Forever Fleeting

by Bret Kissinger

  Hannah listened and struck the man again. His eyes rolled back and he passed out.

  “We need to take the leg,” the doctor said. The tide washed over the leg again, and bits of the man’s bone became visible. “I need you to get a stretcher. This man will bleed out in less than five minutes if we don’t hurry,” the doctor instructed.

  Hannah rose to her feet and sprinted past the reaching hands of those in need. To her, she was sprinting through a cemetery and those already dead and buried were pushing their hands through and reaching for her. Only they weren’t dead, but Hannah could not afford to stop and look back at all those she would leave behind. The impromptu infirmary was occupied well beyond what could fit under the tent. A cart was overfilled with amputated feet, legs, hands, and arms.

  “There is a man who needs an amputation,” Hannah said to anyone who would listen.

  Two men grabbed a blood-stained gurney and hurried to follow Hannah. They helped load the soldier onto the gurney and carried him to the infirmary.

  After an hour, the cries fell silent. The washing waves were the only sound. Hannah sat barely out of reach of the tide. She had thrown up only once—the cause of which had nothing to do with the sights and sounds. They certainly were disturbing, but Auschwitz had prepared her for it. It was the heartbreak for the dead and dying on the beaches of Normandy.

  The waves lamented the fallen. The poor souls who littered the sands had entered the jaws of death itself—a meat grinder, as Wilhelm’s father Petyr had called the Battle of Verdun. Bodies had been annihilated, and the bits of guts and flesh were picked at and eaten by gulls. Soldiers mourning the loss of friends fired shots into the air to scare them away. The bodies were placed onto the back of a truck as respectfully as possible, but the cleanup of the bodies would take days if not weeks. But Omaha beach was not an anomaly. The beaches of Gold, Sword, Utah, and Juno were littered with hundreds of more brave, young men. The final tally was a number too awful to consider.

  General Eisenhower had spoken of the elimination of Nazi tyranny over the oppressed peoples of Europe. It was for people like herself, for Josephine, for Radley and his family, and for the thousands inside the Nazi concentration camps. The fallen had given their lives not just for their families and friends back in the United States but also for unknown strangers throughout Europe and for generations of people yet to come.

  The ultimate sacrifice was to give one’s life. Hannah would have done it for her parents, for Wilhelm, for Eleanor and Trugnowski, and Josephine and Radley. But she knew them. She loved them. These young men had given their lives for strangers. It was something Hannah couldn’t understand. She could only hope every person around the world and for decades to come could understand what had happened.

  Priests moved about the beach, blessing the bodies of the fallen. The trucks carrying the bodies brought them to their temporary grave. It was only three-and-a-half-feet deep, and the bodies were lined shoulder to shoulder. Bulldozers pushed heaps of dirt on top of them. One of their two dog tags had been taken so the graves could be marked to indicate who was buried beneath. The amount of aluminum hanging from crudely made crosses made them look like stars shining in the night sky. When the winds off the Channel hit them, they chimed with melancholy. The sun had set, and the waves that had once been a peaceful lament were now eerie. The moon was full and the stars, bright. Not even night could hide the macabre beach.

  Hannah gazed at the stars. Wherever Wilhelm was, she prayed he would not have to go through such a hellish ordeal as the men who had stormed the beaches of Normandy that fateful day in June.

  New Deal

  The moon was full and bright and the stars around it, equally so. But the curfew was set and Wilhelm, instead of staring at the best sky since arriving at the prisoner-of-war camp, could only stare at the cobweb-infested wooden ceiling of the barracks. But Torben had shared news minutes before lights out that had diverted Wilhelm’s gaze from the white-speckled black canvas to Torben’s face.

  The United States, Great Britain, and Canada had invaded France days earlier. Germany was now waging a war on two fronts. A major news story like that demanded details—details unfortunately not available. Prodding for information was a good way to get into trouble, and for that reason, Wilhelm steered clear. But Torben wanted to know. He wanted to know when the war would be over and when he could marry Francesca and return home to his mother.

  “Tell us, Joe,” Torben pleaded.

  It was the next morning, and they had just arrived at the factory. Both had agreed Old Uncle Joe was their best play for information but also agreed to slowly press for it, not greet him with an interrogation.

  “Do I look like I work in Soviet intelligence? Keep working,” Old Uncle Joe said.

  “I tell you what. When we’re free, Wilhelm and I are going to take you to Germany for a proper drink. Something that goes down smooth and doesn’t cause your throat to bleed,” Torben said.

  “I have had that drink. But I have been from my mother’s breast for some time,” Old Uncle Joe said, countering Torben’s weak jab with a vicious hook.

  He smiled, and Wilhelm and Torben could not help but laugh. Old Uncle Joe gave Torben a poke with his walking stick. The work had become much less stressful since the Soviets had pushed the Germans back into Ukraine and the bombing sirens no longer rang. Wilhelm and Torben did not deserve the poking anymore for screwing up, yet they still expected it. Old Uncle Joe shared what details he could when he could. He was prone to falling asleep on his stool, and Wilhelm or Torben would give him a soft tap with their boot to wake him. But Torben had gone too long between pokes.

  “Your arm too tired, Joe?” Torben asked.

  Wilhelm was on the other side of the bomber and enjoyed the hiatus from being poked.

  “Joe?” Torben asked.

  Wilhelm waited for an answer.

  “What’s going on?” Wilhelm asked.

  “Get over here,” Torben said.

  Wilhelm hurried to the other end of the plane, nearly kicking over a box of tools as he did. Old Uncle Joe dropped his cane and collapsed into his chair. He sweated profusely and gasped for breath.

  “What is it?” Wilhelm asked.

  “My … chest,” Old Uncle Joe gasped.

  “Get help!” Wilhelm yelled to Torben.

  Torben nodded and sprinted toward a Soviet soldier. Sprinting drew the attention of every guard, and they raised their guns. Torben stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Need help!” Torben yelled, pointing to Old Uncle Joe.

  “Hang in there. Help is coming,” Wilhelm said.

  Old Uncle Joe’s breathing was raspy and his face, ghostly pale. His sweaty palms grabbed Wilhelm’s hand. He took one final inhale, and his chest did not move again. The guards dashed over with their guns raised. Wilhelm threw his hands up and stepped away.

  “What did you do to him?” a Soviet officer asked.

  His eyes were the same color as his uniform—a faded green. His hat had a red stripe across it with a gold hammer and sickle at the front. He was one of the supervisors of the labor areas, and he almost always had a cigarette in his mouth. His name was Captain Sokolov.

  “Nothing. I think he had a heart attack,” Wilhelm said.

  Captain Sokolov nodded. “Your name?” he commanded.

  He held out his hand, and one of his junior officers handed over a clipboard with the names of all the Germans working at the factory. He took a puff of his cigarette. The end threatened to fall off.

  “Schreiber, Wilhelm.”

  Captain Sokolov took another deep puff that finished off the cigarette and then tossed it on the floor. The junior officer put his foot on the cigarette and squashed it like a bug, extinguishing the red embers. Captain Sokolov licked his finger and flipped the pages over the clipboard until he came across Wilhelm’s name.

  “Wilhelm Schreiber. Obersoldat? A private?” Captain Sokolov asked to clarify between German and Soviet ranks.

  “Yes, S
ir,” Wilhelm said.

  “With your detailed medical examination, I thought you to be a medic. Do you have any training in such things?” Captain Sokolov mocked.

  It was obvious what Captain Sokolov was doing, but Wilhelm was powerless to stop it. He could only answer respectfully.

  “No, Sir.”

  “You will never advise me again, is that clear?” Captain Sokolov asked.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “And you, blonde German shit, what is your name?”

  “Kuhn, Torben. Obersoldat.”

  Captain Sokolov held the clipboard out for someone else to take it, and one of his junior officers did. Sokolov removed another cigarette and lit it.

  “You rush at a guard again, and you will be hanged. Do you understand me, Obersoldat?” Captain Sokolov asked.

  “Yes, Sir,” Torben said.

  “Excellent. Now I have found the Germans to be much like dogs. Beasts. If trained properly, you can teach them to shit outside,” Captain Sokolov jeered.

  He spoke elegantly, but deliberately fast in his native Russian. He wanted his orders to be missed so that the Germans could be punished. The officers around him laughed. Both Wilhelm and Torben could understand Old Uncle Joe, but he had always spoken lazily slow and repeated himself if needed.

  “You have shit inside my house. It is exactly 15.56 kilometers from the front entrance of this factory to the gates of the camp. You will run back for the next seven days. If you are not back before dark, you will be brought outside and shot like any other misbehaving dog. You will be followed, so any thoughts of running to your freedom I suggest you swallow,” Captain Sokolov said.

  He smiled and blew a cloud of smoke from a fresh cigarette into their faces. He turned to leave while his men lifted Old Uncle Joe’s lifeless body. There was only an hour left of the shift, but the loss of Joe made it feel so much longer. There were no pokes and no conversations. The Soviets had sent over another guard. He was an active soldier, and his only words were “faster, faster.” As the prisoners shuffled out at the end of the shift, Wilhelm and Torben looked on as the trucks drove off. It was not yet the heart of summer, but it was hot. The best part of the day, driving in the open top truck, had been taken from them.

  “Move,” a Soviet said from behind the wheel of a jeep. The guard next to him snickered. Wilhelm and Torben jogged over grassy fields somewhere in Western Russia, the guards aiming guns and smiles their directions.

  “Think we can take the jeep?” Torben asked in German.

  “Can you stop bullets?” Wilhelm asked.

  Wilhelm could not blame him for asking. If they could get past the two guards, they would have a vehicle to try and escape. But they were also somewhere in Russia with an unknown number of kilometers before they could be free of the Soviet Union’s massive hammer and sickle. The Soviet guards did not let Wilhelm or Torben know what time it was or how long they had been running. They were truly running blind with an unknown predator stalking them from behind and running them down. Wilhelm’s feet pounded. His boots were not ideal for long-distance running. His throat was a desert, and his tongue was a dried sponge. His sides felt as if spears had been stabbed into them, and his body threatened to collapse. Torben had an equally tough time of it, and with each passing moment, Wilhelm considered Torben’s question more and more.

  If they didn’t make it in time, they would be shot. Their fate could have been decided already. They could be dead men running to their own grave. Why shouldn’t they risk their lives for a chance at freedom? But Wilhelm had spent too long contemplating his decision. The gates of the camp loomed ahead. Captain Sokolov approached them, the smoke of his cigarette evaporating into the early night sky.

  “I am shocked that you both made private first class,” Captain Sokolov said.

  Torben and Wilhelm bent over and gasped for breath. Their white t-shirts were drenched in sweat. The aches and pains Wilhelm had experienced while running only increased exponentially now that his body was still.

  “Bring them inside,” Captain Sokolov ordered.

  Captain Sokolov would hang them inside the camp to send a message. The sky was at battle between day and night, but Captain Sokolov did not care it was still partially light out—only that it was partially dark. Wilhelm had seen a dozen men being hanged, their corpses swaying and left for days at a time as a reminder. When a German was too weak to perform the tasks given to them, the Soviets had no use for them. Wilhelm and Torben had no choice but to move inside the prison camp and wait for their fate. Wilhelm tried to plead with Torben with his eyes. He wanted to tell him he was wrong. They should have tried to overtake the jeep. But he would not be caught showing anything that could be conveyed as weakness. Wilhelm had seen too many men die to whimper over it.

  Sokolov stepped in front of the two. “Congratulations, dogs. You have made it.”

  Their plates of food were tossed at their feet. As they bent down to pick them up, they were kicked to the ground. Their faces landed into their plates of kasha. The Soviets laughed, and a mix of rage and embarrassment fought for dominance in Wilhelm. But his rage was much stronger and almost defeated his sense of reason. It called for Wilhelm to snap out and retaliate.

  Torben bit his lip and dug his nails into the dirt. Wilhelm reached his hand into his bowl, but Captain Sokolov kicked his hand away.

  “You are dogs. Dogs eat with their mouths, not their paws,” Captain Sokolov sniggered.

  To not eat was a dead man’s wish. They were not keen on the idea of eating like a dog in front of the entire camp of hundreds, but survival demanded being pushed past comfort zones and civility itself. So, Wilhelm brought his mouth down and slurped up the porridge.

  “Good boy,” Captain Sokolov said, roughly petting Wilhelm’s head before lighting another cigarette.

  The Germans around Wilhelm and Torben made no mention of what had happened, for they each had experienced something similar. They had not found it funny in the slightest because, like Wilhelm and Torben, they too wanted to survive.

  “Fucking asshole,” Torben said. He cleaned off the bit of kasha off his face as he and Wilhelm limped to the barracks. Both were far too exhausted to enjoy the half hour or so before lights out. “I hope he doesn’t make us lick our own asses,” Torben said.

  Wilhelm fell asleep instantaneously when his head hit his pillow. He had not thought about Old Uncle Joe at all until the next morning when he awoke. With the new day came a strong dose of guilt. He and Torben knew things had changed for them and changed for the worse. Old Uncle Joe was a good and kind man. Their new guard was unsatisfied with anything they did, and even if by some miracle they had assembled a thousand bombers before lunch, he would find fault in it. They were also under the scrutinizing eye of Captain Sokolov. He grinned at them, knowing how hard their run would be under such a strong sun and weak legs. The run that day was twice as hard and the day after, three times harder. Wilhelm’s feet were covered in blisters and bruises of purple and blue, and his unkempt toenails cracked and broke.

  Captain Sokolov smiled each night as it got closer to the deadline. Apart from always having a cigarette hanging from his lips, nothing brought Sokolov greater joy than watching Wilhelm and Torben eat and drink like dogs. Wilhelm and Torben had made it each of the seven days, and even though both could barely walk, they were sure to stand tall around Captain Sokolov and the guards—not out of pride but knowing if Captain Sokolov saw how sore they were, he would sentence them to another run.

  Every morning, Wilhelm’s legs were like uncooked spaghetti noodles—hard and brittle—and would snap if he tried to stand on them. But every night, through the course of a long day, his legs would cook and become flimsy and threaten to give out. The soreness and pain in his legs didn’t go away even when lying down. But worse than his legs were his tormenting thoughts.

  “We should have gone for the jeep,” Wilhelm said.

  He stared up at the ceiling, his mind too busy to silence the snoring around him
or dull his thoughts. Stalingrad was hell and nothing short of it. But he was a man during it. Sokolov dehumanized him, humiliated him, and dominated him in a way no self-respecting man should tolerate. But what choice did he have?

  What if fate had presented an opportunity to escape and Wilhelm had been too afraid to seize it? But worse than that, he had dissuaded Torben from attempting it. He knew Torben had heard him, and it was a testament to how close they had become that he did not answer. It was so much more than going for the jeep. It was going after freedom—after life itself. And if freedom and life were elusive, well, at least, they would have met death on their feet and shaken its hand like men rather than cowering in the fetal position Sokolov forced them in.

  Land of Liberty

  The sacrifice of the fallen was stained on the sands of Normandy. The bodies had been cleared, yet the aura of loss and martyrdom was something the tide could not wash away. The air was thicker than it had been, and it was impossible to breathe in the salty air and not be overcome with emotion.

  Hannah had been told the causalities of each of the beachheads, an estimated number north of ten thousand—estimated—an acceptable range higher or lower than the true number. The word made her angry and heartbroken. The true number needed to be known so each man who had died could be remembered. There should be no estimates, guesses or approximations. The sights and sounds affected each of the nurses’ differently. Some fell ill while others cried in each other’s arms. Hannah stood alone and grieved in reflective silence. Kay had said General Eisenhower’s son had graduated from West Point the same day men of equal age crossed the Channel and stormed the beaches. Hannah could only imagine the conflicting guilt the General felt. General Eisenhower stood on the shore, the waves washing short of him, and stared in somber silence toward the Channel. He squatted down, grabbed a handful of sand, and let it fall between his fingers.

  “These men are making decisions that will cost young men their lives. It isn’t easy. You or I can’t pretend to know what that feels like, so don’t,” Kay had said.