I'm close to the end of my life now, and as you reach your twilight years mostly all you have left is memories. Especially since I lost my wife of more than 50 years, Katie, I spend most of my time looking back.: my youth in Nebraska; my brief spell as a college football star; the first time I ever saw Katie, and fell in love with her; and, of course, the War.
The Second World War, as it came to be known, was, apart from Katie, probably the thing that made the greatest impact on my life. I guess it's much the same for most of the guys who went through it. Naturally I have a lot of memories from that period: the men I trained with; the rush of adrenalin that came with the excitement and fear of battle; D Day and the push to Berlin; the friends I saw die; and other sights I try not to remember, in case the nightmares start again. But, much as I want to put it out of my mind, there was one incident in that war I can never forget. One which I've never told to another living soul, not even Katie -- especially not Katie. Until now.
It was in late '44 in an area of France called the Ardennes, which borders with Belgium. I wasn't a career soldier, I'd been an insurance clerk before the war. But by then I was Sergeant First Class Clayton Winterbourne, a battle hardened 23-year old. My platoon had gotten into a fire fight with some Nazi skirmishers. We were outgunned and had to pull back, but somehow I got separated from the rest of the guys and found myself alone, low on ammunition, and with three miles of German held territory between me and the Allied front line. I figured the best thing I could do was find somewhere to stay out of sight, and try to make it back to safety at nightfall.
I picked my way through a wooded area, and saw what looked like an abandoned farmhouse maybe 80 yards away. The place was pretty beat up -- it looked as if half the roof was missing -- and to get to it I was going to have to make it across an open field, making me easy meat for any Germans (we called them krauts back then) who happened to be around. I said a quick prayer -- my religion was very important to me in those days -- and ran hell for leather, expecting a bullet in the back at any moment. By the time I fell against the wall of the building I was sobbing for breath, my lungs on fire. I squatted behind the cover of what appeared to be a stone animal pen and recovered my composure. Then, warily, I made my way into the farmhouse.
It smelt dank and musty, and the only light came from a couple of small windows, their glass and frames long disappeared. Nervously pointing my M1 carbine ahead of me, ready to fire at the first hint of trouble, I picked my way carefully across a kitchen furnished only with a sturdy old wooden table. I trod carefully, trying not to make a noise among the broken glass and general trash which littered the floor. My heart leapt as I heard a rustle, then a goddamned rat skittered across the floor. I resisted the instinct to blow its brains out. I checked the place out room by room. The stone staircase to what had been the upper floor ended at the fourth tread, the ceiling open to the sky, which made the task easier. As I approached the final room I began to relax: it looked as if I had found a safe hiding place. Then, my heart stopped beating in my chest.
I could her someone breathing in that room. It was quiet, but in the still of the day, following the earlier gunfire, my ears were super sensitive. There was definitely someone in there. Wishing I'd removed my pack, I pressed my back to the wall, and edged towards the open doorway. Convinced the top of my skull was about to be blown away, I peered carefully into the room. There was a metal-framed single bed beneath the window, with a grubby mattress -- and on it knelt a man. He had his back to me, staring out of the window, but was clearly a German infantryman. His tunic lay beside him on the bed, with his helmet, revealing his uniform shirt and suspenders. My first thought was to blow the SOB's head clear through the window. But who knew how close the nearest enemy patrol was? In this quiet rural setting the sound of gunfire could arouse interest hundreds of yards away.
I hesitated for seconds that felt like hours. Then I made my decision. Gripping my rifle more tightly, I swung into the room and hissed "Hände hoch", one of maybe a half dozen German expressions I knew. The guy froze for a second, then slowly complied, raising his hands high above his head. He carefully shuffled backwards on the bed and placed his feet on the floor, then slowly turned to face me. I noticed that his boots lay on the floor, and his feet were covered by thick gray woollen socks. Great, I thought: I've taken a prisoner, alone, miles into enemy territory, surrounded by thousands of his kamaraden. Nice going, Clay.
I quickly scanned him and the room around me for weapons. I saw none. He didn't appear to be a sniper then, left to mop up any Allied troops dumb enough to get lost there -- like me. I jumped as he spoke, in clear, almost accentless English. "It is all right sergeant. I am unarmed, and I promise I am no threat to you." His voice was light, almost feminine. I stared hard at him. He was no more than a kid -- I guessed 18 or 19. About the same height as me -- five-feet ten -- but skinny, probably 30 pounds less than me in weight. He had white blond hair, and a pale complexion, in contrast to my black curls and my swarthy face. With his back to the window, I could see little more.
I waved him away from the window with the barrel of my M1. I didn't want him between me and the door; but the initial adrenalin rush from the situation had faded, and I suddenly felt very tired and, I don't mind admitting, pretty scared. I saw no reason why he should sit on the bed while I stood. I nodded when he reached the center of the back wall of the room, halfway between window and door. He asked, with a polite smile, "May I please put my hands down now?"
My eyes locked on him, I edged round to the bed and slowly sat. "Put them on top of your head, and sit on the floor, with your legs crossed."
He sighed, but did as I ordered, resting his back against the wall. Unbuckling my pack and laying it beside me, together with my helmet, I asked, "So what are you, a lookout, a deserter, what?"
He smiled again. "Like you sergeant, I am simply a dislocated part of the general flotsam and jetsam of this conflict." I was in no mood for smartass comments, and stiffened. Gauging my reaction, he quickly clarified. "I am not a deserter...exactly. I am just a coward. I don't support that Austrian lunatic in Berlin, and I have no intention of dying for him. So when your patrol came upon my group I decided to take a few hours here to relax from the rigors of war. When I am ready I will go and collect my armaments and my pack from their hiding place, and return to my unit, with the cover story I have ready. At least, that was my plan."
I nodded, slowly, trying to look as if I was in control of the situation. As I did, the kid began to circle his elbows, as if they were cramping up. I gestured with my rifle and said, "Okay, I guess you'd better put your hands down. But don't make any sudden moves or I might just get nervous." He smiled his thanks and lowered his arms, rubbing them. I didn't have the slightest idea how to handle this. Vacantly, I stared at my prisoner. Now the light from the window was on him, I could see his face was quite stunning. If he had been a woman, I'd have said beautiful. He had long, pale eyelashes surrounding pale blue eyes. High cheekbones, a small, thin nose, a wide mouth with full, sensuous lips, and a stubble-free pointed chin. Jesus, I thought, reflecting on my description, it was too long since I'd seen my Katie.
I rubbed my hand tiredly down my face. It was only a momentary loss of concentration, but it would have been enough for the kid to jump me if he'd wanted to. But he remained in the same position, hands cupped in his lap, smiling at me with what almost seemed a sympathetic expression. I thought I had better play this by the book. Expecting the usual name, rank and serial number, I asked him, "What's your name, kid?"
Still giving me that smile -- it was beginning to freak me out -- he replied, "Rainer. Rainer Hausmann. And yours?" I stared coldly at him. He shrugged nonchalantly, and continued, "So sergeant, what happens now?"
"What happens now, " I told him, "is you shut up, and you sit there in silence. Until nightfall." He started to reply, but I jerked the carbine at him and he clammed up with another shrug. For nearly 10 minutes.
When he spoke I was dangerously close to falling asleep. He said, "Sergeant, may I ask you something?"
