18th October, 1943
Dear Gunther,
I hope this letter finds you before they send you out.
I can’t believe how much time has passed! The accident turned out to be a sort of blessing—working in an office is very preferable to marching in the mud all day. The work itself is boring: I just push papers around. They send in documents from the work camps and I either file them or burn them, depending on what the big guys tell me to do.
I work on the seventh floor. I’ve got a great view of the plaza below. It’s always so full of activity during the day.
You know, my doctor said I could probably return to the Waffen division in a few more weeks, but here’s hoping the war is over by then, eh?
I noticed that everybody here in the office—the men, anyway—keep growing mustaches like the Führer’s. Don’t tell anyone, but I think it looks really ridiculous.
So they shipped you to Romania? Gosh, I’m shocked! You have to wonder what they want you out there for, or what kind of assignment it must be. That’s really far away, on the other side of Hungary, right? Oh, I just checked on a map. It’s south of Slovakia. Wow! I hope for your sake it’s something glamorous, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. Maybe that’s what all those years of marching were for, yeah? Just joking!
I hope that bastard of a bunkmate of yours has been laying off of you lately. I’d show him a thing or two if I were there.
Does it say anything peculiar about me that I’ve used the word “hope” at least three or four times in this letter? I have a lot of hopes lately, a lot of optimism about the future. I think it helps that I don’t have to carry a gun anymore.
I always have more I want to say to you, and feel as though I should write something right now that’s
Nevermind! I really have to get this sent out to you as fast as possible, so you get this before you leave. I know I might not hear back from you for a while, but just know I’ll be looking forward to our next exchange.
By the way, happy 16th birthday! I know it’s not for another few months, but I may not get to send another letter before then with you being out on the front lines and all. Spending the winter in Romania hardly sounds like a good present. I wish I could take you out to tear up the town! When we get the chance, I’ll give you a night you’ll never forget!
It’s weird looking over this map and being able to touch where you’re standing. It must feel like a million miles are between us, but remember, the world is not as big as it seems. I’ll see you again soon!
“Heal” Hitler,
Jens Müller
Gunther had re-examined the letter at least a dozen times so far that morning while pushing all afternoon through rugged, densely forested hills toward the distant snowcapped Carpathians, which never seemed to get any closer. He would look up from the paper every now and then to reassure himself that nothing at all had happened in front of him. He brought up the tail of the squad; the only task he had been entrusted with was guarding their rear, and it didn’t seem too likely an ambush would come from Hungary. Their orders, outlined very lengthily—but vaguely—were to join up with a division currently advancing on the Soviet border… or something. He couldn’t remember. It wasn’t his job to remember. Martin had told him, “Don’t think, just shoot,” and that was all he intended to do if it came to it.
If asked, he couldn’t have said where the last several years had gone. It was a new decade, but it felt like no time had passed at all—like he hadn’t even grown. He didn’t feel like a sixteen-year-old man, if that’s what he really was: a man now and not a boy, enough of a man, anyway, that he’d been given a rifle and sent off to a foreign country. His memories of the last four years were of nothing but a string of drills, uncomfortable nights with Heinz, and the occasional visit with his parents that only served to further convince him he had no place to go. Try as he had on a few occasions to contact Luther, no replies ever came, but Jens, on the other hand, was always prompt. In fact, the only things he could remember that brought him the slightest joy in ages were letters from Jens.
Thinking about Jens was what kept him occupied throughout most the day. Jens’ excitement about the future and how, when all this was over—regardless of the conflict’s victors—it would all be forgotten and the two of them could spend time together like in the old days.
“Heulsuse,” shouted a voice. “Move it.”
He looked up from Jens’ letter and hurried to catch up with the others.
As the afternoon wore into the evening, they passed through a village. It was the first one they had seen in days, but Martin neglected to have them stop, not even long enough to learn its name. Gunther kept an eye out behind them as curious townspeople came to their windows and doors to watch the soldiers. As they pushed on, the rough land flattened out into forested plains, and by the time night fell, the squad was more than ready to set up camp by a small stream in a relatively open area that was a welcome change from the thickly packed trees with which they were growing so familiar.
Gunther lay on his back staring up at the stars—they were vibrant and innumerable. Out here, it seemed, the sky was much bigger than it ever was in Germany. Gunther knew this to not be true, but still, he couldn’t shake the feeling this sky was somehow different than the one he remembered. Not far away, he could hear the running stream; it was perhaps the most comforting sound he had heard in weeks. As he listened to it, a cold October wind blew and, shivering, he pulled himself deeper into his sleeping bag.
His mind drifted once more to Jens, who was probably sleeping in a warm bed somewhere, but if Gunther was at all jealous, it was only because of the circumstances surrounding this particular night. Abstractly, it was nice being under the stars. He wished Jens could be there to enjoy it with him. That would be nice. He pulled a few of Jens’ letters out of their hiding place inside a case of ammunition. He could barely read them in the darkness, but he had more or less memorized all of them anyway. He thought about what he would say to Jens right now, if he were here.
“Ew! Gross! Heulsuse is masturbating.”
“What?” Gunther was doing no such thing. “No, I’m not.”
There was a mixture of laughter and repulsion amongst the others.
“Shut the hell up, all of you,” screamed Martin, though the snickering continued. “I don’t give a shit what any of you are doing, but I want to fucking sleep!” He crawled out from his sleeping bag, picked up his belongings, dragged them a few feet, and hopped back to the other side of the narrow stream they had crossed.
“You’re like a bunch of fucking children,” he mumbled for the hundredth time over the years before lying back down. “I swear, if anyone wakes me up again….” He trailed off, not needing to make an explicit threat.
Silence came over the group once more. Heinz had found yet another way to embarrass and ostracize Gunther despite him having not done anything at all: the mark of a typical evening.
As was also typical, Gunther was the first to awake the next morning, and he lay there awkwardly waiting for someone else to make a move. This happened all the time, and while it was uncomfortable and boring, he was somewhat pleased that Heinz, being a late sleeper, never had the opportunity to wake him up.
The sun was beginning to peek out from over the distant mountain range and the sky was alight with more colors than Gunther could ever have imagined. For all the grim nature of what they were doing there, it was a beautiful place; he hoped he’d have reason to come back someday under less miserable circumstances. As minutes and then almost an hour crept along painfully slowly, Gunther finally felt the urge to stand up and take care of some morning business. He crawled out of his bag and cautiously stepped through the other still-sleeping bodies around him before reaching the stream, where he stood, quietly unbuttoned, and answered nature’s call. It had taken most of the journey for him to desensitize himself to the idea of peeing in front of so many people right out in the open. It was one of many skills acquired in this whole experience that he wished he had never needed.
As he finished, he took a look around. There was a heavy autumn mist hanging low over the area, and in the morning twilight he could see—even more so than last night—the open area really was unusual in comparison to the dense forestation they’d seen the past few days. The stream ran off in either direction, with no hint of a spring or source, and in several directions were almost impenetrable walls of trees. It seemed the way they had come was nearly the only one into the strange clearing; he wondered if they’d have to double-back a bit.
He was about to return to his sleeping bag when he noticed Martin’s was empty. Martin often woke up early, like Gunther, but not this early. Gunther hopped across the stream and looked around; in the distance and behind a hill he noticed the top of a structure—it resembled a church’s steeple but was made entirely of wood. There were a few dozen trees in between him and it, preventing a good view, and with curiosity setting in, he started toward it.
… And then stopped when he noticed something strange.
A few feet from Martin’s sleeping bag was a crudely constructed wooden cross, maybe two feet high and driven into the ground. The dirt around it had recently been disturbed and by all appearances, it looked like a fresh grave. Gunther furrowed his brow, trying to remember if this marker had been here the previous night.
An uneasy feeling crept over him. He looked around once more and called out, “Rottenführer?”
His voice echoed through the misty valley, disturbing a tranquility that seemed as though it had not been in centuries.
There was no reply. He tried again. “Rottenführer?”
This stirred some of the other soldiers, Heinz among them. As soon as he realized the ruckus was coming from Gunther, he beamed with malicious intent.
“Hey, Heulsuse,” he called, but Gunther snapped back at him.
“Martin is missing.”
“Whatever, pussy. He’s probably off taking a shit.” Heinz rolled back over.
Gunther looked down at the little grave once more. Lying next to it was Martin’s first aid kit, and the only disturbed item was a roll of twine. Gunther quickly noted it had been used to bind the two pieces of wood together, and then, he noticed something entangled with it on the cross.
Martin’s dog tags.
“Guys, I’m serious,” he said nervously. “I think something’s wrong.”
Heinz made an exasperated sound, but soon, one of the soldiers spoke up. “What is it?”
“I don’t really know….”
The soldier rose and looked over at Gunther, seeing both him and the cross.
“The hell is that?”
“Okay, seriously, go back to sleep.” Heinz flipped over angrily and sat up. “It’s hardly even morni—” He, too, noticed the marker. The soldier had approached it and now stood next to Gunther, who reached down to show him the dog tags.
“When did you find this?”
“Just a minute ago.”
“Oh my god, it’s a grave. Scary,” Heinz spat with mock fright as he hopped over the stream. “It’s gonna get you.”
“Shut up for a minute, Heinz,” the soldier instructed.
Heinz rolled his eyes and walked away from the group, looking for privacy for his own morning business. The soldier with Gunther worked the dog tag out of the twine and examined it. A few of the other boys’ attentions had been caught as well.
“This is fucking weird,” one of them commented. Nobody seemed to know what to make of it until, finally, the soldier who had first joined Gunther squatted down and began to dig at the dirt with his hands.
“What are you doing?” asked somebody—but everyone shared the morbid curiosity. Gunther swallowed and stepped back as two others began digging as well. The dirt was loose and easy to move, and within minutes they had gone down two feet, where someone hit something.
“Oh, shit,” he gasped, almost falling backward. One of the others reached over with a stick and began pushing away at where the other had been digging, and it became clear what was under them: a bright red Swastika—on the Rottenführer’s armband.
Nobody knew how to react. They stood in uncomfortable silence for several minutes, trying to work out what had happened overnight, but no one could recall anything unusual. They might not ever have moved were it not for a sudden sound overhead: a smoking fighter plane struggling to stay in the air above them.
“American,” observed one of the soldiers. A few other planes could then be seen coming over the trees, most in much better shape than the first one. They watched, most having never seen American planes before. Gunther remained focused on the grave, still trying to understand, when suddenly he heard another new sound, something much more horrifying: gunfire.
Two of the soldiers next to him toppled over instantly, their blood splattering on Gunther and the others. He heard a voice in the distance shout, “Krauts!” while somebody right next to him shouted, “Ivans!”
The group rushed back across the stream, evading bullets with only their hope and luck. Gunther grabbed his rifle, and with nothing but instinct and Martin’s old instructions guiding him, fired back at their aggressors before even seeing them clearly. It was loud. He couldn’t tell if he was actually hitting anyone at all—and it only seemed like more appeared each moment. The other members of Gunther’s squad did their best to take cover behind trees or other objects, and even with their grey jackets, proud swastikas, large guns and well-trained aim, they looked like scared children.
The enemy did not. They were adults—hardened Soviet soldiers—and they were beyond terrifying.
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