Beautiful Little Kraut Kid

I wish I could say that I was cool and professional about it.  I wish I could say that I aimed real calm like and squeezed off a single shot without even thinking about a second round.  I didn’t do any of that.  In fact, if I’d taken the time to squeeze off a round, I wouldn’t even have fired.

What I did was accidentally fire a round while scrambling to bring my M1 around into position. I didn’t mean to fire.  Fer chrissake, the kid had his weapon slung over his shoulder just like me—all I had to do was say “halt—hands up” and hold the M1 on him while I took his goddam weapon off him.  Hell, I didn’t even know he was a kid.  The sun was straight up an’ he had his head down (stupid kid) looking where he was stepping.  I guess he thought there might be mines or some goddam thing.  I can’t figure out why he was there.

I know he hadn’t been in the army long enough to have seen mines.  Must a heard about them or something, and it made an impression.  Fer chrissake, his uniform was brand new—boots didn’t even look broke in.  Poor little bastard probably died with sore feet from boots that weren’t broke in.  I just can’t figure out why he was there.  There wasn’t another kraut within a mile.

I think that’s why I was so spooked.  I didn’t expect to see a kraut.  Just, all of a sudden—there he was and it spooked me.  Still I wasn’t going shoot him.  I would have captured him and taken him to the Captain for interrogation.

I’d never shot a kraut before where I knew for sure that I was the one who shot that particular kraut.  It was always just laying down a field of fire with the whole platoon and too bad for whoever was there.  But I never had to see it happen.  What the Christ was he doing there?

Anyway, I don’t know whether I actually started to say halt or if he heard the sling hook rattling when I brought the weapon around, or what, but he looked at me just as the round hit him in the left side of his chest.  It didn’t spin him around or anything like that.  It just went through him.  He looked into my eyes just as it hit him.  At least it seemed like he did.  That’s when I looked into his eyes and that’s when I knew I’d shot a goddamned kid who had no business being in a uniform anywhere, much less where he was.

 I don’t even think he knew where he was.  He was probably lost and wishing his daddy was there.  Except by that time, his daddy was probably dead.  That’s why the miserable bastards started throwing kids out there for cannon fodder.  The kids were all excited to kill amis until they saw blood.  Some of them were even after they saw blood—as long as it wasn’t theirs.

Anyway, this little guy was game.  He was trying to get his Mauser unslung from his shoulder as he went down.  He couldn’t though because he fell on his back and the weapon was under him.  By then I saw he was a kid and ran over to him instead of putting another round in him.  At first he looked scared and I though his lip was quivering.  But then you could tell he began to feel the pain.  That, and he saw I wasn’t going to put another round into him.

Poor little bastard! About that time, he realized that he was really hurt.  His face got all open—eyes open—mouth open—looking right into my face.  You could see he was scared and trying to be a brave kraut.  He’d probably seen movies about how brave you’re supposed to be when you’re dying.  I don’t know if he knew at first that he was dying but you could see it when he figured it out.  About then he was wishing he hadn’t been where he wasn’t supposed to be and I was too.

I wanted to help him but I didn’t know what to do.  I started screaming for a medic.  I knew there was no medic.  There was no one.  I was supposed to be a one man rear guard and I’d stopped for a piss, and now the rest were way too far away to hear me. I knew that.  I just called to a medic so if he understood what medic meant, he’d think help was coming.  But we were in the wrong place at the wrong time for that.

He kept trying so hard to be brave and I started crying.  First, just a little.  Poor little bastard!  He looked so confused when he saw I was crying.  He said something but the only Kraut talk I understood was halt—hande in die luft—that sort of thing.  He said something else and his voice was all high and thin and I started crying harder and I held his hand in both my hands and then I crawled around and held his head and shielded his eyes from the sun and his helmet fell off and he was just a beautiful little kraut kid whose mother was wondering where he was.  Why in god’s name had he been there?

I asked him but of course he didn’t understand.  Just looked at me sort of confused because I started yelling “What the hell you doing here” right in his face but he didn’t look scared–maybe because I was crying.  Then I stopped yelling and just cried and then he looked scared again and then he was dead right there by the trail where he didn’t belong.

Here we were within days of it all being over.  Everyone knew it was over and everyone was just trying not to get killed for no reason.  Five more days and he could have gone home to mommy.  If he just hadn’t stepped in front of me.

I always thought your eyes stayed open when you died.  His eyes closed and he looked so peaceful and young and beautiful.  He had girly lips and white eyebrows and his cropped blond hair was matted from the sweat and the helmet.  And I started whispering “What the hell were you doing here kid” over and over, and crying.

That was thirty-one years ago and I been crying ever since.  I guess that’s why they have me in here.