Seeing My Enemy
Light filtered down through the dust and debris onto the battered GI, who was slowly coming back to consciousness. "What the heck happened?" The soldier, one Kirby, William G., by name, tried to assess his injuries, which included testing his memory as to how he wound up in his current situation.
The squad, along with the rest of the 361st, had finally crossed the Rhine several weeks back. Frankly, other than Brockmeyer translating full-time instead of going half and half with Caje, it really wasn't much different from Belgium, which hadn't changed much from France.
The last thing Kirby remembered was chasing a Kraut patrol in a firefight. He seemed to recall that the footing had been a little hinky and then – nothing. "Caje? Sarge? Doc?"
There was no response, and Kirby began to get even more nervous than he'd already been. "Guys? Littlejohn? Anyone?"
It was when the noises came from the other side of the cellar that Kirby wished he'd rephrased that. He resisted the pain he was feeling and raised the BAR.
"Bitte? Wo est?" The voice was tremulous.
"Yeah? Who is it? Who are you? Come out and let me see you!"
It was an elderly man, easily in his 80s, hands raised and with a look of fear on his face. "Sie sind ein Amerikaner? Nicht schiessen, bitte!"
Kirby lowered the BAR, feeling foolish. "Gee whiz, Grampa. I coulda shot you. What are you doing down here?"
"Ich nicht verstehen. Nicht mir, bitte verletzt." The old man's voice trembled, and he did too, with the effort to keep his hands in the air.
"Ah, you don't have to keep your hands up. I couldn't fight off a buncha Girl Scouts right now, anyway." Kirby waited, and when his "captive" didn't respond, he put the BAR down. "Put. Your. Hands. Down." He mimed putting his own hands up and lowering them. The old man followed suit, but didn't look any more relieved.
Kirby had seen the flyers and had Brockmeyer explain a radio broadcast. He knew the German people -the ordinary ones, not the soldiers in the trenches - thought the average American soldier was a gangster, a terrorist who would murder them in their beds at best, or possibly eat them, at worst. "Gangster, yeah, that's me. Take that you dirty coppers – rattatatttat!" He laughed, then stopped at the renewed fear on the old man's face. "Ah, geez. I shouldn't 'a done that. Maybe Caje is right and I AM my own worst enemy. I'm THIS guy's, for sure."
The elderly German watched Kirby talking to himself and held very still, as though not moving would keep this lunatic from attacking him.
Kirby waved his arms around to indicate the cellar around them. "You. Live. Here?"
The old man's face showed incomprehension.
"House? Is this your house?"
"Haus. Ja. Dies ist mein haus. Oder es war." There was sadness in the German's voice
.
"Not sure what you said there, but between us and your own guys, we sure did a number on this place, didn't we?" Kirby limped around the limited space. What once might have been a snug cellar below a nice little house was now a space with some broken furniture and debris. The area below where Kirby had broken through was damp with water that had come through from last night's rain. "Yep, this is a mess, all right." He turned to his unintentional host. "I'm sorry. I wish I had more time, I'd help you fix this up, but I have to find my squad."
As Kirby walked forward, the old man backed up and spread his hands protectively. Behind him on a beaten-up bureau that might once have been beautiful, were a few treasured items.
Kirby cocked his head. The old man was in tears. He was sure that this strange Amerikaner was going to take the few items that mattered to him, that were all he had left of his family.
"Hey, old timer, it's okay. I'm not gonna take your stuff." There was a picture frame, tarnished from exposure to the elements, with a picture of a young man in German Army uniform. Kirby pointed to it, careful not to touch it or look as though he was going to pick it up. "That your son?"
"Sohn? Nein. Das mein Enkel ist."
"Enkel? I don't know that." Kirby thought it sounded like "uncle", but he was pretty sure this kid wasn't the old guy's uncle.
"Sohn." The old man indicated someone of about his height. "Enkel." He put his hand down lower.
Kirby spent a second thinking about it, and his face lit up. "I get it! You mean grandson. You're his, uh, uh …" He tried to remember what Brockmeyer called his grandfather. Brockmeyer's German hadn't stuck with him any better than Caje's French. "I know!" He snapped his fingers. "Grossvater. You're his grossvater, right?"
The old man nodded hesitantly. "Ja. Grossvater."
"You must be proud of him." Kirby mimed walking around with his thumbs in imaginary lapels.
For a moment the old man smiled a little at Kirby's acting and then he saddened. "Ich war stolz darauf von ihm. Er ist tot nun."
"Tot." That was one German word Kirby had learned. "I'm sorry," he said awkwardly. It felt odd to apologize for the death of an enemy; for all he knew, he'd killed the old man's grandson himself.
"Ja. Danke." There was irony in the old man's voice as well.
In the resulting uncomfortable silence, Kirby's stomach rumbled. The old man went back to looking afraid again.
"Don't worry. I'm not gonna take your food, assuming you even have any." Kirby looked at the old man, saw his threadbare clothes and the thin face and deepset eyes. "Betcha you don't, do you?" he muttered under his breath. He slowly shifted his pack from his back, nearly sure that he'd managed to keep some of the extra rations he got from Flaherty in Requisitions in payment for a poker debt. "Yep, I got some extra – and some chocolate, too." He carefully laid the ration boxes and a couple of chocolate bars on the bureau, wanting to help, but not wanting to bruise the old fellow's pride, either. "You go on now and have something. Those rations, they're – well, I can't say they're pretty good, 'cause William G.'d be lyin', but they're better than nothing."
"Kirby! Kirby! You down t'ere?"
"Yeah, Caje! Here I am! About time, too. Been goofin' off, huh?"
Caje's face appeared in the hole Kirby had fallen through. "Right, pal. Been having a big party and we didn't invite you." He grinned, and then stiffened as he saw the old man.
Kirby hurried over. "Don't bother him, buddy. He's okay. He was kinda my accidental host, you might say."
The scout and the elderly man nodded briefly at one another.
"Hey, Caje, you got any extra rations or anything? He don't have much of anything … don't seem right, somehow."
"Sorry, Kirby. I'm tapped." Caje extended his arm. "Can you climb on that box and get out, d'ya think?"
"Yeah." Kirby looked back at the old man. "Wait a minute." He walked back and extended his hand. "I'm Kirby," he said, patting himself on the chest with his other hand. "Kirby."
The old man paused for a moment, then reached out to shake Kirby's hand. "Heinrich."
"Heinrich, yeah. That's real good." He nodded again and turned to climb on the box and leave.
"Amerikaner. aufbleiben." Heinrich went to rummage in a drawer of the bureau, and came out with a small bottle, which he brought back to Kirby. "Hier, Kirby. Für sie."
"Oh!" Kirby was taken aback. "But I can't … it's …"
"Kirby, take it." Caje's voice was very quiet. "Don't insult him."
Kirby's head swiveled between Caje and the old man. "I – well, donkey shane, mine hair." He carefully stowed the bottle in his pack, grabbed the BAR and climbed up to grab Caje's hand. Once he was above ground, he looked back at Heinrich through the hole he'd made in the roof. He nodded to him again and turned.
Sarge was behind Caje, with Littlejohn, Billy and Brockmeyer. For once, he didn't treat them to a typical Kirby display of bravado. "Hey, everybody."
"Kirby. Glad to see you don't seem to be much the worse for wear." Saunders tipped his helmet back. "You always seem to land on your feet."
"Maybe that's why he's always complaining about how much they hurt," Billy said, with a smirk. Littlejohn snorted in amusement.
"Sarge, do we have a couple of minutes? I kinda broke Heinrich's roof and maybe we could take some of this debris and cover up the hole? D'ya think?"
"Heinrich?"
"Yeah. Him." He pointed down.
"Yeah, I guess so. Brockmeyer, make sure that's what he wants."
XXX
"Say, Caje. You asleep?"
"Yeah, Kirby. I was asleep. What do you want?"
"Remember back at the dye works, back in France? When Sarge wanted you to shoot the old German guy who said he was deserting? Only you didn't."
"You weren't supposed to know that."
"Well, I do."
Caje was silent for a moment. "Yeah, I remember. I don't think I'll ever forget it. What brought this up?"
"It's different when you see someone who's supposed to be an enemy as a person, isn't it?"
"Sure is, Kirby."
"Night, Caje."
"Night, Kirby."
- 30-