Last revised March 12 2008
I
dropped into the war and into the body of a soldier as if from a time
machine. My comrades and I were in a skiff, not sure if that is the
right term, about thirty feet in length, a crude, metal, open boat,
little more than a washtub. There were ten or twelve of us in there.
Most of us only had revolvers, we had no rifles.
It was a wide river
with rough waves. The Germans began firing at us from the shore. The
first bullets made loud buzzing noises as they flew over our heads, and
the third or fourth bullet struck the boat, followed by others. It
sounded like large rocks striking metal.
With the first
shots we strove to hunch our heads and bodies out of the line of fire,
crouching or laying behind the boat’s short iron sides. We could see
German soldiers moving on shore, some aiming at us, others running; to
me they seemed terribly close.
I was one of the
lucky ones who had managed to secure themselves up pretty well behind
the bulwark, I remember feeling a great relief about that.
A few of our
fellows were firing their pistols toward the shore, tipping the barrels
upward in compensation for the distance. I shouted above the noise of
the water and guns that the Germans were out of range, and the men
stopped shooting. These pistols were of a ridiculously small calibre,
and whether or not because I had somehow just dropped into this scene, I
didn’t know exactly how to load mine, I didn’t know which bullet ports
corresponded to my next shots.
Suddenly a German
loomed into view over the side of the boat, right in front of me. I
didn’t see how, but he must have somehow approached in another boat,
because his clothes were dry. In fact he was impeccably dressed,
smooth-shaven and well-groomed, in the uniform of a German officer;
grey, with red ornaments and tassels. It is absurd that I should have
noticed such details at such a moment, but I did.
He just stood there
by the side of the boat, whatever he was standing on, and he was aiming
a pistol at me pointblank. In dire confusion I pointed my own weapon at
his chest.
He didn’t shoot,
but instead watched me with a quiet sort of expression, as if waiting or
wondering about me. At a loss, I didn’t shoot either, but asked him in
very poor German what side he was on. A ridiculous question, but it was
as if I wanted to give him an ultimate chance. He understood, and
answered : “I am with the Nazis”.
We were still
pointing our pistols at each other. I couldn’t understand why he hadn’t
fired but I expected him to at any moment. I pulled the trigger. But my
gun didn’t fire because I
hadn’t loaded it properly. I hesitated a moment, then pulled the trigger
again. The gun fired and the Nazi fell away from the boat with a hole in
his chest.
I felt terrible. I
looked around at my comrades, who were all staring at me. My haggard
eyes were thirsty for their judgement or looks of encouragement. They
all looked uncomfortable and maybe confused, and they wouldn’t meet my
eye.
I wondered about
the German officer. Why didn’t he shoot? Why had he looked at me in that
way? Maybe it was his way of committing suicide? Or maybe he had no
bullets left, and his eyes were pleading for mercy? I never found
out.