There were murmurs of agreement from the ten men spread out in the snow behind them.
“Then I say we go up and shoot the forward observers.”
Laughter. Hans sighed. That was Franck, always griping even though he knew full well that it never got him any—CRACK!
The sound of the rifle shot broke the silence. Hans felt the snap of the bullet just above his head and jerked away. “Sniper! Sniper! Get down! Get down!” He jerked up his rifle and blasted off a shot, though he had no idea where the rifleman was.
CRACK! Another round zipped over his head. Behind him, the other men opened up, blasting away at nothing. “Hold your fire! Wait until you see him.” Then he turned his head. “Franck, give me the glasses.”
No answer. Hans slid backward, getting off the ridgeline, and then lifted his head to see where Franck had disappeared to. A cry of anguish was ripped from his throat. Franck was three feet away from him, sprawled on his back, his eyes wide open and staring at the sky. Leaping to his knees, Hans was to him in a second. “Franck! Franck.” There was a small black hole in his chest, just above the heart. Clawing at him, Hans ripped Franck’s greatcoat open and then gasped as he saw the red stain that covered the whole left side of his chest. “No!” he screamed as he put his fingers to his friend’s throat, feeling for a pulse.
Suddenly the world erupted. A machine gun opened fire from down below. Then another. Rifles were cracking almost continuously. Not waiting for his command, his squad opened return fire.
Hans didn’t have time to wait to see if there was a pulse. He scuttled forward, peering over the ridge. What he saw was so shocking that for a moment he couldn’t take it in. The snow-covered field below him was now a mass of movement. At least a hundred French infantry in white greatcoats and with white coverings on their helmets were on their feet or just getting up from the snow. He could see the flashes of their rifle muzzles winking at him as the deafening fire increased every moment. Others sprang out of the snow even as he watched.
Behind him his men were pouring their own fire downward. Their position gave them the advantage, and Hans exulted as one Frenchman after another was slammed back or stumbled and went down.
As he watched, a machine gunner walked his fire up the hill, kicking up geysers of snow with every round, but it was off to his left. Hans took another quick look. Now he saw that the enemy wasn’t just directly in front of their position. They had hidden in the snow in a long, U-shaped formation, hoping to trap the Germans within their perimeter. Hans guessed that the sniper had fired too soon, giving away their position. Now they were coming up the hill in the same formation, screaming like banshees and firing as they ran. Hans understood instantly what they were doing. They were going to try to encircle his squad.
“Run!” he screamed. “Get back to our lines. Go! Go!”
He leaped to his feet, shouldering his rifle. In two steps he reached Franck. Dropping to one knee, he lifted Franck to a sitting position and then hoisted him up onto his shoulder. “I’ve got you, buddy. Hold on.” Shocked by the dead weight, he staggered for a moment and almost slipped.
“He’s dead, Eckhardt!” someone screamed. “Leave him.”
“No!” He lumbered forward toward his retreating men, staggering under the weight. Hans had always kidded Franck about how someday, if he lived right, he would grow up to be a real man like Hans. Hans outweighed him by forty pounds or more and had three inches of height on him. But now it felt as if Hans were carrying a horse on his shoulder.
“Here they come!” someone shouted. Hans didn’t turn around. Bullets were flying all around now. He felt a little thrill of hope when he saw that his men had stopped and formed a skirmish line and were firing as fast as they could pump shells into their chambers. Though he felt as though his legs were on fire and his lungs were going to burst, he increased his speed and rushed past them.
“He’s dead,” someone cried again. “You have to leave him.”
“You don’t know that,” Hans half-yelled, half-sobbed. “You don’t know that.”
The next half an hour would forever be a blur in his memory. His ears were ringing from the constant rifles being fired off all around him. His lungs were on fire. His feet were like great clogs of iron. A man walking half-backward alongside him, providing covering fire, cried out. He went to his knees and then fell face-first into the snow. Another man off to his left took a round in the back of his helmet. There was a sharp ricochet and he went sprawling. Hans couldn’t tell if the bullet had pierced his helmet or if the force of the blow had knocked him down.
They reached the first trench, which was abandoned, and dove into it. Suddenly a shell whistled overhead and exploded fifty yards away, knocking three Frenchmen flying. Another, then another exploded.
A shout went up from his men. It was their artillery firing. And the forward observers were calling it down just ahead of them with deadly accuracy. The line of oncoming men faltered as the roar intensified and shells began to decimate the advancing line. He heard an officer shouting something in French. Hans turned his head enough to see that those in the attacking line had stopped and were beginning to fall back. They were still firing, but sporadically now, and without taking aim. Hans slumped down in the mud and let Franck slip off his shoulder. He immediately felt for a pulse. Nothing. He felt again. There was nothing.
“He’s dead, Hans,” the man next to him said softly. “He’s gone.”
“I don’t care,” he sobbed. “Help me get him up.” When he stood, taking a moment to steady himself, he looked at the men around him, counting swiftly. Seven now, counting himself. He wouldn’t let himself think about that. “All right. This trench goes almost to our lines. Stay low. We’ve got to get out of here before the French regroup. Go! Go! I’ll bring up the rear.”
April 15, 1917—Graswang Village, Bavaria, Germany
My dearest Hans,
It has been two months since we last heard from you, and that was only a brief note. I am sure you do not often have time to write, so we understand. I also know how devastating it was for you to lose your closest friend in such a tragic way. Even now I find myself weeping when I think of Franck and the positive influence he had on you. I pray for his family every night that they might find peace.
There is a bit of worrisome news. I hesitate to share it with you because of all the pressure you face, but I feel I must. Your father has been complaining about stomach pains for a month or so. It is probably just too much schnitzel and strudel, but it’s not going away. I’m sure you can imagine what he said when I suggested he see a doctor. “Doctors are a bunch of quacks just trying to get our money.”
Paula and Wolfie were down to visit a couple of weeks ago. When they saw Papa wincing, Wolfie called a doctor in Munich who specializes in stomach ailments and asked if he would be willing to come down and examine your father if Wolfie paid him. The doctor agreed to come and, to my surprise, your father agreed to see him—which tells you that this is more serious than he is letting on. I will let you know what the doctor says after he comes.
Now, Hans, as your mother, I must chide you for not sharing your good news with us. Yesterday, Fritzie Heinkel brought us a letter from the War Department. It gave us quite a start because we feared the worse. So imagine our delight and surprise when we opened it and found a copy of a letter to you informing us that you had been awarded the Iron Cross, Second Class, for conspicuous bravery in battle.
Why didn’t you tell us about the Iron Cross? What a great honor. We are so proud of you. I hope it is not a secret, because I’m afraid that your father has already told everyone in the village and probably half of Oberammergau. The letter gave no details as to why you were awarded this honor, so please, don’t be modest. Tell us what you did to earn such a prestigious honor.
Well, I must close. I see that the United States of America has entered the war on the side of the Allies. Oh how I pray that this does not mean the war will be prolonged. Everyone said the war would be
over in a year. We are now into our fourth year with no end in sight.
I pray for you morning and night, as do your sisters and their families. As you know, Papa is not a praying man. But the other night, he came in as I was saying my prayers. He knelt down beside me and held my hand. “Say a prayer for me, too,” he said. “Pray for my Hans Otto.”
We know you are in constant danger and under continual stress. May God keep you in the hollow of his hand.
All my love,
Mama
June 13, 1917—Verdun, France
My dearest Mother,
Thank you for your letter. It did not arrive until just a few days ago. My time is short, so I shall be brief.
I wish Papa had not told everyone about the Iron Cross. I did not write to you about it because I am not proud of it. Just the opposite is true. I will say only this. I was in command of the patrol that day. I was responsible for the safety of my men. I knew the French had long-range snipers, but I didn’t think of that until it was too late. Now Franck, the best friend I ever had, is dead. There was no honor in bringing out his body. The only honor would have been to bring him out alive. Please tell Papa not to speak of it further. Also I would appreciate it if you would tell people not to ask me about it when I come home. If I come home. The one good thing I will say about it is perhaps now you and Papa can be proud of me again.
On another matter: I do not wish to hurt you, Mama, for I know what you believe, and I know of your faith. But please do not write anything more in your letters about prayers or God. If you and Papa want to pray, that’s your right. But I don’t want to know about it. After all that I have seen and been through, I can no longer accept the idea that there is a benevolent deity out there watching over his children. How can any God look down on the blood and the stench and the death and the horror that I have seen and not intervene?
One last thing. A few days ago we got a new captain in our battalion. He will be our new company commander. He is about thirty-five, I would guess, but he graduated several years ago from the University of Berlin. Care to guess what his field was? That’s right. Engineering. That’s why he entered the army as a commissioned officer rather than as a grunt like me. If there is a god, he has a perverse sense of humor. I now have a company commander who every day reminds me of what I could have had, of what I could have been.
Remember what you said when I joined the army? “What have you done, you foolish, foolish boy?”
Hans
P.S. I am sorry that this letter will make you cry. But that too seems to be my lot in life.
July 6, 1917—Graswang Village
Dear Hans,
Once again I feel as if I am standing outside the men’s toilet in the Oberammergau train station, trying to coax a young boy to come out and become a man. Your father has told me not to say anything to you, that you have enough to cope with as it is.
I’m sorry, but I do not agree. But I shall say only three things to you.
I have inquired further into the actions that led to you receiving the Iron Cross. There is no shame in what you did. If Franck were alive, he would tell you that and rebuke you for thinking otherwise. In dishonoring yourself, you dishonor him as well. You say you were a fool for not considering the possibility of snipers, and that may be so. But then wasn’t Franck also a fool when he sat up? And all of your men? Or was it just a natural oversight considering the fact that you were in a very dangerous and stressful situation? Grief for one whom you loved as a brother is a noble thing. Punishing yourself for something that is the natural result of your circumstances is not. I have never been prouder of you than I am at this moment, nor have I ever loved you more. Please don’t make me feel otherwise by being ashamed of it.
As for God? I don’t remember asking you to believe in Him or to pray to Him. I simply expressed my own faith and my own trust in Him. I’m sorry if that offended you somehow. That is easily fixed. Either you can skip over those parts of my letters, or I can stop writing to you altogether. But do not ask me to turn away from that which is as central to my existence as is the air I breathe.
Now, it deeply saddens me to say one more thing to you. Your burdens are beyond what most are called upon to bear, but I must add one more. The doctor examined your father two weeks ago. At first he thought it might be kidney stones or gallstones, but after an examination and talking to your father, he suspected it might be something else. He asked us to bring Papa to Munich for further examination at the hospital there. There is a recent development in medicine that they call an x-ray machine. I don’t understand how this is possible, but he said that with that machine they could take a picture inside Papa’s stomach, and that would help him decide what was wrong.
I took Papa up by train last Monday and we just returned this afternoon. The picture showed a mass inside Papa’s stomach about the size of a small loaf of bread. The doctor said it is almost certainly cancer. He also said that if it is not treated, your father has no more than six months to a year to live. When I asked him how cancer is treated, he said there is only one way. Surgery.
So on August 1st, we will take Papa back to Ludwig Maximilian University Hospital, where this doctor is on the staff. There he will undergo a five-hour operation.
I ask two things of you as you contemplate this terrible news. First, I know that in times of war, it is highly unlikely that they will give you leave, but will you please ask? Beg them if you must. This may be your last chance to see your father alive.
Second, I am praying for your father night and morning. Can you find it in your heart to put aside your pain and your anger against God and pray with me for your father? It may mean nothing to you, but I believe that God will hear our prayers and that it could make a difference in the outcome.
Forgive me for hurting you further.
Mama
August 1, 1917—Ludwig Maximilian Hospital
Munich, Germany
Inga woke with a start as someone gently shook her shoulder. She opened her eyes and sat up and then gave a low cry. “Hans?” She leaped to her feet and threw her arms around him.
“Hello, dearest Mama.” He pulled her close and held her fast as tears instantly overflowed in both of their eyes. “I’m here, Mama. I’m here.”
“Oh, Hans,” she said with a cry. “Is it really you?” She stepped back and held him at arm’s length. He was in his dark green dress uniform with his cap placed jauntily on his head. He looked more handsome than she could ever remember. “I can’t believe it’s you. It’s a miracle.”
“I’m sorry, Mama. I was supposed to get here last night, but with the war, train schedules are not dependable. We had to wait on a side track while several troop trains went by.”
“You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
“Any word on Papa yet? They said at the front desk that he was still in surgery.”
She glanced up at the clock. “They started about three hours ago, but I have heard nothing. The doctor said it would be four to five hours.”
He took his mother by the arm and gently helped her sit down again. Then he sat beside her. “I never dreamed they would let me off, but I decided that all they could do was to say no. So I talked to Hauptmann Bergdorf. He’s the new company commander that I wrote you about, the one that graduated from the University of Berlin.”
“Ja, I remember. And he said yes?”
“Not at first. He said that the Fifth Army is going to be part of a major offensive against the British and Americans in a few weeks and that there was no possible way he could let a platoon sergeant take leave.”
“Did you tell him about Papa’s operation?”
“Yes. He sympathized but said that there were many other soldiers whose parents had serious health problems. But, I could tell he was wavering due to the Iron Cross. I could tell he wanted to do it. I started to turn and walk out when a thought came to me. I told him that I was your only son—that I had three older sisters but that I was the youngest, and the heir
of our dairy farm. I couldn’t believe what happened next. He told me that this was exactly his family situation—he’d had three girls and then a boy. You could see his eyes shine with pride as he spoke of his boy, who is just six. And that did it. He wrote me out a four-day pass and then wrote me out a chit as well.”
“A chit?”
“Yes, a voucher for a train ticket. He wrote on there that I was on official army business, which helped me get a ticket, even when the trains were full.”
Inga’s lower lip was trembling. She bowed her head and momentarily closed her eyes.
He laughed. “Are you praying, Mama?”
“I am thanking the Lord for giving me this miracle. I didn’t think there was a chance in a thousand that we would see you.”
“It’s not a miracle, Mama, it’s just very good luck.”
“You call it what you will, I will call it what I will.”
Just then, they heard a voice calling, “Inga. Inga.”
They looked up. Down at the far end of the hall two figures were coming toward them at a rapid walk. Hans jumped up. “It’s Paula and Wolfie,” he cried, then dashed away. Inga got up and followed after him.
Paula stopped dead when she saw who was coming. Then she squealed aloud and ran to him, arms extended. “It’s so good to see you, Aunt Paula,” he said, hugging her tightly. Then, as Wolfie joined them, the two shook hands vigorously.
Paula stepped back as Inga also joined them. She looked at her sister. “He’s here. This is a miracle.”
Inga reached out and poked her son in the ribs. “What did I tell you?”
He just chuckled.
“Come,” Paula said. “Catch us up. When did you get here? How long can you stay? Did you get to see your father before he went in?”
Laughing aloud now, and suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of joy to be here with his family, Hans waved toward the bench. “Come. Let us sit down and talk.”