The Sergeant and the Prisoner

THE SERGEANT AND THE PRISONER

"Don't move!" the soldier shouted. His grip on the trigger of his
M1carbine was so tight, he thought he might inadvertently shoot his new
prisoner.
The German soldier was so startled that he tossed his half eaten
rations high into the air. If the situation wasn't so serious, the
American would have thought it comical.
The German then immediately stood, raising his arms, uncertain of what
to do next.
The American kept his rifle trained on the prisoner, while he chewed
and swallowed with some difficulty what rations remained in his
mouth.
The prisoner was a ruddy young blond, no more than twenty, who could
pass for any American kid, at any American malt shop.
"Please don't shoot. I'm not armed," he pleaded.
"You speak English?"
"Yes."
"You're a spy then?"
"Nein. Like you, I am just a soldier. I became separated from my
unit."
"Where is your rifle?"
"I&;#8230;I lost it," said the prisoner as his eyes averted his
captor.
"An infantryman doesn't loose his rifle," said the American. "Where is
your rifle," he asked again, as he moved threateningly toward his
prisoner.
"Ok sergeant-the truth is-I threw the verdammen rifle in a
creek."
"So then, you didn't get separated from your unit after all. You're a
deserter."
"Ja, and under the circumstances, I am your prisoner; unless you
decide to shoot me of course. Either way, I'm finished with this
war."
"Empty your pockets," he said impatiently, rifle still raised. The
sergeant was on the verge of fatigue and his eyes showed it. They were
heavy from lack of sleep, and his words were slightly slurred. His face
was unshaven and black as soot. He hadn't seen a bar of soap in a
couple of weeks. He was a vivid contrast from the almost speckles
appearance of his prisoner. The boy emptied his pockets of a wallet
containing almost eight marks and some pictures.
"Where did you learn such good English," asked the sergeant as he
looked through the wallet.
"My father taught me. He's British and my mother's Austrian and
German. My father is a language professor and taught in Liverpool
before meeting my mother while vacationing in Austria."
"Is this their picture?"
"Yes&;#8230; Yes it is," the prisoner said wistfully.
"Does your father approve of you joining the Wehrmacht to kill British
soldiers?"
"I didn't join to kill American or British," the prisoner lashed back
defensively. "I was led to believe I would be fighting the
Untermenschen at the eastern front."
"The who?" asked the sergeant.
"Untermenschen," spat the prisoner. "Russian Jews. Second rate human
beings. The Fuher said there is no higher honor to be obtained for the
Fatherland than to kill Jews. Especially Russian Jews."
"Do you really believe that?" asked the sergeant, handing back his
wallet.
"I don't know. I'm really not sure anymore," he answered, suddenly
unsure of his convictions. "I'm not sure of anything anymore. This
verdammen war isn't what I expected. I don't really have the stomach
for all this killing. I miss my home in Austria. I'm from Salzburg,
right on Germany's border. It's beautiful there this time of the year.
The grass is very green there you know. The flowers are blooming
everywhere. You should see the colors. Beautiful, vibrant colors. It's
a funny thing you know, but I can't see the colors in my mind, only
black and gray.
The American listened to the prisoners rambling for a moment then
finally said, gesturing with his rifle, "We'll need to move in those
trees over there. It's not safe to travel by road."
"Ah, a true infantryman indeed," observed the prisoner.

As soon as both were ensconced safely within the woods, the American
offered the prisoner a smoke.
"No thank you," he said. "I don't smoke."
"Suit yourself," as the sergeant cupped a match and lit his cigarette.
He exhaled with obvious pleasure. "You might as well sit and relax. It
will be dark soon and we won't travel till morning."
"And what will happen to me then?" the prisoner asked.
"I'm not sure exactly. If we run into an American patrol, I suppose
I'll have to hand you over to them."
"Ah, as der kriegsgefangener."
"What was that?"
"A prisoner of war," said the prisoner. I suppose it's preferable to
dying or crawling in mud.
"I assure you you'll be treated well. Were not barbarians you
know."
"And neither are we Germans. Culturally, we are very advanced. You
should see our museums and art galleries; and the music, pure ecstasy.
Have you heard Mozart's Figaro? Some say it exemplified some of his
revolutionary ideas. I say it's just pure genius. And Wagner, or
Beethoven. Sometimes, during the heaviest bombing, I can actually here
their symphonies playing in my head.
Leaning against a tree, the sergeant puffed hard on his cigarette and
eyed the prisoner curiously.
The prisoner snapped out of his reverie and addressed the American.
"So sergeant, tell me about you. Do you have a girl back home?"
The sergeant snuffed out his cigarette and lit another one. "Yeah, a
brunette," he said, as if lost in thought.
"Is she pretty?"
"Average looking. But then, I'm no looker myself. I met her at the
auto assembly line factory where I worked before the war. She was the
front desk girl and I installed automobile mufflers. One day I burned
myself welding a seam and the foreman had her rap my arm with gauze.
Can you think of a more romantic encounter?"
"Will you marry her?" inquired the prisoner.
"Right now I'd marry anything with two legs and a skirt." The
sergeant, recognizing his lapse of fidelity, quickly corrected himself.
"Actually, were engaged to be married as soon as the war is
over."
"I have a girl in Salzburg," said the prisoner. Her name is Helga
Eigler. You should see her eyes. They're so blue you can swim in them.
The first thing I'm going to do when I get home is&;#8230;" The
prisoner's voice trailed off suddenly.
The sergeant pitied the young German. What a waste, he thought. Hitler
sending off boys to fight a war they couldn't win.
"You may want to get some sleep, it'll be dark soon," said the
sergeant finally. Then he fished through his pack and found some rope.
"Hope you don't mind the inconvenience, but I'm going to have to bind
your feet and wrists. I'll try to make you as comfortable as I can
under the circumstances.
The sergeant watched the prisoner fade off to sleep then walked a
number of paces to the edge of the woods, near the road. He would try
and keep watch for a little while, hoping to catch an American patrol
passing by. He knew it wasn't likely though, American troops are averse
to moving at night.
He craved a cigarette, but decided against it, not wanting to be a
sniper's target on such a moon-less night.
As he peered out into the darkness, he thought about his prisoner
again. What harm would it be if I just let him go? He's unarmed, a
private of no consequence, and he'll just slow me down. He's just a
homesick boy who wants to return to home and his girl.
The sergeant was pulled back into reality with the faint sound of a
twig breaking. The crunching of hardened mud under soldier's boots
followed it. As the noise got closer, the sergeant could barely discern
a column of ten German rifleman flanking both sides of the road. For a
fleeting moment, he thought he'd empty his magazine at them, and then
head deeper into the woods. But he wasn't in the mood for a fight,
while he was alone and had a prisoner tied up to a tree. Instead, he
ducked low, and waited for them to pass before raising his head.
While he waited for the Germans to pass, the faces of his dead
comrades started to haunt him. They were all ambushed by two German
machine guns in a well-hidden bunker a few days ago, and the sergeant
was the only one to escape. He remembered seeing his buddies cut down
by a fusillade of deadly steel, and hearing their cries for help, but
there was nothing he could do but run. As he headed for the woods, his
last image was of his platoon leader's face being ripped open by a
torrent of well-aimed German rounds.
A part of him was ashamed for not staying and fighting to the death.
Instead he ran like a scared jackrabbit. But he knew it was hopeless to
do anything less. Self-preservation was his highest priority and he
meant to survive this war at any means.
The sergeant returned and found his prisoner sleeping like a baby on a
bed of pine needles. He covered him with his poncho to break the night
chill. Though the sergeant wasn't old by any means, he felt a paternal
responsibility toward the young soldier. He realized now that if he let
the prisoner go, he would never make it to his home in Salzberg. He
would eventually be killed either by American soldiers, or shot for the
crime of desertion by his own comrades.
He made up his mind; he would deliver him as a prisoner of war as soon
as he could find an American unit. At least he would be reasonably
safe, and eventually make his way home after the war.
Satisfied with his decision, he quickly drifted off to sleep.

The next morning came quickly, with a thin layer of frost covering
both men. With the sun barely peeking over the horizon, the sergeant
surreptitiously lit a cigarette under the flap of his army jacket. He
leaned back against the pine tree and thought about his girl back
home.
She'll probably want to marry as soon as I get back home, he thought.
And kids, she'll want a whole flock of them I bet. He smiled, taking in
a future as a husband and father. The idea appealed to him, and he
started to ache with melancholy. After reminding himself that the war
would probably end soon, his spirit lifted.
"Time to move out," said the sergeant as he shook his sleeping
prisoner.
The prisoner stirred himself awake and then held up his arms. "Are
these necessary sergeant?" alluding to his bonds. "I can promise you, I
won't be any trouble. You're the one with the gun."
The sergeant thought for a moment and then shrugged. "I suppose it
will be okay. Just keep a couple of paces ahead of me and stay quiet.
We may run into some company out here."

After some time of walking inland parallel to the road, the sergeant
could hear a muffled roar off in the distance.
"Sounds like Howitzers maybe. I'd say no more than three clicks from
here. Might get a little rough from here on out."
"Can we take a little break sergeant? I might even like to try one of
your American cigarettes, if you don't mind."
"I thought you didn't smoke."
"I don't. I hate the things. But if I'm going to be a prisoner of war,
I'm going to have to find something to do to pass the time."
The sergeant handed him a cigarette and lit it for him.
Immediately the prisoner coughed and gagged so badly, the sergeant
thought he would choke to death.
When the spasms stopped, the prisoner took another puff.
"It's not so bad once you get used to it," he said.
"The sergeant forced a smile and said, "One more attack like that, and
you'll bring those Howitzers down on us."
Once relaxed, the prisoner spoke. "Sergeant, what's it like in
America?"
The sergeant shrugged reflectively and said, "No place like it in the
world I suppose. In America you can be anything you want to be if you
work hard for it. You can get in your car and drive anywhere you want
to without anybody telling you that you can't. There are beaches and
mountains and deserts-lots to do and see. Beautiful girls everywhere
you look. I know one thing for sure; you don't see anybody leaving
America for a better place. But you sure see them coming over by the
hundreds everyday. Why do you ask?"
"Someday I hope to visit. I want to see New York and the tall
buildings. My father visited there once. He said you could stand at the
top of the Empire State building and see all the way to Canada. Is that
true?"
"Can't say. Never been there. Fact is, I've never been farther than a
couple a hundred miles from home. That's until I was drafted. Now I'm
seeing the world," he said sarcastically.
"Where is your home sergeant?"
"Detroit, Michigan."
"Is it nice there?"
"It'll do. Gets real cold in the winter though. Especially when the
wind skips off Lake Erie. Sometimes it gets so cold I feel like packing
up and moving to California. I heard you can't beat the weather there.
There's sunshine there almost every day of the year."
"Maybe someday I'll visit Detroit also, if I survive this awful war,"
said the prisoner. Cold weather appeals to me."
"The sergeant smiled and said, "Don't forget to look me up. I won't be
hard to find. Just look for the General Motors building downtown. You
can't miss it. Well I guess we'd better get moving. The sooner we get
you behind American lines, the safer you'll be."
"And what will happen to you?"
"I'll end up with another unit. It'll be back to the fox holes for
me."

After walking cautiously for an hour, the sergeant and prisoner rested
behind a large hedgerow.
The fighting was closer, and the smoke of battle choked the air around
them.
"We can't stay here long," shouted the sergeant among the explosive
concussions. "Pretty soon those bombs are going to rain down on
us."
"What should we do then?"
"We need to get a better vantage point in order to find out what side
were on. There's a tall tree about thirty meters to our right. I'll
need to cross the road to get there. I'll need to tie you up first.
Hope you don't mind," he said, already reaching for the rope.
"I don't have much of a choice, do I?"
Once tied securely, the sergeant carefully made tracks for the tree.
He crossed the road safely and climbed up quickly, being thankful for
the strong horizontal branches spaced intermittently. They were
conveniently spaced as rungs on a ladder.
He looked out over the horizon, but the smoke filled sky frustrated
his efforts. He was about to climb down, when a hole opened up and he
was able to see an American jeep careening toward his location on the
same road he had previously crossed. He could see two G.I.'s with large
white crosses on their helmets, which distinguished them as medics. He
climbed down the tree quickly and ran back across the road toward his
prisoner.
"Quick," he shouted, "We need to get to the road. There's an American
jeep coming our way."
The sergeant untied his legs and grabbed his prisoner by his bound
wrists, pulling him along. Once at the road, the sergeant waved his
arms furiously at the medics to get their attention, but they had
already exited their jeep to render help to a wounded comrade. Without
looking back at his prisoner, the sergeant pointed out, "We'll meet
them at that bend in the road. It's only a quarter of a mile or so.
Then we'll get you to the rear lines."
"Not today, sergeant," came a chilling voice.
Just as the sergeant turned around to face his prisoner, he felt a
crushing blow to his face and the crack of his nose and cheek bones
breaking, while at the same time his helmet flew off his head and a
gush of blood covered his face. He staggered blindly, trying to stay
afoot, when another blow to his head shattered his skull, knocking him
to the ground.
He laid there supine, eyes barely focused, looking up at the young
soldier who was once his prisoner. Through his dying breath, he
whispered, "Why?"
The young soldier, with the large stone still clutched in his hand,
calmly answered, "Because my friend, this is war."