End of the Line

From where he sat in the ruined barn, he could see the wreck of his tank. Oddly enough, it hadn't burned.

The two opposing tanks had come upon each other quite suddenly, both the Sherman and the Panther were manned by experienced crews. He hadn't had to say a word, his gunner had fired their main gun at point blank range. He figured the round had gone right through the enemy tank. They were within a stone's throw of each other. Neither could miss, neither did.

He couldn't know it but like his own gunner, killing the enemy tank had been the enemy gunner's last act in this life. He had been nearly cut in two by the tank round piercing the turret, then passing though the back of the turret. It was moving so fast that it had enough energy to cut through two plates of armor without deflecting or stopping.

His own tank had been hit low in the turret, just above the turret ring. Spalling from the enemy round had eviscerated his gunner, the round had then deflected off the breech of the main gun, decapitating the loader. He had no idea what had happened to his driver and bow gunner, they had bailed and run shortly after the tank was hit. No doubt they remembered well the screams of comrades burning to death inside their tanks. They weren't going to wait and see.

Enemy infantry had been nearby, supporting the enemy tank. Their fire had cut down both men after they had run a short distance, but he didn't know that. He consoled himself that the two men, from the same small town back home, had managed to get away.

The tank his gunner had killed didn't look too bad from where he sat, nor did his own vehicle. From his spot in the wrecked French barn, he couldn't see the holes in the turrets of both vehicles.

He had stayed in his vehicle until he had heard the enemy infantry move on, there were other tanks in his platoon still fighting. The enemy had no time to stop and check the two ruined vehicles. So he had dragged himself from his ruined tank and crawled to the barn. He barely remembered doing that.

It was at that point that another wave of pain had passed through him. He had never felt such pain before. An old soldier had told him that belly wounds were the worst, hurt like Hell and it took a long time to die.

He didn't want to die, he was only 23 years old. He had a wife and child back home, a two-year old girl whom he cherished. He loved his wife nearly as much, but what was it about children that one grew so attached to them?

As night began to fall, he was nearly bereft of hope. The firing had moved on, it was getting quiet now, he could hear gunfire in the distance, and the occasional bark of a tank cannon. Perhaps the tank recovery people would be up soon. He knew they operated after dark, but he wasn't sure whose tank recovery people would be coming, if at all. He had no idea who was winning the battle.

The fighting had seesawed back and forth over the past few weeks, now it seemed that things were breaking open.

He heard footsteps nearby, he froze, who were they, his own people, the enemy? Perhaps even the French farmer who owned this barn? He was afraid to make a sound, he had heard that the other side wasn't taking any prisoners. Sometimes it was easier for the French to just leave a wounded man to die, unless he were behind the enemy lines. He'd heard of summary executions of Frenchmen harboring enemy wounded.

Then he heard a man speak, not in French, not in his own native tongue. So he assumed that they were the enemy. He looked down at the uniform he wore, though charred and ripped, it was pretty obvious which division he belonged to. Perhaps they will make it quick, he hoped.

A groan escaped from him as another wave of pain enveloped him. He thought of using his own sidearm to end the pain, but as a good Catholic, oddly enough, he knew that that was a mortal sin for which there could be no forgiveness.

He managed to pull his rosary from his map case, where he managed to keep it hidden from his superiors, and began to softly pray.

"Jack, you hear that?" I heard someone speaking but couldn't quite make it out, from the rhythm of the words though, it sounded like someone praying.

"Yeah Gammell, sounds like Kraut. But it sounds odd, it ain't English, that's for sure."

I wasn't sure what to do, the day had been chaotic. I had shot at two German soldiers who had jumped from a Panther, I wasn't positive, but I was pretty sure that I had hit one of them. At first I was kind of elated, rather like hunting deer back home, but now I wasn't sure how I felt about that. Right now I was too on edge to give it much thought. Another tank from Kaminski's platoon had killed the Panther which had killed them. No one got out of that American vehicle, we had checked. It was a sight I wished I had never seen.

"Jack, what's the holdup?" Sgt Brandt had come up with his section.

"Sarn't, there's a Kraut in there, sounds like he's praying. I wasn't going to go rushing in or grenade the poor bastard either. Whaddaya think?"

"Cat, get up here."

PFC Melvin Katz, "Cat," a native German speaker from Austria, came up and listened to the voice inside the barn.

"Sarge, he's an Austrian, maybe from Salzburg. But definitely Austrian."

"What's he muttering about?" Cpl Jack Wilson wanted to know.

"He's praying, he's asking forgiveness for his sins. He might be dying, at least he thinks he's dying."

Brandt turned to Cajun, "Go get Doc."

"What do you need Sarge?" T/4 Harry Milbury asked Sgt Brandt.

"I need you go in there with me and Cat. There's a Kraut, maybe wounded, maybe dying, I dunno. But I can't leave the man to suffer, even if he is a Kraut."

SS-Oberscharführer Hans Wunsche looked up as he heard a noise at the entrance to the barn. It wasn't full dark yet, but from the shape of the helmets, he knew they were Amis. He kept his hands where the enemy could see them and continued to work his rosary and prayed for forgiveness. Secret Catholic and a sergeant in the 2nd SS Panzer Division he knew he had much to answer for in the afterlife.

Then he heard a voice in German, an Austrian voice speak to him. He was confused, perhaps they were German?

PFC Katz stopped abruptly when Sgt Brandt shown his flashlight on the man. Black panzer uniform, SS runes on one collar, SS rank insignia on the other.

"Sarge, he's a f**cking Nazi."

Wunsche looked up when he heard that word, he was about to say that he wasn't a Nazi, never had been. His father and two older brothers were all fanatic Nazis, all members of the SS. Only he and his mother refused to join the party.

Now that both of his brothers were dead in Russia, his father, at least in a last, and rare, letter from home, was questioning his own faith in the ultimate victory. While he didn't know it, that letter, which had somehow gotten through the censors, was enough to see his parents arrested by the Gestapo.

In truth, Wunsche just didn't care anymore.

Doc Milbury finishing bandaging the wounded German, he gave him a syrette of morphine as well. The man's eyes went glassy.

"Well?" Brandt asked.

"If we could get him back to an aid station, he might make it, if he was one of ours. But he's a Kraut, what's more, he's SS. Some surgeons might not care about that, most do. If we've got our own wounded to treat, and we do, lots of 'em, he might not get seen for hours. And that's if we had a way to get him to the aid station."

Sgt Brandt looked down at the unconscious SS tanker, "If he doesn't get any treatment, other than what you were able to do...?"

"He might die while he's under, he might not, if he wakes up, the pain will be enormous."

"What if you give him another syrette of morphine?" Hebert asked.

"How do you know about such things Bear?" Doc asked.

"I worked in a nursing home before the war, bedpan commando, but I learned a thing or two. Docs and nurses never talked about it, but when the pain got too bad, especially with cancer patients, a bit of extra morphine helped. They died, but they died without pain."

Brandt stood there in silence for a moment, then he told the rest of the men to get outside.

When the barn was clear of all but the wounded German, Doc, and Sgt Brandt, Brandt looked at Doc and said, "Do it, if you can't, show me how and I'll do it. But we need to get moving."

Doc knelt down next to the unconscious enemy tanker, he pulled a syrette from his medical bag, injected it, then waited. After a long moment, the German soldier sighed. Doc took his pulse.

"He's gone Bill, ya did the right thing."

Why doesn't it feel like the right thing, Bill wondered.