had been rigorous, but it had been short, and the older men hadn’t had much time to become as fit as they needed to be.

  The men were also dressed in rather makeshift uniforms, not all of them matching. Everyone had a rifle or machine gun of some sort, but ammunition was short, and some of the weapons were badly outdated. The men had been promised many times that they would receive the latest equipment, and better uniforms, but the promises hadn’t been honored so far. Peter thought he saw trouble in this, and among other things, he wondered whether adequate winter clothes would be available. He had heard stories about winter fighting the year before and German soldiers lacking warm coats and boots. He had only heard such things on British radio, of course, but he believed it, and he hated to think that he could be heading into a similar situation. He wondered why Hans couldn’t look around him and see that this was actually a ragtag unit, made up of children and older men, with inadequate training and weapons.

  At the camp the troops were marched to a little parade ground, where they halted and then stood “at rest” until a Hauptmann–a captain–walked along their ranks and then stopped before them. “Welcome, my comrades,” he said. “We are happy to have you here where you are much needed. You will add strength to our forces as we resist the animalistic Bolsheviks.”

  He was a powerful-looking man with a bull-like neck. His uniform, however, appeared worn and faded–and so did his eyes. Peter had the distinct feeling that he was going through the motions, giving the same speech he had given many times before, perhaps not as convinced by his own words as he once had been.

  “This is a mere transfer camp. You will not be here long. You will receive additional training each day, but within a week you will be ordered forward. You will board a train again, and you will be carried to the front. I can promise that within a few days you will be shooting Russians, destroying an enemy so hateful and despicable that you will find joy in every life you take. And this is the best news. You will fight with the Grossdeutschland Panzer Division–one of the finest, best-trained fighting groups the world has ever produced.”

  Peter heard a stir around him. Hans and many of the other boys were clearly impressed. But Peter wondered why, if it was such a crack unit, it would take on these ill-trained new recruits.

  “The Russians are dogs, not men; they have no honor in them. They would rather cut your throat than take you prisoner, and so you must do the same to them. Offer them no mercy. What you must understand also is that Russian civilians, mongrels that they are, are equally deceitful and dishonorable. Most of them are unwilling to welcome the liberation we offer them, and so they sneak about and snipe at us. You must never trust them, and you need not worry about killing them when the need arises. I wish it were otherwise. Germans are not accustomed to such beastly warfare, but it’s what the Russians have forced upon us, and therefore, it’s what we give them in return.”

  Hans was standing next to Peter. “The swine,” he whispered. “The filthy dogs.”

  The captain continued for some time, but the theme was always the same: the Russians had started all the dishonorable behavior, and noble Germans would rather not behave the same way, but war was war, and the Russians had established the rules in this battle. Peter actually wanted to believe that was true, thought maybe it was, because he wanted to trust in the honor of his own people. But he had heard similar descriptions of German behavior on British radio, and in that version it was the Germans who had begun the killing of civilians and refused to take prisoners. Peter didn’t know which was true; he only knew that it was a kind of warfare he didn’t want to witness, let alone take part in.

  When the officers finally marched the troops to their billets, Peter was glad to drop his heavy bag and find a bunk to sit on. The thought crossed his mind that this was the last chance he might have to make a break. But he had no idea how to get back across Poland without being caught.

  Hans was fired up from the speech he had just heard. “I can’t wait to join with the Great Germany Division,” he said. “I hope, within a day or two, to kill my first Russian. Those dogs deserve all the hot lead we can pour into them.”

  Peter didn’t know what to say. He looked away.

  “Peter, I think I understand you,” Hans said. “You’re still sensitive about killing. That’s because you’re such a kind person. But don’t worry. You can do it. We all can.”

  Peter nodded but again said nothing. All he could think was that he had worked himself into an impossible situation. There was only one answer that he could find within himself. He wouldn’t shoot anyone. He would fire his weapon, but not at another man. If he had to choose betwee
n his own life and another’s, he would accept his fate. It would be better to die than to fight on behalf of the Nazis and then never be able to forgive himself.

  Chapter 12

  It was still dark, but Wally and the prisoners in his fifty-man group had been up for some time. They were marching toward the coal mine. It was always the worst time in Wally’s long day. He was dead tired, and he felt like a sleepwalker, but the worst was knowing that the day would be exactly like every other day. Wally was also suffering from something new. Many of the men, because of the deficiencies in their diet, suffered with boils. Until now Wally had never had the problem, but in the last week three boils had formed on the back of his right thigh. His leg was badly swollen, which made it hard for him to walk. So this morning each step was a strain, but he knew better than to request any special consideration.

  When the men reached the mine, a little ceremony began. The Japanese guards and mine officials prayed to the mine gods, and the prisoners, not understanding the words but accustomed to the ritual, would chant and bow along with them. Then an official would call out the name of a supervisor, who would come forward, bow low, and call out his crew. “Hai!” each man would respond as his number was shouted, and the crews would form for the day.

  On this morning, Wally was teamed with a crew of five prisoners, including Chuck Adair. Lewis Honeywell, a man Wally could hardly stand to be around, was also assigned to the group.

  Honeywell was a sergeant, and he was a buddy of Lieutenant Langston, the American who ran the mess hall. Between the two of them, they seemed willing to do almost anything to please the guards and sell out their fellow prisoners.

  The ride down to the third level of the mine was always an ordeal. Wally wrapped his arms around himself to protect against the cold, just as he did every morning. And then, when he got off the train, according to the expected procedure he took off his trousers and worked in his G-string and shirt. He chose also to take off his shoes. He knew that the long walk to the mine would become much harder, especially in winter, if his shoes were not in good shape, so he protected his shoes from wear by working in his bare feet. That often meant standing in cold water all day, but the shoes didn’t help much in that regard anyway.

  The supervisor allowed the men to take a few minutes to eat their ration of rice, and most of the men smoked half a cigarette, if they had one. The rice was actually the meal allotted them as lunch, but the men had learned from the prisoners who had been around for a time that it was best to get the extra nourishment early. They held up better that way, even though that meant working the long shift without another meal.

  Wally had been working in the mine for a few weeks now, and he knew the Japanese words for the tools, for timbers, wedges, and some of the basic operations. Lately he had worked in this same area, where the men were breaking and removing rock in an attempt to find a seam of coal. Operating a jackhammer was almost impossible for Wally right now, with his leg so sore and swollen. Chuck was willing to take all Wally’s time on the hammer for him, but Wally still tried to take a short turn when he could.

  Wally began by loading rock, broken and loosened the day before, into a train car. Some of the large rocks could be lifted by hand, and then the smaller rubble had to be shoveled. He set about his task, knowing he was in for a miserable day, full of pain. What he hoped was that the boils would finally come to a head, and he could have them lanced that night. But then, that had been his hope for several days, and nothing had changed.

  Once Wally got into his work the pain seemed to diminish a little, and the morning moved along, not quickly, but not quite as sluggishly as he had anticipated. When the supervisor let the men break for lunch, they took the time to rest. Most tried to find a dry place where they could curl up and sleep, but Wally was hurting too much for that. He used the time to kill lice. Delousing was a tedious task that the prisoners never stopped working at. Lice tended to hide in the seams of their clothing, and the little creatures were difficult to spot, especially in the dim light of a lantern. But Wally bent back the seams, and he smashed a number of them, enough to feel that one annoyance in his life might be reduced a little.

  Keeping his leg still, resting it, also helped with the ache, but pain in his body, like the hunger that never left him, was like a steady background noise that a person tends to forget after a time. Wally waited out the final minutes of the lunch break almost in a trance, as though some impulse for self-preservation wouldn’t allow him to accept the full awareness of the long, painful afternoon that lay ahead.

  Honeywell had been sleeping, but he sat up before the supervisor called the men back to work. “Hey, men,” he said, “we need to push harder this afternoon. If we outwork the other crews, Fujioka said he would let us get out in time to take the first bath.”

  At the end of the day, the men bathed in a small pool. To get to the bathhouse late was to bathe in water that hundreds of dirty coal miners had already used. There was no way to get clean in such filth, so the men always hoped to be one of the first crews out of the mine.

  “Forget it, Honeywell,” Chuck said. “These guards promise that to push us harder, and then they make some excuse and we still get out late.”

  “Yeah, I know. Some of them are like that. But not Fujioka. If he promises something, he comes through.”

  Wally didn’t know Honeywell’s whole history, but he had apparently worked on an all-Japanese crew in the Philippines, and he had learned to speak the language fairly well. He was the only prisoner who knew the names of all the guards and supervisors. One of the frequent accusations against him was that he used his connection to the guards–his informing and placating–as a way to get extra rations. Wally had never seen him receive anything additional, but the guy definitely looked healthier than most. Of course, his buddy Langston probably saw to it that he got extra food, too.

  “You boys had better listen to Honeywell,” a fellow named Clark Johnson said. “He knows exactly what he’s talking about.” Johnson was one of the youngest prisoners, only about twenty-one. He had been a star athlete at his high school, in eastern Colorado, and had done some Golden Glove boxing as a teenager. Wally liked the guy, but his hot temper got him into trouble at times.

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Johnson?” Honeywell demanded.

  “You’re very familiar with every Jap backside around here. And you know which ones to kiss.”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t do that.” But Honeywell didn’t protest all that strongly. Maybe he had no defense. Or maybe he didn’t dare stand up to Johnson. Honeywell was a large man himself, a big farm boy from South Carolina, but he wasn’t one to take anybody on.

  Fujioka had apparently heard the raised voices. He walked down the tunnel and gave a command in Japanese. The men didn’t know the words, but they knew the meaning. They got up and trudged to the heap of rocks they were removing. But Honeywell stood and spoke to the guard in Japanese. Wally had no idea what the conversation was about, but he heard the friendly tone, and he figured Honeywell was doing it on purpose to aggravate the other men, especially Johnson.

  Wally, however, was too preoccupied to care. He was going through the agony of getting going again, the pain in his leg excruciating. He didn’t really care what kind of stupid games Honeywell was playing.

  Shortly after the crew got started, Honeywell called out, “All right, men, Fujioka had to leave for a while, and he put me in charge. He said we would get off early if we can clear this area this afternoon. So let’s kick ’er in gear and get it done.”

  “We can’t move that much rock today,” Chuck said.

  Another man, Dave Jewell, said, “Not a chance, Honeywell. We push that hard today and all he’ll do is expect that much tomorrow. It’s not worth it.”

  “You’re just lazy, Jewell. Fujioka knows that about you too.”

  Wally saw Johnson spin toward Honeywell. “Yeah, and who told him?”

  “No one has to tell him. He can see it for h
imself.”

  “And he talks to you about it?”

  In the dark, with only the dim lights from the men’s lamps, Wally could barely make out Honeywell’s face, but he could see the way he was moving. He seemed stiff and unsure, but he was trying to pretend he wasn’t intimidated. “Just shut up and get to work,” he barked back at Johnson. “I don’t want to discipline you.”

  “Discipline me?” Johnson called him a vile name. “Don’t you mean inform on me?”

  “I’m in charge right now, Johnson. I have no choice. If you won’t work, then I have to turn you in–or I’m the one who has to pay the price.”

  Wally wanted no part of this. He decided he’d better get to work. But he saw Johnson step closer to Honeywell. “If you’re in charge, let’s see you make me go to work. I’m thinking I’ll sit down and take a nice rest–while that Jap is gone.”

  “Come on, Clark,” Wally said to Johnson, “let’s not start fighting with each other. Let’s just move what rock we can today and let it go at that.”

  Honeywell turned and strode toward Wally, stopped close to him. “Lay off that kind of talk, Thomas. Fujioka expects this whole area to be clear before we go home tonight. If you boys refuse to do it, I have no choice but to tell him.”

  Wally felt the anger swell in him, the disgust. “Honeywell, we’ll work hard and steady all day. That’s all we can do. If we try to push too hard, the way they feed us, it will kill us off.”

  Chuck walked over and held up his lamp so he could look into Honeywell’s face. “Wally’s in bad shape,” he said. “His whole leg is swollen up. Every step he takes is half killing him. So lay off. Let’s start moving some rock.”

  That might have been the end of it. Honeywell seemed to accept the idea that getting started was better than arguing about it, but Johnson wasn’t satisfied. “You work too, big mouth,” he said to Honeywell, “or we won’t get enough done to satisfy your Jap buddy.”