The Prisoner

(Source)

The men of 1st Squad came back into the lines shortly after sunrise. 1st Lt. Stephen Hernandez watched as they worked their way through the rubble of the small Rhine village of Rhöndorf to his CP. At the moment, 2nd Platoon was in reserve. But that didn't stop battalion from using the men from Hernandez' platoon for any number of dirty little jobs which might come up. S/Sgt Jack Wilson had nearly gone through the roof of the CP when the request for a prisoner snatch mission had come in shortly after dark the night before.

"Jesus L.T., how many of these dirty little jobs will we get stuck with? I know we're not in the line, but damn it, the men need rest." He had groused.

"I know Top, but you know the Major, C Company is his favorite company in the battalion and 2nd Platoon his favorite platoon in the company." Hernandez had offered by way of explanation.

"Damn it Sir, you'd think he'd want to keep his favorites alive!"

"We're his favorites because he knows we'll get the job done. You know that Jack."

"Yeah, but damn it. Isn't that just like the Army, do a crappy job, they won't send you in, do a good job and you get called on time after time. I hate it Sir, I f**king hate it." Wilson was fuming.

"I understand, but what should we do, disobey orders? Not an option Top, not at all." Hernandez knew that Wilson was mostly blowing off steam. He was tired of seeing men hurt and killed when the war was all but over. Why wouldn't the damn Germans just quit?

Hernandez did a head count as the guys came up the street, all twelve men were alive and unscathed, but they looked exhausted. As did the prisoner they had with them. A dirty, bedraggled German officer was in the middle of the pack, he had an M1 prodding him along, the man wielding it was one of the new men, Pfc. Johnny Robles.

Robles was a big man, well over six feet, he towered over the German. The German, Hernandez could see as they got closer, was a lieutenant and an older man. Guy had to be in his forties, Hernandez figured. Seemed old for an infantry officer, but the guy's tunic was loaded with combat decorations. Hernandez thought it odd how the Germans wore all that stuff into battle.

"Want us to take this guy up to company, L.T.?" Sgt. Melvin Katz asked as the squad stopped in front of the CP.

"Yeah, but bring him inside, I want to talk with him first. Does he speak English?"

"Don't know Sir, didn't ask him. We grabbed him as he came down the road on a motorcycle. All by his lonesome. Seemed odd, but it made our job easier." Katz answered.

"Maybe we should shoot the son of a bitch right now." Hernandez saw the prisoner's eyes get wide when he said that.

"Sprechen Sie Englisch, Leutnant¹?" Katz asked the man.

"Yes, some. I worked as a seaman on the Hansa Line between the wars, spent quite a bit of time in New York and other American ports. Picked up some English from, you know, the ladies." His English was heavily accented, but understandable.

"Let's go inside Cat, Leutnant." Hernandez pulled the shelter half they were using for a door open and gestured to the German, after you.

"Have a seat, Leutnant."

Sgt. Katz stayed at the entrance, Garand at the ready should the German try anything, which seemed unlikely.

"So, I know you don't have to say anything other than your name and..." Hernandez began.

"It's all right Lieutenant. My war is over, my men are all dead or captured, my family died in the bombing of Hamburg last year. One of my sons was killed in Italy, the other in Russia, I have nothing to live for, ask me anything, I'll answer to the best of my ability."

Hernandez studied the man, he was filthy, in fact he reeked to high heaven, probably hadn't bathed in weeks. But his uniform, filthy and torn though it was, was correct. All buttons buttoned, those that remained at any rate, his decorations were in place, and it looked as though he at least brushed his clothing each day.

"Leutnant, the war is lost, but I think you know that. So my big question is, why do you and your fellow soldiers keep fighting?" The look on Hernandez face indicated to the German that Hernandez genuinely wanted to know the answer.

"First of all, Lieutenant, my name is Walter Rusch, I am 47 years of age. I fought in the First World War, I was a corporal. When this war started I was too old for conscription, with my experience as a seaman between the wars, I volunteered for the Kriegsmarine, they turned me down, 'Go home Grandpa and tend your garden, leave the fighting to the young.' I was told. So I stayed home."

"After the debacle in North Africa and the surrender of Stalingrad, the Reich wasn't as picky about where they got their soldiers. I was called up in 1943. I started over again as a private but quickly gained promotion to Feldwebel, what you would call a sergeant I believe."

"A fairly senior sergeant Leutnant Rusch, as I understand it." Hernandez interjected.

"As you say. I was wounded in Russia, twice, the first was a minor wound, I was in hospital for perhaps a week. The second wound was worse, I nearly lost my left hand." He pulled the glove off of hand then held it up, the hand was badly scarred and Hernandez could see a jagged scar in the palm of that hand with a corresponding one on the back of the hand.

"A Russian bullet went straight through that hand as you may guess."

"After I recovered from that, I was sent to Normandy where I became an infantry company Hauptfeldwebel, I don't know the word in English..."

"Company Sergeant Major would be the equivalent in English, L.T." Katz offered.

Hernandez nodded and said, "Please continue Leutnant."

"I survived Normandy and that retreat, when my division was rebuilt for the attack in the Ardennes, they made me an officer, a Zugführer?" Here the German looked to Katz again for the correct word.

"Platoon leader."

"Yes, thank you, by the way Sergeant, your German is excellent, sounds Viennese." Rusch commented.

"Because I grew up there, Leutnant. We fled to America though, my family is Jewish." Katz nearly sneered as he said that. He hated Nazis and wanted this German to know that.

"Ah, most unfortunate..."

"What, that I'm Jewish?" Katz snarled.

"At ease, Sergeant." Hernandez cautioned his 1st Squad leader.

"No, no, it's quite all right Lieutenant. My apologies Sergeant, it isn't unfortunate that you are Jewish, my wife is Jewish but we managed to hide that from the Party, what is unfortunate is the way Hitler and his cronies treat the Jews. It's ghastly. My company commander in the first war was a Jew, bravest man I ever knew."

Katz nodded, then looked at both officers, "My apologies, Leutnant, Sir."

Rusch then continued, "My unit was mostly destroyed in Belgium, the remnants were withdrawn across the Rhine, I think we were going to be absorbed into another division bound for the Ostfront..."

"Sorry, Sgt. Katz? Ostfront?" Hernandez thought he knew what that meant, but wasn't completely sure.

"The Eastern Front, Sir. Russia, but I guess now that means Silesia and the Oder River."

"Ah, sorry Leutnant, continue."

"There isn't much else to say Lieutenant. My unit was thrown in here to crush your bridgehead, most of my men were killed or taken prisoner. I was an officer left in command of a Gruppe, a..." He looked at Katz.

"A squad."

"Yes, thank you Sergeant."

"Okay, here's my big question Leutnant Rusch, why don't you Germans surrender, surely you know that the war is lost?"

"Yes, we know, those of us who aren't idiots or fanatics. You have to understand Lieutenant, we have lived under this regime for eleven years. It's all most of my soldiers know, the National Socialists and all that. Most of them were Hitlerjugend, many of them have been soldiers their entire adult lives, which hasn't been that long."

"The Party tells them that the Americans and British are leveling our cities and killing our families, while the Russians are raping and murdering their way into the Reich. They've been told that if we lose the war, they will either be killed or made into slaves."

"The Party has also let it be known that bad behavior at the front could have repercussions for the soldiers' families. There have been propaganda broadcasts of families being sent to prison because their sons surrendered. I don't know if it's true, but I have seen, with my own eyes, soldiers and civilians hung from trees and lamp posts with signs saying that they were traitors to the Reich, cowards and defeatists. It frightens the men into fighting. But in truth, they believe that their homes will be destroyed if we lose the war. That Germany itself will be destroyed."

Hernandez sat and thought for a few long moments. "Are you thirsty Leutnant?"

"No Lieutenant, I am fine."

Hernandez nodded and then took the German into the outer room, there Hernandez poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Rusch. The German looked incredulous, it smelled like real coffee, something he hadn't seen or tasted since 1940.

"Sgt. Katz, take a couple of men and deliver the Leutnant to the battalion S2." Turning to the German, Hernandez extended his hand and introduced himself. "1st Lieutenant Stephen Hernandez." Startled, the German took Hernandez hand and shook it.

"Best of luck to you Leutnant. Let us pray that the war will end soon and nothing that your men fear comes to pass."

Rusch snapped his heels together, nodded, and said, "Danke Oberleutnant Hernandez, you are an honorable man."

Hernandez watched as Katz led the German away. Deep down inside, he knew there were cultural differences which made people different in some ways, but in the ways that counted most, he felt all people were more alike than they were different.

"A pox on those who seek to emphasize our differences. We would have a lot less strife in the world." As Hernandez said that, a messenger from company walked up.

"Sir, Cap'n wants all the platoon leaders at the CP in an hour." Pvt. Karl Roberson nodded at 1st Lt. Hernandez, he'd saluted Captain Palminteri last week and the man had torn a strip off of him. He knew, now, not to salute officers in a combat zone.

"Thanks Pvt. Roberson, I'll be there."

No matter how he personally felt about things, Hernandez knew that the war would go on until the Germans had nothing left. Hell, they had so little left now, he thought. And the dying would continue.

Perhaps until no one was left. 

On either side...

¹ D0 you speak English, Lieutenant?

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