Conflict
A Series of Short Stories
By Nathan A. Klein
Foreword
This series of short stories is an example of, paraphrasing the graphic novelist Alan Moore, using 'lies' to tell the truth. These are works of fiction, only in terms of the players. The historical events surrounding their actions and thoughts and feelings are all part of the historical record. These are all part of the years leading up to and encompassing The Second World War, the greatest period of warfare and all out bloodshed in human history. It was a time of great hatred, and a time of great compassion. I have worked very hard to attempt to capture these things in these short stories, meant to help paint the picture of the entirety of the war.
It is here then that I have to take the time to give the warning that many of the events within these stories are of a particularly horrific nature. As well, viewpoints are expressed and ideologies discussed through the eyes of those that actually believed them. As a student of history (which I call myself only because in the ever evolving world of historical study, I do not believe we are ever not students of it) and a purveyor of it to others, I believe in presenting events as close to the way they would have happened as possible. These are not what ifs, people speak in the manner they spoke, and if these words offend you, to be honest, my response would be good. They are things you should be offended by. But they are not there for shock value, or to be promoted. They are there because that is what it was like, and to sugar-coat and pick and choose events just to avoid a historical truth is not my objective, and I will not condone such abridgements of history.
Beginning
Fight
The Kapitan was dead. That was all he knew now. He just sat there against the wall, just watching the replay of the events over and over again in his head. Kapitan Raginis was just over there; shouting orders, firing at the enemy, doing his best in spite of already being terribly wounded to lead his dwindling men. Then the grenade had landed in the trench, and without a moment’s hesitation, Kapitan Raginis was on top of it, and it exploded. He was there one second, alive and in command, and the next he was a maimed and smoking corpse. A husk of a human being.
Bullets continued to fly past him, explosions continued to rock the ground, but he paid them no notice. He hadn’t seen the grenade until it was way too late to try and get out of the way. The Kapitan had given his life for him and the others standing around him. He was still alive, and the Kapitan was dead. Like so many others over the past three days.
There had been seven hundred twenty of them in the beginning. Seven hundred twenty stalwart and brave young men marching to what they knew were to be their deaths. Plug the gap, keep the Germans at bay, and fight to the last man. They had been here for three days, three days of constant and bitter fighting. Now he thought about it, he couldn’t remember sleeping since it started. Had it only been a week and a half since this the invasion began?
He felt a hand on his shoulder, felt himself being jerked to his feet. He got up, no longer thinking, just nodding at the inaudible words the sierżant* was shouting at him and ran to the firing slit of the bunker, sticking his rifle out and firing. He worked the action and fired again. Picking targets and aiming and firing. He didn’t know if he was hitting any of them, he just wanted to put as much lead in the air as he could.
He jammed another strip of ammunition into the rifle and stuck it back out the window. On either side of him, the two remaining machine guns barked away while the hiss and crack of bullets and the explosions of artillery completely overwhelmed his eardrums. He couldn’t hear it anymore. His only thought was to kill as many of those miserable invading bastards as he could. He reached his last clip of ammunition, and looked around, grabbing up some more from a body lying nearby. He didn’t take the time to see who it was; fighting was more important right now.
He rammed the next strip of ammunition in when he saw the grenade flip up towards them. It landed outside the bunker but he ducked all the same, along with everyone else, as the explosive burst, showering them all in dirt. He clamored back up and resumed firing as the machine guns next to him barked back to life. Another slid next to him, firing his rifle out the slit too. He paid no attention to who the newcomer was, he just kept firing. He wanted to kill all of them; each and every last one of them. He wanted to watch one of them drop dead with each pull of the trigger.
But he couldn’t, he couldn’t see much of anything. The man beside him crumpled, but he didn’t look round. There was nothing left to do. Just keep fighting. The machine gunner to his right fell now, just collapsing where he stood. Without thinking, he threw down his rifle and stepped behind the gun, shouting to the ammunition handler to keep feeding. He couldn’t tell if the man doing the loading outranked him, or if he could even hear him. The loader simply nodded and held the belt taught as he lined up the sights and squeezed the trigger.
He could feel the vibrations of the gun as it started spraying lead down the hills towards the oncoming Germans. They ducked another grenade explosion and resumed firing. Over the blast of the muzzle, he could see it now. He could see the Germans coming at them; see his tracers licking out at them. He felt the loader tap the left side of his helmet, and instinctively leaned right, swinging the barrel of the machine gun to the left. He saw what looked like a squad trying to flank to their left, and opened fire on them. Several crumpled instantly while the others ducked. Bullets whizzed past their heads and smacked into both the inside and the outside of the bunker.
He cursed as he felt the gun stop firing and slid back the bolt, working with the loader to get the machine gun loaded again. He kept cursing under his breath until they slammed the receiver plate back down, and he worked the bolt again and the machine gun returned to life, firing away again as he squeezed the trigger. His left shoulder jumped oddly, as if something had jerked him backwards. He looked behind him, expecting to see somebody, but didn’t see anyone who could have done it. He turned back, firing again.
After another two hundred fifty rounds, they started to reload again. He raised his left arm to support the gun while they opened the receiver when a stabbing pain shot through his left shoulder. He looked and saw a little hole in his uniform, and realized his left side felt wet. He’d been shot. That must have been what the tug was, it wasn’t a tug he’d felt, it was a push. He gritted his teeth and returned his attention to the gun.
A hand slapped him on his other shoulder and he looked round to see the sierżant from before. He was yelling at him but he couldn’t tell what he was saying. The sierżant grabbed up his discarded rifle, pulled out his bayonet and slapped him on the helmet with it, then shoved both into his hands. He understood now. The enemy was going to overwhelm them. Fix bayonets.
He slid the bayonet down onto the barrel, locking it into place. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to fight back the pain that was becoming more and more obvious. He didn’t know what use he was going to be if it came down to hand to hand fighting now, but he would give his all. They’d all sworn to fight to the death, and if this was how he had to do it, then so be it. This was their message. This was their sacrifice.
He grunted in pain from his shoulder, leaning back against the wall of the trench. Yes, he thought, this is our message, our last stand. Let them come. We’ll show them. Look what we did to you with only seven hundred. Imagine what we could have done with more. You were thousands, but we fought you for three whole days. Be afraid of the rest of us, we’ll kill you all someday!
The thoughts seemed to revitalize him a little as he got back to his feet. He looked to his left and right, seeing the rest of the men who were left getting ready, bayonets fixed, looking ready to give their lives. He felt even more heartened. It was time to give the murdering bastards the last they could give. As he leapt forward, scrambling as best he could over the edge of the trench, he only caught a brief glimpse of a man in grey raising a pistol, and the briefest of flashes.
Aftermath
Grimly he strode along the rim of the trench. The last bunker, the last pillbox, they had finally taken it. They had finally conquered this accursed stretch of land. Three days they had fought here, for three days they had battled for this pass. Wizna, that’s what it was called. He looked forlornly out at the fields around him. It was a sea of grey, forces moving inexorably towards him. The inevitability of victory following him and his men, the conquerors, the victorious.
How could he really call this a victory? He looked down now, seeing he had returned to where he’d first made it to the trenches. He could tell the spot, because he’d never forget the face of that young soldier. He looked down at his lifeless body, face down in the dirt now in his tan uniform, his rifle still in his hands, his steel pot helmet lying beside him. He’d been barely over the trench top, seeming to have a hard time getting over the lip compared to the rest of the charging soldiers.
He crouched beside the boy’s body, noticing some blood on his left shoulder. He rolled the body over, much the same as he’d turned over deer. Yes, there was blood on the front of the left shoulder too, and a little hole in the uniform. He’d already been wounded once. Straight through the left shoulder blade. Any movement for him must have been agony.
He took off his cap, wiping sweat and grime off his forehead below his slightly receding hairline. He’d already been wounded, a wound that anyone else would have thought would have rendered him combat ineffective, yet he charged. He looked at the young man’s face; his eyes wide and glazed now, mouth gaping. Unconsciously he fingered the holster of his P38, seeing the neat red hole under his right eye, beside the nose and his collapsed right cheek. The boy was dead the second he’d pulled the trigger. Before he’d even hit the ground.
“Zumindest Sie nicht leiden.” He said softly, putting his cap back on and rising to his full height again. He was visited with flashes of the past three days. They had progressed rapidly at first, until here. Wizna, that name would last him for the rest of his life, he was sure of it. How could it not? He’d lost nearly his entire company taking this position. The battalion had lost countless numbers taking this position, onward they had kept fighting. Kept charging, and kept getting cut down by the damnable machine gun nests and artillery fire. The position had been perfect, simply perfect. Had they been a lesser force, they would have surely been defeated.
He rubbed his eyes and resumed surveying the scene. They had been a force of forty thousand. Trying to funnel through a stretch of land only a few miles wide, completely surrounded on all sides by hills, and seemingly on top of each hill was a machine gun nest or a bunker. The Polish bastards had turned the area into a killing ground. Anger swelled inside him but he managed to restrain himself from the urge to kick a helmet nearby and scream, which was all he wanted to do. So many men were dead, and for what? So many boys slaughtered for such a lost cause.
They had all performed so admirably at first. It had almost been child’s play. They had advanced so quickly over the course of that week. Now the hopes of a complete and perfect victory were rapidly fading. If even a nation such as this were capable of fending off the weight of the Wehrmacht for this long in spite of such technical inferiority…
He grunted as he lowered himself into the trench. His age was beginning to show, that he knew now. He was old for his rank, but after his time in the Legion Condor, he had developed a strong affection for his men and perhaps for combat itself. He didn’t want to sit on the sidelines while his soldiers ran the gauntlets of fire. But this? He’d never seen anything like this yet.
This war is far from over, he reminded himself. We’ve only just begun, it’s only my own wishful thinking that this would be over that quickly, and that easily. He paused looking down at another corpse now; the blasted body of an officer. He could just make out the rank markings now, a captain, the same rank as him. So, here was his adversary at last. He was the man who had led his forces with enough vigor that they held this position to the last man. With a hollow bitterness, he tried to fight off the feeling of respect he had. He’d even taken his own life, he thought, noticing the particular pattern of where the body lay and the mark from the grenade blast. He must have thrown himself onto the grenade in the last charge his men had done when they’d barely reached the bunker before falling back again.
“Hauptmann, Hauptmann!” came the call from behind him. He turned, seeing one of his privates, Gefreiter Eschenbach, his personal runner. The boyish face was filled with pride as he entered the pillbox.
“Hauptmann, keine Überlebenden, Hauptmann.” The boy said grinning and snapping a salute. He returned the salute, trying to adopt a look worthy of a ‘conqueror’, not wanting to dampen the boy’s spirits. He returned the salute.
“Gut, Gefreiter Eschenbach, sehr gut. Was waren unsere Verluste?”
Finally, the smile on Eschenbach’s youthful face faded a little.
“Gefreiter?” he asked again, giving his voice an edge to let the boy know he wanted to know exactly how many they had lost in the battle. No more patriotism, he had to know how many of his boys were lying dead out there or in the field hospitals, where undoubtedly others would die as well.
“Funfundzwanzig tot… achtundsiebzig verletzt…” the young private replied. He nodded solemnly, and sighed. Twenty five dead so far, seventy eight wounded. By nightfall the wounded count would be lower and the death count higher as the doctors and nurses tried and failed to keep some of the most heavily wounded alive. It came to the same. Overall casualty count of one hundred three, almost fifty percent losses exactly. He would visit the hospital that night, give comfort to the boys who had given so much for their Führer. He smiled inwardly at this thought, knowing full well that no matter what the propaganda machine said, each of these soldiers out there had died for the man standing next to them, not the Führer, and had gone to their deaths screaming for their mothers, not whispering Hitler’s name.
“Hauptmann?” Eschenbach asked, sounding worried.
“Ja, sehr gut Gefreiter.” He responded, nodding his thanks. “Vielen Dank, dachte Ich mir.”
He walked up and patted the boy on the shoulder, smiling grimly.
“Lernen Sie von heute, mein Sohn. Wir haben einen langen Krieg vor uns.” He told the boy, who nodded slowly.
“Abgewiesen.” He said finally, nodding Eschenbach out of the pillbox.
“Heil Hitler.” Eschenbach said in salute.
“Heil.” He replied, saluting and allowing Eschenbach to leave. He turned to look around the pillbox again, noticing the sharp skittering sound of the spent machine gun shell casings that completely covered the pillbox floor, perhaps two or three layers deep. He put a hand on the machine gun; felt it was still hot after having spit so much lead and death at his charging soldiers. Yes, we have a very long war ahead of us, he thought bitterly. If a force such as this can put pain to us on this level, what will happen when we back a more powerful nation into the same sort of corner? What horrors await us in the years ahead? How will our forces of conquest stand against future forces of defense and retaliation?
History
Beginning centers around the Battle of Wizna, fought between September 7, and September 10, 1939. Nazi Germany invaded Poland on September 1, 1939, after a staged attack on a German outpost on the German/Polish border that Germany tried to use as justification for their invasion. No one was really fooled, and after issuing an ultimatum to Germany to withdraw, France and England both declared war on Germany, and World War II was truly begun. However, instead of rallying to the defense of their Polish comrade, Britain and France began instead what became known as the "Phoney War". England launched a series of reconnaissance and leaflet raids over Germany, while France launched an ineffectual raid against Germany that only took 5km of land and withdrew after Poland had been conquered.
Poland fought alone from September 1 of 1939 through to October 6, 1939. What is very little known today in the west is that Poland actually fought a very good campaign against the invading Germans, whose infamous Blitzkrieg tactics were only in their infancy. It wasn't a great steamroller over Poland. In battles like Wizna, Poland proved that it was entirely capable of standing up against Germany given proper techniques in spite of an inferiority in airpower and armor. The finishing touch, and what really finished off Poland, and what is least known in the West, is that Poland was also invaded on September 17, 1939 by the Soviet Union from the east. At that time, Poland had most of its forces concentrated against Germany, and it was too late and too small an army to counter the forces of both Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union. Later war politics would do its best to smooth over the Soviet Union's involvement when they became an Allied power in the summer of 1941, but assuredly, that fact was never forgotten by Poland.
The Battle of Wizna has been turned into something of a legend since the fall of the Soviet Union, when many facts about Poland's involvement in the Second World War finally became available in the West. Much of it had been supressed by the Soviet Union who didn't want people to sympathize with Poland. In the engagement, Kapitan (Captain) Władysław Raginis and his forces were a mere 720 or so arranged against an entire German army of approximately 42,000 men. This has led to it being referred to in World War II history as the "Polish Thermopylae" as the Polish forces there fought what they knew to be a losing battle to the death to help give time for defenses to be prepared around Warsaw. The German forces needed to get through the area in order to get around and attack the southern part of Warsaw, the Polish capitol. Raginis and his men held out until the 10th of September, when the German forces finally overwhelmed them.
The German forces kept no records of the losses they sustained in the battle, probably out of embarrassment. Exact figures of the battle period are hard to pin down, though it's estimated at least forty Polish soldiers managed to escape and another forty were captured and turned into PoWs. General Heinz Guderian, the commander of the German forces in the battle, claimed that nine-hundred men were killed in the battle, though most believe that number is a gross understatement. Wizna, even if a victory for the German forces, was a textbook example of conducting a defensive war against a vastly numerically superior foe.
In writing of the first part, "Fight", I did my best to try and capture the horrors of combat as well as its rapid and changing and hard to follow nature. You're running, ducking, fighting, firing, all with very little time to think. Yet I had to slow it down a little bit to try and give the reader a sense of the significance of why things were happening as they were. I had to give the young Polish soldier time to think and give a rallying call not just to himself, but also to the reader.
In "Aftermath" on the other hand, I had to give a very different story. I wanted to capture the essence of a combat veteran's grasp of the situation, and the significance. This was done again for the reader, not for the sake of the character. Much is made of the German dominance in the military struggles of 1939 and 1941. However, I felt that by giving the other side of the story of the Battle of Wizna, I could help shed more light on the bravery of the soldiers who gave their lives there trying to fight off the tyranny of the Third Reich. By creating a character who understood the significance of what had taken place in those fateful three days, I hoped to give the reader the chance to recognize that even in the early defeats, there was great bravery among Allied forces and their sacrifice helped achieve the ultimate victory as much as any who fought after them.
*Also to note, some of the lettering had to be altered out of necessity. Sierżant for example requires a special character that some programs and hardware are incapable of displaying correctly. Here you read it correctly but in the ebook format it will be "sierzant" without the special ż.
Turning
Sprog
He’d always had a good eye. His old batting coach had always told him so back in school. “Good eye, lad,” seemed to be his staple phrase. He had a good knack for reading the bowler, whether he should block, or go in full-blooded for a cover drive. He smiled, looking at the Squadron Leader’s plane. That was what he liked about the S/L, how he explained almost everything to him in cricket terms. It helped him understand just what he was supposed to be doing as the instructors had never been really able to:
‘When you’re firing, you have to be aware of both where you are, and where the enemy is. It isn’t quite like batting, because you aren’t standing still, you’re moving, which adds a new variable. However it’s pretty close, you need to be aware of both the pilot and the plane. You need to be aware of how the bowler is hurling, what he’s thinking or planning or whatever. And you need to be aware of what the ball, or in this case, plane, can do. Oh, and there’s no blocking, I just want you going in full blooded and killing the bastards.’
That’s how the S/L had put it to him when he’d arrived. So that’s how he was trying to think now. It was nothing profound, he knew, but it helped him understand aiming at least. Preempt the ball, track the ball, read the ball and hit it as hard as you could. That’s what the S/L wanted him to do: track the plane, read the other pilot, and hit him as hard as he could.
“Keep ‘n’ee eawt, Yallow Thre’,” came Yellow One’s voice over the radio. He snapped to attention, tucking himself back in on Yellow One’s wing, maintaining formation again. He shook his head, he’d been drifting off again in thought, and that, as the other pilots had put it to him, is how you get killed. He started scanning the sky again, but kept stealing glances at the section leader’s plane, trying to keep formation at the same time.
He liked the section leader, a mild-mannered Lancastrian with a deceptively loud voice. You could hear him halfway across the airfield it seemed like, though maybe that was because his voice was so distinct compared to everyone else in the squadron. The only problem was half of the time you had no clue exactly what the man was saying, and you couldn’t help but wonder how exactly he’d become a section leader when you could barely understand him on the ground, let alone over a radio. The one thing that could be said about the section leader was that he always seemed to know what was going on in his section, or at least he had in the three flights they’d done so far. He can always tell when I’m distracted or nervous, he thought, watching the section leader’s plane, and he can always point it out. He also had two kills already, so he supposed that all ended up in his favor.
Still heeding the section leader’s words, he started looking around him again, leaning around a bit to see past the birdcage canopy of his Hurricane. It wasn’t as flashy an aircraft as the Spitfire, but he liked it all the same. It wasn’t the fastest old bird, but she had eight machine guns and thick wings which made her a good shooting platform, and could take a pretty good blow.
At least that’s what he’d been told; he’d never fired the guns yet, nor been shot at yet. He was what the others called a “sprog”, or a new pilot. This was only his third mission, the last two they hadn’t encountered any enemy. Being stationed in the north-east as part of No. 13 Group, they didn’t expect much opposition. But now, now they were going to find some. They’d been scrambled, the radar chain showing a large Nazi force coming in from Norway; a force of approximately two hundred enemy aircraft.
He shivered slightly in his seat as he did his best to keep an eye out and keep formation. You have a good eye, he kept telling himself, you’re going to do fine, just keep your head. He wiped sweat from his brow as it neared his eyes from under his leather flight helmet. He hadn’t even noticed he’d been sweating, but now he realized it, he realized that under his flight suit he was completely drenched in it and was shivering all over. No wonder he couldn’t keep formation.
“Yezzy up there, Yallow Thre’,” came Yellow One’s voice over the radio. He looked over at his section leader, seeing him wave reassuringly over his shoulder. He tried to answer, but found his throat somehow clogged, and simply tapped twice on his radio set and waved back.
He looked ahead, seeing Red Section ahead of them being led by the Squadron Leader, and looked around behind and above them, trying to spot Green Section that was flying top cover to keep them from getting bounced by Jerry. To his left and right, as little specks he could make out other squadrons. Five squadrons had been scrambled to meet the incoming Jerries. This is it, he told himself, I’m finally going to see combat.
All at once, the radio burst into life. Shouts from other squadrons ahead of them told him that they’d finally encountered the enemy. He squinted, and was just able to make out what looked like tiny shooting stars in the distance. Tracer fire. He’d been told about it by the other veterans.
He listened to the controllers on the ground, directing them. Apparently the escorts were Bf 110s, the big twin-engined fighters the Jerries were using. No Bf 109s had been spotted, however, so all were free to attack the bombers. The other squadrons with the sportier Spitfires were going to try and work on the Bf 110 escorts for them. His heart jumped into his throat. He was free to attack any target he wanted, he was free to make kills, not just cover Yellow One and Two.
“Red leader to Red, Yellow and Green sections, keep an eye out. We’re going in hot. Pick your targets. Hit hard and keep going, don’t get too stuck on one target. They haven’t spotted any ‘yellow-noses’ yet but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. Keep moving and shooting, tally-ho!” the S/L’s voice directed over the radio. There was a series of “rogers”, “tally-hos” and double-clicks on the radio in response. He double-clicked back, still unable to coax out any words, and tightened his grip on the control column and the throttle, pushing it forwards a bit to keep up with the section leader. He could make out a large formation of black specks now in the midst of the tracer fire. He wiped the sweat from his brow again; they were heading straight into them, head to head.
He felt like he could count every heartbeat, every second as they drew nearer. They were going up against bombers, he knew, full of defensive guns. Someone was going to be shooting at him. However, he was told that He 111s, the main bombers the Jerries were using, were badly defended from the front. This information heartened him a little.
He could see the bombers more clearly now ahead of them. Too fast, they were coming in way too fast. The little specks were growing rapidly now as they closed. Their combined speeds meaning they were closing at anywhere between five hundred and six hundred miles per hour. Too fast, too fast. He leaned forward, picking one of the growing spots and lining up the golden bead in the middle of his reflector sight with it, breathing in and out, remembering what the Squadron Leader had told him. He tried to be aware of where he was, and where the enemy was. He had to think of the bomber as the ball, and his bullets as the bat. Now go in full blooded. Now was the time to swing. He pressed the firing stud.
Dive
Smoke filled his eyes and his lungs. He coughed and spat, dropping back down into his gondola to try and get away from it. He’d been in the bottom of the plane manning his defensive machine gun, watching for RAF fighters from the rear when suddenly there was a massive hammering staccato all around him and the plane started smoking. He fumbled around, figuring out where the front of the gondola was to orient himself in the blinding smoke, pointing himself in the direction to get to the front of the plane. They must have been hit from the front; that was the only explanation. He squinted, the acrid smoke blinding him.
“Emil!” He shouted, spluttering, calling for the radio operator/top gunner. Emil should be nearby, his position was just forward of the gondola. He looked up and could just make out the white hole in the roof of the plane where Emil’s gun position was through the smoke, and crawled forward towards it. He was rolled to the left involuntarily as the plane started to drift that way. He cursed out loud as he hit his head and something landed on him. He pushed at the mass that had landed over top of him and found it was soft and moveable, but heavy and limp. And wet. As he pushed, he felt something else fall against his side. He grabbed for it instinctively, and felt a hand.
Almost instantly, the realization of what was on top of him came to him. It was Emil’s dead body, and the wetness was his blood. Panicking, he shoved Emil as hard as he could, and clamored up the wall of the plane to get out from under him. The plane had not righted itself yet. He still couldn’t see. He pulled himself up and climbed over Emil’s radio equipment, reaching the crawlspace over the bomb bay. Almost instantly, his vision cleared, and he felt the wind.
“Was ist-?” he started to ask, but stopped instantly, as his watery eyes finally cleared enough for him to see the cockpit.
Blood. Everywhere he looked there was blood. Blood and flesh and organ matter. The limp body of Oberleutnant Wofford, the pilot, lay slumped in the seat. He could see the dimples in the back of his armored seat from the British fighter’s machine gun rounds. They’d passed straight through Wofford but weren’t powerful enough to penetrate the steel seat. He had to have been hit at least eight times through the body. He looked up, and realized that at least a third of the Oberleutnant’s head was missing; his hands still clutching the control column as if still piloting.
He wretched, collapsing against the side of the plane again as it continued going left. He looked up again, still squinting his eyes, this time against the stinging of the wind coming through the shattered glass of the cockpit canopy instead of smoke. They were losing altitude rapidly now, but if he tried he could probably still get out of the hatch over Wofford’s body in time to bail out before it was too late. He took a step down the small stairs and jumped as something grabbed his leg. He looked down. Leutnant Stern, the bombardier, was looking up at him, pleading with terrified eyes, blood coming from his mouth.
He reached down frantically, trying to pull the wounded man up but could instantly see there was nothing to be done. He’d been riddled with bullets just as Wofford had been, blood stains growing on his legs, stomach and chest. How Stern was still alive, he had no idea. He took Stern’s hand and climbed down into the cockpit with him. There was nothing to do, nothing to be done. There was no escape. He pulled Stern into his lap, wrapping his arms around him, muttering reassurances to the dying man.
Man? Stern was only nineteen years old; Wofford was only twenty three, the same age as him. Emil in the back was twenty three too; the three of them had been part of the same crew since Poland. The three of them were all the same age in spite of their differing ranks, that’s why they’d made their crew together. He and Emil also came from the same home town. Wofford had picked them for that reason, figuring that the two would fight bitterly against enemy aircraft to save each other. And so they had. It was almost exactly one year since they had all come together. They’d fought through Poland, Belgium, Holland, Norway, France, and now England. They’d seen so much in one year, so many missions, and so many near misses. Stern on the other hand was a replacement bombardier, fresh from training. Their previous bombardier had been wounded in the leg by anti-aircraft fire on their last mission and was back home in the hospital.
He looked down at Stern, whose breathing was getting ragged and he coughed up more blood and lung tissue. He could just barely make out Stern’s quiet muttering, “Mutti… mutti…” He closed his eyes now as the first tear came to his eyes. He wanted his mother too. She would get a letter probably, thanking her for the sacrifice of her son and telling her she should be honored. At least that’s what they told him. He wished she could be here to hold him instead. He wished this were a nightmare and tomorrow he would wake up to a nice big breakfast like she always used to make for him and his two sisters. He wished he could see her smiling face.
He looked around the cockpit again. The Oberleutnant was gone, Emil was gone. Young Stern was dying. He looked up to see the water of the North Sea rushing up at him, coming so fast as the plane started to plummet. He wondered how it had taken so long to get here. He looked at Wofford’s hands, locked in a death grip on the control column. That must have been what did it. He absently looked up at the ceiling of the plane, noting the seeming hundreds of holes peppering the roof of the plane. In a typical head on pass, the convergence rate between the aircraft was 800-900 kilometers an hour. Whoever it was had to have a hell of a good eye to have made that shot. He thought of his mother again as the plane hit the sea.
History
Turning takes place on August 15, 1940, during the Battle of Britain. On this day, Germany launched a flanking attack against England's north-east regions from occupied Norway. Thinking that they had all of the Royal Air Force concentrated in the south, the Luftwaffe learned they were wrong with the result of catastrophic losses. The bombing force was in fact repulsed, at no loss to the five RAF squadrons who participated in repelling the attack. Many have written of the events and significance of the Battle of Britain itself, even I have written a piece or two on the battle. As there is such information available for it, I will not go into too much detail on the events here.
As a rough overview however, Germany launched its invasion of the Netherlands and Belgium on May 10, 1940, and soon was into France itself, in what became known as the Battle of France. Unlike the invasion of Poland however, the UK did send forces to help try and repel the German invaders. It ended in complete disaster. The Germans had learned their lessons from the invasion of Poland well, giving rise to the legends of Rommel's "Ghost Division", who moved so rapidly even Rommel's commanders never knew exactly where he was, much the same as Patton and his forces a little over four years later driving the Germans back through the very same areas of France.
After France had been conquered, German attention turned north across the English channel to England itself. Germany knew that amphibious warfare was very difficult. Anticipating strong British resistance from the Army and Royal Air Force, Hitler and his commanders decided on a different approach to trying to conquer England. They launched a massive air battle instead, in an attempt to defeat the Royal Air Force and gain the aerial superiority they wanted for the land battle to come. The main fighting over England lasted from the 10th of July through October 31, 1940, when Hitler finally cancelled all plans to invade England and began to rally his forces for the eventual invasion of the Soviet Union in 1941.
The RAF fought a bitter campaign, yet in the end was victorious. They successfully fought off the German forces, which was the biggest stroke of luck the Allied forces could hope for, and what was unquestionably one of the most significant victories of the Second World War. To put it in that context, one has to consider that without that particular victory, none of the later victories that have been equally mythologized would have been possible. There would have been no aerial bombing campaign, there would have been no D-Day, none of them. While it did not win the war, it made victory possible.
This was also the battle that spawned true aviation legends. The Spitfire in particular has been mythologized since the battle, though easily outscored in the battle by the much more numerous Hawker Hurricane. With its gentle curves and elliptical wings however, the Spitfire definitely became the 'posterboy' of the RAF, indeed it has been recognized by many as being perhaps one of the most attractive aircraft ever designed. Also made legend in the battle was the infamous Messerschmitt Bf 109, flown by some of the most experienced combat pilots in the world in the Luftwaffe (the German Air Force).
"Sprog" is the tale of a very rookie but talented pilot, as many who fought in the battle were. Though a great many more were not. In spite of their victory, the RAF suffered heavy losses. The difference between Luftwaffe and RAF losses was felt not so much in aircraft but in pilots. RAF pilots, particularly over England itself, were usually recovered and if uninjured were back fighting combat missions, sometimes the very same day. Luftwaffe pilots, on the other hand, if shot down over England were invariably captured. There was also the aircraft to aircrew ratio. A fighter going down cost usually only one pilot (sometimes a pilot and a gunner in the case of the Boulton Paul Defiant or the Messerschmitt Bf 110). A bomber on the other hand, meant the loss of four to five personnel, depending on the plane. In "Sprog", I tried to capture what I felt the essence of a young and inexperienced pilot might be going through on his first combat engagement. It's fast, difficult to follow, and impersonal at that level. The pilot never thinks of what his rounds will do to the crew, only thinks of engaging another airplane.
"Dive" on the other hand, takes us inside the bomber, and tells us what does happen to those inside the crosshairs when bullets start flying. One of the poorest told stories is the story of the horrors that bomber crews from all sides went through in the Second World War. Flying gauntlets of flak and enemy fighters, bomber crews invariably suffered heavy losses. Our young gunner's experience is the closest I could imagine to what it would be like to be inside one of these planes, riddled with bullets, the chaos and the hopelessness of the situation. A very little told story indeed.
Letters
Pain
Four years, four months, and fifteen days. That's how long it had been. Four years, four months, and fifteen days. A Thursday, late May, a rainy afternoon in the school hallway. The bell had just run for the end of the school day minutes before. He remembered her smile, her warm green eyes, and her shimmering golden hair. He remembered the sound of that laugh, the swirling butterflies his stomach gave him whenever she was near.
Four years, four months, and fifteen days ago. On that day he'd asked her to be his girlfriend. His heart had pounded as she walked away down the hall, the words on the tip of his tongue before the final thump of his heart blasted the air from his lungs and fired the words into the air and down the hall to her ears. "Will you go out with me?"
His world had tumbled in that moment, floating in a free falling void completely bereft of any sense of up and down. Like a small rowboat lost in the midst of a raging hurricane far out at sea. Just watching her, seeing her face turn, her eyes looking into his, that soft grin spreading across her face, righting him and giving him hope like a lighthouse in the distance. And her words had floated back to him across that void, leaving her lips and travelling slowly to him, twirling in front of him until colliding with his ears in a storm-breaking "yes". It was as if the word was the peaceful, calming hand of God that parted the storm and righted his ship into warm happiness. Four years, four months, and fifteen days ago.
He put down the letter, his eyes dry and cool in the calm English fall. Above him was a clear blue sky, only three white puffy clouds in sight, the slight darkness of the night still off in the west as the sun rose higher in the east. Around him men were moving; men in OD green and khaki, shouting orders and mingling. He was sitting on his haunches, reading her letter, wearing eighty pounds of gear. A rifle hung from his chest, a parachute on his back and a helmet on his head. All a result of a decision he'd made one year, eleven months and twenty-two days ago.
One year, eleven months and twenty-two days ago, he'd entered the enlistment office on his 18th birthday. Three months and eighteen days before that, he'd gotten down on one knee in front of her at his graduation party, bound for college, a long and wonderful life ahead of them. But the war was still going on, and finally, his pride could not let him stand aside any longer. She'd been so proud of him too, enlisting in the army, giving himself to the service of the country, going to defend the nation from tyranny. And now here it was, one year, eleven months and twenty-two days later, about to board a plane for another country. A great battle. A plan to end the war by Christmas. A path for him to make it home to be with her again, and to finally get married, to start their lives.
And after four years, four months, and fifteen days of love; after two years, three months and ten days of engagement; after one year, eleven months and twenty-two days of service, she was done with him. And now he'd just gotten her letter. By the date on it, she'd written it two months and three days ago. It was just arriving now, after a long trip across the Atlantic Ocean by ship, handed out to him by an army postman, walking among the men preparing for the greatest airborne invasion of all time, calling names, handing out letters. For many of these called names, these would be their last letters. Maybe it would even be his own last letter. He looked at her words again, not really reading anymore, just looking.
Dear Arthur,
I don't know how to really word this letter. How to say what is in my mind right now. I don't think I can go on with this anymore. The long hours at night, worrying about you, not knowing where you are, if you're alive or not. Afraid of getting the letter of your death. Knowing that as I'm not your wife I won't receive it directly from the government but have to hear about it second hand from your family. I just can't take it anymore. Please, don't think too harshly of me. I'm not leaving you for someone else. I've never been unfaithful to you. But I can't keep this up. I'm sorry I'm not stronger, like you, but I think it is just best to end this now. I know I probably should include the ring in this but at the same time I'm afraid to get rid of it. I'm sorry to tell you this but I have to. It's over Arthur. I'll still say a prayer every night that God keeps you safe and whole and you make it home and find the person who can be everything for you that I'm not.
.
Jessica
He folded up the letter, and just stared at it for a long time. Then he looked at his left hand, the golden band around his ring finger. A symbol of togetherness and faithfulness he'd honored for far longer than the two years, four months and two days ago he'd given it. A faithfulness he'd honored for four years, two months, and fifteen days.
Without thinking about it much, he slowly slipped the ring from his finger. It put up a fight coming off, having stayed there for two years, four months, and two days. By now it had more or less become one with his finger, a mere extension of his body he never thought about anymore. But finally it came all the way off, and he held it for a bit too, just staring at it. Then he took off his dog tags, undid the small bead that held it together and slipped the ring down onto the chain.
In the time he'd looked at it, he'd considered many things. Throwing it out of the plane when they were over the English Channel, or burying it right there with the letter. He'd also considered hocking it to someone else, burning the letter and forgetting she had ever existed. That the magic moments had never happened, that the pain he was feeling didn't exist and he was really just a young man preparing for a glorious engagement, now a young man thousands of miles from home, scared for his death and his heart aching and torn to pieces.
But he couldn't. He couldn't erase those four years, four months and fifteen days. He couldn't erase the hole in his heart. He couldn't erase the tingling that still hung in his left knee from nervously kneeling a bit too hard two years, four months and two days ago. He couldn't erase the emptiness his left ring finger felt after bearing that ring for that long either. He couldn't erase her smile and soft lips from his memory, in fact in his hurt and anger they seemed to stab at him all the more powerfully than they had ever done before. After four months of war, of fighting and killing with only the thought of getting home to her to sustain him, she was gone, and yet not gone. And he couldn't bring himself to truly wish she was completely gone.
Now a watery tear slides into his eye as the sergeant stands up and gives everyone the signal. They all rise as one as he brushes it aside and tucks the letter into his pocket. The ring is on his neck, near his heart, a symbol of something that at once is, and is no longer. He climbs into the plane, his motions automatic as his body runs on autopilot while his brain whirs. Her final two words to him were still floating in his mind.
Two words, one said and one unsaid. Jessica, that name which had meant so much to him for so long being said, and the other one, unsaid by anything more than a dot she'd put above her name where she'd been going to write it. Love. Love, Jessica. The unsaid, and said. Yes, he thought to himself, yes... Love... Jessica... Though you've left me... though I may not live to see the end of this day... I will always love Jessica.
Guilt
She bustled about the kitchen, breathless in her haste. She wanted the house spotless; a young gentleman was coming over tonight. A veteran, a hero, who had survived two tours of duty in the Pacific. They'd met two months ago, mid September. He'd been at a dance party, she remembered feeling sorry for him at first, off in the corner by himself, quiet and composed. His left leg below the trouser cuff nothing more than a metal rod going into his left shoe.
She'd felt butterflies walking over to him, though it was definitely rocky at first, remembering what she'd just given up. The young officer was understanding, smart, vacant, somber, everything she loved in a man. A warm soul hidden inside him she longed to will to the surface. Not like him. The one she'd lost.
No, not lost, it was nothing he had done. Too cruel to call it lost. He was a hero too. He was off in the war in Europe, her first love. She still remembered his dirty brown hair, his blue eyes, his twinkling smile. She shook her head and returned to her cleaning. There was no point to keep thinking about him. He would find someone else; he would start the life he wanted with someone better. She'd never felt she'd really deserved him. Never felt good enough.
She'd never felt she deserved the day he'd asked her to go out with him. She remembered how she'd felt the whirlwind inside her as his words reached her, how buoyant and giddy she'd felt hearing the slight tremble of nervousness in his voice. Him, nervous, about asking me to go steady with him? She remembered the hopefulness in his face when she turned to look at him, almost like a poor lost puppy. And how wonderful she'd felt saying, "yes".
Not because of how she felt saying it, but because of the look of happiness it had put on his face. And how wonderful it felt to know she had put it there. It had been like that ever since. The day he'd asked her to marry him for instance. Him going down on one knee, the slight wince in his face when he put it down too hard on a rock in his yard. That same nervous, hopeful look she couldn't resist. That same giddy expression on his face when she'd said "yes".
She wiped an unwilling tear from her eye and looked out her window. Cars were bustling by in the street below. People living their lives while soldiers like her young officer had lost legs and her old love was still off fighting the war. The young officer often asked about him, if she'd heard from him, if he was alive, and always the same answers; "no" and "I don't know". The army was trying to liberate Holland, and he was probably there, that's all she knew.
She wondered if he'd gotten her letter before the attack, felt even more guilty now. No, I can't feel guilty, she told herself. There was nothing to feel guilty about. It happened all the time. She was hardly the first. But still, Arthur was different. She'd loved him. Definitely, she'd loved him. But the pain and stress and the worry, it was just too much. He would understand, wouldn't he?
She moved into the living room now, dusting rapidly. Why did she always have to get like this before something happy was going to happen? Why did he keep haunting her ever since she'd decided to write that letter? Why hadn't she sent him the ring, instead of keeping it here, hanging foolishly on a chain on her neck? What would he have done with it if she had sent it with the letter? Would he have thrown it away? Would he have kept it? Would he have sold it?
She looked out her window, seeing the postman putting a letter sized envelope into the mailbox. She got up and went to the door, curious as to who would be sending her a letter. She suddenly smiled to herself at the off thought of it being a letter from Arthur finally, before the worry that it really might be wiped the smile from her face instantly. She reapplied the smile and waved to the postman as she exited her front door.
"Who's it from Charlie?" she called after him, her face a mask of a smile, her stomach a clenched knot. She felt her stomach unclench as the old man turned and smiled cheerfully at her, doffing his hat as he answered.
"Your mother, Miss." Charlie responded and continued to totter his way down to the house next door. Her insides unclenched, and she sighed in relief watching the white hair beneath the navy cap of the old postman moving down the road. Then it set in again, the unbidden worry. Worrying about him. Was he alive? Was he alright?
She reached the mailbox and withdrew the letter, hoping her mother's words would alleviate some of her worry. It was something she loved about her mother so much, how no matter how she was feeling her mother always had something to say to cheer her up. She drew the letter from the envelope immediately and read hopefully.
Dear Jess,
Just writing a little letter to see how you are and how things are going in your life. Father is fine after his operation and recovering well, and I am doing very well too. Your brother will probably be sending you a letter soon, he might be the top of his class this next spring if he keeps his grades up this school year and we're so proud of him.
I don't know if you've heard yet or not, and I feel bad for saying anything if you haven't but I just had to. And I figured my word would be as good as any if you haven't heard yet. But I was talking to your Aunt Moira the night before writing this, and she's been keeping up with the boys back home who went to the war. And she told me that Arthur was killed in Holland last week. I don't really know any more details but, I really thought you should know if you didn't already.
Sorry this is not a happier letter. I just know how close you and Arthur were, and figured even if things had fallen through between you two you would want to know. Please write me back soon, call us old fashioned but your father and I just have never had much use for telephones, so please write back as soon as you can.
Love,
Mom
Her knees gave way and she slumped to the sidewalk. Arthur was gone. He was dead. After all her worries, it had happened anyway. She hadn't heard from the government, consoling her for her loss and thanking her for her sacrifice; she heard about it second hand, and her world had been torn out from under her. Had he gotten her letter? Had he died knowing? Had he thrown away his own ring if he'd known, or had he kept it? Was it with him wherever his body was now? She held her face in her hands and tears slowly slid from her eyes. She'd never know, never find out, never be able to erase the guilt.
Why had she sent that letter? Why had she given in to her weakness and decided to end it? She'd let him die alone; had he died alone? Were his friends with him? Did he die saving one of them? Had he died a hero? Had he not received the letter? Had he died still loving her? She would never know; never, ever know. She knew he would never forgive her if he had gotten the letter, but somehow she had still hoped for the chance to see him again. To be able to see his smile one more time, to hear his laugh again.
She didn't look up as the gravel crunched in front of her house as the young officer's car pulled up in front of her house. She didn't look up as he walked up to her, hearing him wince as he crouched down before her; this time his missing left leg causing him the pain, not a rock in the lawn. He didn't say anything, just crouched there, looking at her. He didn't have to say anything; she didn't have to look at him. She felt him just put his arms around her shoulders, fell into his chest, knowing he understood.
History
There isn't much of a "history" to this piece, as the history of the event during which this takes place (Allied preparations for the attempted liberation of The Netherlands, Operation Market-Garden in mid September of 1944) has little to do with the point of the story. It's merely the backdrop. Letters is much more about humanity and the nature of love and pain and loss and guilt. Hence the titles "Pain" and "Guilt". Thusly, the title "History" here is a little different now than in the other stories, as instead of the history of the events, I'm going to discuss sort of the history of the story itself.
Letters was the very first one of these stories that I wrote. I had suffered a sort of heart ache and rejection, and after sitting down in front of my computer I quickly produced "Pain". However, in writing "Pain", I was reminded of the times I myself had hurt others and caused others that same pain. And so "Guilt" was also born that same night. I did little with it until the spring of 2011, where after showing it to one of my English professors, he put me onto the idea of writing an entire book of such short stories. Letters then became part of the compilation.
