Engines roared like hungry beasts as the tanks weaved around the bodies and the deep ruts in the mud. Grey clouds hung low, threatening to just come down on all of our fuckin' heads. Shitty weather. A trail of white smoke from my cigarette pirouetted its way to join the low clouds. Gunshots rang through the air, not too close but close enough. It was comforting to hear the noise of carnage at this point in the war; it let me know that I was still alive.
"Got a spare cig?" My eyes rolled up to look at one of the guys from my platoon. The friendly light in his eyes had long since faded and his smiles hadn't been seen since last year.
Looking at my last pack, I quickly debated on whether I should give him one of my final two nicotine sticks. In the end, I decided that it wouldn't hurt. We were about to head into another round of fire volley, risking our lives once more. Every man deserved a little relaxation before that. Last moments on earth and all.
"Sure." I stuck out the package and his shaky fingers struggled for a few minutes before pulling one out. He nodded thankfully and walked away. The guy forgot to ask for a light, but I didn't hunt him down. I needed to rest up as best as I could.
The sounds were closer already. My commanding officer was already going through the camp, calling us to get ready. The company ahead of us was retreating, drawing the enemy into our deadly arms. Screams could be heard clearly, but none of us could even flinch. Numb, we were all too fucking numb.
By now, I was on autopilot. Grab the guns, grab the ammo, make sure your crappy helmet was strapped on tightly, and haul ass to the front line. Time seemed to warp and I was already amidst the thick grey smoke of the weapons. A bullet whizzed past my ear, singing some skin, but I kept pushing forward. There was a little rise ahead that would be some great cover. The man to my left fell down with a scream. I didn't take time to see what was wrong with him; I just needed to get behind that damn cover. A ping assaulted my left ear, signaling that my lucky second-hand helmet had managed to stave off yet another bullet. Sweet old thing.
Taking aim, I let the familiar rage build up. If I couldn't find it in myself to hate those bastards, then there would be no way that I could sink a bullet into them. I had to hate, to remember why the hell I was doing this. Shooting seemed to be the only thing that I couldn't do automatically. It took effort to end the lives of those men, which was funny because they sure as hell didn't seem to have any problem shooting at me.
My eyes narrowed, looking down the barrel, looking straight at the man in the tree a few hundred yards up. He had blond hair peeking out from under his helmet, thankfully, and it made it easier to remember.
"No! Please, no, not her! Not my baby!"
These were the people that never had mercy on my family.
Filthy hands groped and tore, breaking more than just the inexpensive clothing.
Not a single one of them protested or tried to stop the others.
"Please help me!"
The disgust welled up, making me sick. My sights narrowed in on the soldier and soon a spray of blood accompanied my hot bullets. But there wasn't just one of them. Those dirty Germans were everywhere, just begging for me to end their miserable Hitler-worshipping asses.
By now, it was working. My breaths were coming in short pants, my hands were deathly steady, and my will was unshakeable. Dirt sprayed all around me, some getting into my dry mouth. On the battlefield it seemed like I was in a different world. Time moved differently, my mind moved differently, and even my body seemed to move differently. I was no longer the simple son of the seamstress. Hell, I wasn't even human. I was a beast, a demon hungry for blood.
Black mud splashed across my face and over my body, mixing with the blood and sweat. It became abundantly clear that the stupid Germans had fallen for our trap. Once they realized this, they began to retreat, screaming orders in that guttural language. The men ran, but we ran after them. One, two, three, it didn't matter. It was never enough for me. More needed to die, more needed to suffer. I stepped over a screaming man, ignoring the fact that he was holding his intestines in his hand. Standing clean in the open, I took aim at a retreating back and fired. The smoke stung my eyes, and I became aware of the fact that my cigarette was no longer dangling between my lips. Fucking perfect.
"Soldier!"
Looking over my shoulder, I saw my commanding officer jogging towards me. "Yes, sir?"
"Hey, you know anything about stitching people up and first aid shit?"
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, only succeeding in smudging the dark mud even worse. For a minute I wondered if the fact that I had been able to nurse a sick cat to health counted as knowledge in first aid. Then again, this was the fucking military. Being able to put one foot in front of the other was the only requirement for being a medic.
"Sure thing, I guess. My mother was a seamstress, so stitching shouldn't be too bad."
"Good! The medic got shot, so I need you to take his duties until a replacement comes in."
"Yes, sir."
With a quick salute, he was rushing off to deal with something else. Groaning, I moved my way through the field, looking for any of our injured men. The guy with the guts exposed was dead already, a bullet in his head. Good call for whoever carried out the deed. It didn't take long to find the medic, and I grabbed all of his stuff for good measure. It wasn't like I carried bandages and shit in my pockets.
"Fucking filthy Germans," I mumbled, the words rolling off my tongue beautifully. French was the language of love and yet I found pleasure in using it to curse those bastards. It still sounded so good. "Hitler-bitching, baby killers. Assholes." I stepped over another body. "Betcha didn't expect us to send your asses running home. Run off to the fucking Mother Land if you can."
A soft groan tore me out of my thoughts, and my rifle was already poised to shoot. Holding my breath, I saw a thin body splayed out face down next to a small black crater. The intense blond hair seemed completely out of place on the dark colorless battlefield and even the blood pooling around the body seemed too bright, vivid. Cautiously, I edged around the body, prodding it with the toe of my boot. Nothing happened. Slinging the weapon over my shoulder, I leaned down to roll over the body. It registered too late in my mind that this body wasn't wearing the French army's uniform.
As soon as I rolled the body over, a glint of metal flashed through the air and pain shot through my arm. A knife trembled violently against my bleeding arm, trying to push past my defense and into my heart. But the hand was too weak, and I flung the weapon away. Pissed off, I looked down at the bastard that tried to kill me and I found myself shocked. The left half of his body was a complete mess, all blood and raw burnt flesh; it looked like he was a bit too close to a grenade when it went off. But more shocking than the extent of the wounds was the single eye staring at me in hatred. For a moment, I thought that I was still fighting in the battle and maybe I got shot and was dying. Because, there was no way in hell that eyes could be that color. It was like looking at the ocean on a clear summer day with puffy white clouds in the sky and a happy little breeze to toss the waves. Hair like the sun and eyes like the ocean; I had no fucking qualms if that's what Hitler saw as being superior, because it very well was. It was a heart-stopping combination, and the emotion in that single eye was enough to make me feel lightheaded. Good thing that other eye was swollen shut or he might have been able to kill me with his glare alone.
"What're you doing out here?" I found myself whispering as I leaned closer to the soldier. He seemed in a lot of pain, but I could tell that he was attempting to gather enough energy to sock me in the mouth. It made me laugh that he was still trying to fight, even when he couldn't possibly defeat me. I had the gun and he was practically dead.
Leaning back on my ankles, I watched to see if he would die, if that eye would dim in the final moments. Maybe the color itself wasn't spectacular and it was only the fire behind that made it so amazing. If the light was snuffed out, would it still be as beautiful? Would that golden hair still radiate perfectly despite the fact that it was singed, bloody, and clumped up with mud? I wanted to wait and see what would happen.
Minutes ticked by, and I was impressed to see the range of emotions that danced through the young German's expression. He was in excruciating pain, but the Hitler Youth programming in his brain demanded that he should struggle to kill me until his very dying breath. He wanted to kill me, but his body was the worst kind of Judas. The last cigarette found its way into my mouth, and with a flare of a match it was lit. The young man watched my every movement, sharp as a hawk. My lips jutting out in a mockery of a kiss, but instead of blowing a precious gift, I blew the stale smoke right into his damaged face. I could see the exposed muscles twitching helplessly, the blood and pus seeping down across the broiled flesh. Blackened skin peeled up at the edges of his burn wounds and it looked like leftovers from one of his fellow comrades were caked onto his uniform. His chest was heaving unevenly, a sure enough sign that he was struggling to hold onto the last minutes of his life. From my position, I could hear the slight gurgling sound coming from his lungs which meant that there was internal bleeding flooding his lungs and if he didn't bleed out first, he would drown.
Strangely enough, the young man didn't die as quickly as I thought he would. As beautiful as it was to watch him slowly die, the sting of my cigarette burnt down to my lips reminded me that I was supposed to be going around and helping my own men. I had wasted enough time on this guy. Heaving myself up, I lifted my rifle up and leveled it with every intention of putting a bullet through his brain. Germans had to die. Then he did something that made my finger pause on the trigger, something that I had never seen anyone do in the face of a MAS 36 bolt-action rifle. The bastard smirked as if he had just gotten the best of me. Of course, the gruesome expression was warped due to the ruined half of his face, but the glint in his revealed eye was more than enough to make up for the helplessly twitching muscles and exposed nerves of his left side.
I had seen Germans cry and beg before being shot point blank.
I had seen Germans curse and attempt to run before being shot point blank.
The tip of my weapon sunk towards the soiled ground before giving the young blond a long stare and turning on my heel. There were others who needed help. This guy didn't deserve to be put out of his agony. That bastard deserved his slow death, and it was unfortunate that I didn't have the leisure to watch it.
=13=
Twilight was darkening the field at a quick pace. Most of the moans and crying had died down as men all across the battlefield breathed their last. Having held several men in my arms as they sobbed their way to the afterlife, I was exhausted. Taking care of wounds was a lot more complicated than patching up the knees on a pair of pants, and the front side of my uniform was soaked with an unholy mixture of blood from an unnumbered amount of French soldiers. Red blood, spilt onto the ground and all across each other for freedom. Sweat streaks had cut through the mud and gore caked onto my face, and a cigarette taken from the body of an already dead man was held firmly between my lips.
My ankle twisted a little as I weaved my way through the craters and piles of bodies. I pointedly refused to look directly at my feet to watch where I was going since I didn't want to see exactly what or who I was stepping in. These were the remains of men who had mothers and fathers and maybe even siblings. Like me. Like I used to. Thankfully, my father had died of an illness before having to witness the rape and murder of his wife and daughters. I wasn't so lucky, and it was those memories that urged me forward.
Our company was intending to move forward to help out some British troops, but I wanted to see if there was anything that I could take from the body of that Hitler Youth. Though I doubt that I could ever forget him, I felt that it would only be right to take a memento of the occasion. Or maybe I was just looking for a trophy? Well, it's not like I actually killed him or anything…
Holding the delicate paper tube filled with tobacco with my forefinger and thumb, I tapped the cigarette with my middle finger to dislodge the burnt portion. Unfortunately, some unused tobacco fell out with the ashes, but it couldn't be helped. With another deep breath of nicotine-laced oxygen, I arrived at the spot where the young blond had been. It took me a few more seconds of searching before discovering that the German had managed to crawl away from the gaping pit left by the grenade that had disfigured him. His still body was frozen in an uncomfortable position as if he was still trying to crawl over the dead body of his comrade. My worn boot nudged under his side before pushing him over to his back. I wanted to look at those eyes one more time before leaving this part of the country forever.
Squatting back on my heels, I couldn't help but chuckle a little. Though his eyes were closed shut, I knew that he wasn't dead yet. The young man's chest was still rising and falling, albeit even more irregularly than it had been earlier in the day.
"Well, shit," I mumbled. Smoke from my cigarette continued to flit away from the glowing tip. "What am I going to do with you now? The fucking Geneva Convention says that I should get the Red Cross over here to take care of you. My commanders say to put a fucking bullet in your head. I just want to…I don't know. Leave you or something."
Truthfully, I wasn't sure why I was so hesitant to do what I've always done. Even as I dragged up the painful memories, it was impossible to hate him. In unconsciousness, the young man looked more like a boy. Even the exposed flesh that was probably already infected couldn't take away from his childish qualities. He couldn't have been more than 16 years old. Didn't he have a mother that worried over him and would fuss at him for being late to dinner? Didn't his mother tell him off and box him over the head for fooling around with the neighborhood girls? Leaning my weight forward, I brushed some of his hair back out of his face.
"Don't you have little sisters to lift up and spin around like there's no tomorrow?" I whispered to his corpse-like figure. "Don't they come home screaming happily because they want you to take them to the pond to catch frogs?"
Swallowing thickly, my lips parted to allow the white cigarette to fall from my chapped lips. Tears found their way down my cheeks, smearing even more of the filth. Sobbing quietly, I allowed my arms to encircle my knees as I rocked back and forth on my heels.
"J-ja…" a gasping voice whispered through the thick air. "Th-they are…unghk…waiting f-for me."
It took me a minute to register the English being spoken. Looking up from my knees, I found myself looking straight into that blindingly beautiful eye. The skin paling further in the darkness only added to the contrast of such a color and I took a moment to sear the image into my mind.
"They t-teach you English?" I sneered as I wiped at my tears with the back of my filthy hand. Everything was dirty, always so fucking dirty. It made me sick to my stomach.
"F-for infiltration…of c-c-course." His eye shut as he struggled to gain enough breath to remain conscious.
Snorting in amusement, I hauled myself to my feet. He actually gave me an honest answer; how refreshing. "What should I do with you?" I sighed. This day was still weighing down heavily on me, and tomorrow would be even worse.
His reply was slow in coming, but I was patient. "Kill me," he forced out sternly. "Duty."
Not sure what had taken over my senses, I found myself smirking down at him. It was probably just a mixture of curiosity and morbid fascination, with perhaps a smidgen of respect, that caused me to do what I did.
"Not yet, my little Fritz," I cooed. "You won't die just yet."
=13=
Dragging the mostly dead German soldier into the camp had caused quite a fuss, but I had firmly insisted that due to the lack of Red Cross nurses and as the only remaining medic, it was my duty to care for any and all living soldiers on the field. Insulting names were thrown my way and the superiors tore at their hair for a good hour before deciding to interrogate my prisoner. When he didn't reply to any of their inquires, I cleverly informed them that he had sustained too much damage in the explosion to speak. So, as punishment for forcing a completely useless prisoner onto the company, I was commanded to stay out of action and to instead take up all the day-to-day business that real soldiers couldn't be bothered with.
Silently, I would wash the men's boots and patched their uniforms up. Dishes were washed, but digging out the latrines was my favorite duty. At the end of the day, I would slip into my tent to tend the young German.
After the first night of pouring bottles of cheap bootlegged American alcohol onto the wounds, my prisoner had been delirious with fever. He could do nothing for himself, but I didn't find myself disgusted as I tended to his physical needs. Piss seemed liked nothing after having internal organs sprayed over my body after a grenade would go off nearby during a battle. Keeping him hydrated was worse. In no time at all, the company had engaged the enemy once more, and I was left alone with him.
"Shit, that sound is getting closer, isn't it?" I mumbled to the prisoner I endearingly called Fritz. His eye was clenched shut in pain as I poured some more alcohol on the raw portion of his face. We were dealing with shortages in medical supplies and it didn't help that I was ordered to not use anything more than bandages on him. The tablets of methamphetamine I found in his pockets weren't particularly helpful for the pain or even fighting the infection, but it was able to keep him from having to deal with withdrawals. "Here, let me wrap this up in case we're ordered to move further back from the line."
Footsteps stormed past the tent and I felt a tinge of worry. Surely they would let me know if we needed to pack up and get going. More men rushed past and I felt a lump forming in my throat. Fritz seemed to understand even through his haze of delirium, and remained motionless as I did a sloppy job of reapplying bandages.
"Don't worry," he mumbled, sighing heavily afterwards. It seemed that saying just those two words was enough to tire him.
"Worrying is not something that I typically engage in," I muttered darkly as I tucked the tip of the bandage under another layer. "But, it never hurts to be ready."
Before I had a chance to stand, Fritz lifted his good hand and caught a piece of my wildly growing out hair. "Wunderhübsch," he whispered, stroking the unwashed strands between his fingers. Releasing the hair, his too-thin fingers ghosted over my cheekbone and nose. "Sommersprossen. Wunderhübsch."
"Are you cursing at me?" I whispered, continuing to look down at his flushed and pain-riddled face. "Que faites-vous de moi?"
There was silence blaring loudly in my ears, and an unfamiliar feeling clenched in my gut. Those porcelain fingers trailed down to my lips, dipping between them for just a moment before slipping out and drawing a trail of saliva down to my chin. Filthy, everything around me was filthy and I was infected with it. As if a weight has suddenly attached itself to his arm, Fritz's arm fell heavily onto his uninjured thigh. Just as I made a movement to lean forward, the click of a rifle being cocked demanded my undivided attention. Turning around, I was met face to face with two young German officers pointing their weapons straight at me.
Silence, there was silence.
The taller one barked out something in that filthy language and I found myself feeling that hate boiling up again. These pigs deserved to die, damn it! My rifle was too far out of reach to risk going for it. They would have me filled with bullet holes before I could make it anyway. However, they were probably going to kill me anyway, so why not go down fighting?
My muscles tensed in preparation for the lunge, then I felt a very firm grip take hold of my wrist. Starting, I looked down at Fritz. His eye was glaring at me angrily, demanding that I don't do anything stupid. His good hand was wrapped around my wrist closest to him; the others weren't in a position to see his white-knuckled grip. What they could see though, was his scowl at them. His own guttural voicing slapped the air with a commanding tone. Releasing my wrist, he pulled out a leaf shoulder patch from his pocket. I couldn't see the number sewn onto it, but I recognized the design as his designation as a member of the Hitler Youth Adult Leadership Rank. Bannführer if I had to guess.
The two men saluted him and then made some motions towards me while continuing to speak to him. Fritz said something that made them look at each other and then question him. A few more sharp words from him and they nodded. Confused, I looked towards the injured soldier seated next to me. Once again, I was amazed at the clarity of blue that looked up at me. His gaze softened a little, but his lips remained in a firm line.
And that was the last thing I saw before a blindfold was tugged over my eyes.
=13=
It was a surreal feeling. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of German soldiers were standing at full attention while their stern commanding officers paced stiffly in front of their men. The sun was beating down unmercifully, and yet all the men did their best to imitate bronze statues. A complete polar opposite, the American troops interspersed with soldiers of ally armies sneered, spat, and threw insults at the enemy. Jews in particular took great pleasure flaunting their Star of David necklaces and using their own God-ordained curse words to insult the Germans.
Wiping my sweaty brow, I felt a little remorseful that I was too tired to join in the mockery. Instead, another throb of my head reminded me of the injury I sustained going head-to-head with the exploded remains of a tank; the only external evidence being a long jagged scar across my forehead. I hadn't been the same since and the migraines only got worse.
Imagining sleeping the rest of the day away in darkness and silence, I was jerked out of my thoughts by a flash of ocean blue. Stopping dead in my tracks, my eyes zoned in on the object of torment by a group of American soldiers. Hideous scars ran up from the impeccable collar of the uniform and curved under the chin before blooming across the young man's left cheek before being hidden under a black eye patch and reappearing on the left side of a forehead. Blond hair was impeccably smoothed back and tucked under a sharp hat. All that ran through my mind before completely focusing on the one exposed eye. A burning passion blazed of barely contained rage.
An American officer stopped next to me and put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "It's alright, son, they can't hurt you anymore."
"I know him," I found myself replying, wincing when I saw a soldier spit in the blonde's face.
The man took one look at the scar across my forehead and nodded as if he understood everything. "Hey, I can get you a few minutes with that Heinie Krautif you want. Pull in a favor."
My heart leapt into my throat and I nodded briefly. I knew that he had misunderstood, but it didn't matter. Numbly, I watched as the officer went over and whispered to another man. A few more nods of heads, hand gestures, and glances towards the Nazi commander and they came to an understanding. As the other commander went to speak to the German officer, the American came back and led me by the arm away from the other soldiers.
"Where are we going?" I whispered, my pounding heart only causing my head to ache even more.
"I'm taking you to a private place, one where no one can bother you and that Kraut. No one will be able to hear anything that you do."
My stomach was churning, and I could barely understand what he was implying. How would it be to see him again? A part of me was frightened that it wouldn't feel the same, that I would be able to look down at him in all the hating glory that kept me alive during the war, and the other part of me was frightened that I would feel the same way. Intrigued, disturbed, and curious. Filthy.
My footsteps were soon muffled by fine thick German carpet, a rich wine color that complimented the bright cream walls. Fine silverware still decorated the tables and long stemmed glasses remained woefully empty in their place by the dishes. All the fineries were lost on me, something tasteful and yet not something to envy. The life I've lived trained my senses towards simplicity and the bare necessity, and these things only managed to make me uncomfortable. The American officer let go of my arm and stepped out of the room without another word. Looking down at my worn and dusty apparel, I couldn't help but see the sharp contrast. I was the dirty one, in a room of German finery.
There was a scuffle of shoes, and then in through the door came the bound German soldier. A man behind him provided one last solid shove and then turned and closed the door behind him. In a small drawing room, it was just me and him. Getting a hold of his balance, the young man glared up at me, his entire posture screaming of defensive aggression.
"Do you remember me?" I asked, my tone far less friendly than I had anticipated. I wasn't angry with him, just scared.
Keeping his shoulders hunched forward defensively, the young soldier used his one good eye to thoroughly examine me. A sharp, chilling sensation crawled through my skin, lighting up everywhere his eye roamed over. My head hurt so terribly bad.
"French soldier," the blonde replied slowly. His posture relaxed the slightest bit, but hardly enough to be noticeable.
I took a step closer to him, expecting him to recoil or even to strike out, but he didn't do anything of the sort. Looking into his eye, I found myself once more spinning out of reality. This time, the feeling was stronger. Without the threat of his death looming over our heads, I could feel the tension between us more clearly. It hurt, and I didn't like it.
With a firm shove from my shaking hands, the blonde found himself pressed against a freshly painted wall, pinned between flowers in a vase and a painting of his holiness Adolf Hitler. If both of the young man's hands hadn't been secured behind his back, I reckoned that another knife would have found its way into my body. My Fritz was not injured this time around.
"Why did you let me go?" I hissed in his face, eyelids fluttering from the weight of the headache.
/
My breath came in short bursts as I continued to stumble forward. At any moment, my life could be over, the sharp pain of a bullet ending of senses and feelings. I would no longer be able to take revenge for the deep wound seared into my very fiber of my being; I would no longer be able to think on that unnatural and striking eye. The sound of the gun behind me was a frightening reminder that I was not going to make it out alive. How ironic that my last moments had been spent caring for a German soldier who would most likely die from the infections settled into his burns.
Suddenly, I was given a harsh shove forward. "Go," my captor hissed with a thick accent, clearly irritable. "Run away before I decide to shoot you against orders."
And run I did, panting through the world of blackness my still secure blindfold provided.
/
"Why did you tend my wounds?" the German replied, his expression unreadable.
"I don't…know," I stumbled, breathing deeply and unevenly. My palms were sweating. "You were…n-not dead, and you…I just…" It didn't seem that I would be able to get my thoughts in order, not with him this close to me.
Instead, I moved closer to him, my pounding head coming to rest on his shoulder. The rough skin of his scar scratched against my temple, and the scent of his sweat fill my nostrils with each breath.
"This can't possibly work," he mumbled against my messy hair.
"I know." My fingers curled around the material of his crisp uniform and I leaned back to look at him again. "It can never work." In direct contradiction to my words, I made the move forward.
His body language remained cold and defensive, but his lips where anything but that. I gasped a little and pressed more deeply. A sudden sense of urgency took over me. This was wrong on so many levels and it threatened to make my head hurt even more. Betrayal of countries, families, societies, and morals. I wanted to hate him but couldn't, I wanted to run away and never think about him again, but couldn't. Instead, I kissed him even more, nearly crying at the sensation building up inside. It had been what seemed like years since I have had such intimate contact with anyone, and maybe that was what fueled me.
I couldn't tell if he felt the same way, but all I knew was that he wasn't pulling away. Although there was hesitation, he too seemed hurried to deepen the contact. Our lips were dancing together, our cheeks rubbing sensually. His nose bumped against mine, again and again as we tried to get closer than the world of reality would allow.
It wasn't nearly close enough.
There were voices outside of the room, and my stomach jumped into my throat. Pulling away from his warm lips, I threw a punch straight for his face and produced a split lip. He was shocked but before he could say anything I was delving back for those lips, kissing the damage and trying to pour my shaken emotions through the contact.
"I'll probably never see you again," I gasped out painfully before kissing more. I had never kissed anyone so much in my life; just soft pecks behind mothers' backs. My skirt-chasing memories just seemed to wash away.
"I probably won't survive," he muttered back factually. "Germany won't survive."
My arms were now wrapped around his waist, fingers intertwining with his own which were still firmly handcuffed behind his back. "France will." The clicking of our lips mimicked the ticking of the single clock resting its heavy frame against the adjacent wall.
"…Go," he whispered to me, his body tensing again. I hadn't noticed how much he had melted into my arms until the softness was gone. "You should go before they come back in."
My own shaking fingers reached up to trace the myriad of designs etched into his scarred flesh. Gingerly, I ghosted across his skin, taking a moment to remorsefully trace the skin around his eye patch. I hadn't known that his eye had been damaged when it had been swollen shut.
"I won't regret," I found myself mumbling as I stepped away from his hunched figure. He was in pain, mental anguish, and I couldn't take it anymore. My legs were weak and my head felt as if it were being struck repeatedly with a club. There was so much pressure…
"Es war nicht gedacht, nicht für mich," he muttered sadly, an indescribable expression set on his beautiful face.
And then I walked away, the colors of him forever imprinted in my mind. Golden hair tucked behind his ears, ocean blue eye on the verge of tears, and red blood trailing down his chin.
"The roads of life are strewn with the wreckage of run-down, half-finished loves."
~Ralph W. Sockman
Author's Notes: First off, I'm sorry for the weird breaks (=13=), but the new ones I was using don't work anymore. Darn FF keeps wiping out my breaks and it gets pretty annoying to have to go back to all my previous stories and re-insert the breaks...anyways.
I'm not entirely sure how this story came about, but this is one of my favorites. As usual, I did research to try to keep this as historically accurate as possible without limiting my artistic license. In my mind, I picture this being an almost black and white film with shades of grey, and then Mello shows up and color is introduced. I also made an effort not to use any real names in this entire story just to see if it could be done. Technically, the only names used were titles and derogatory terms, so I feel like I succeeded and something interesting was born.
The term "Fritz" is a historically derogatory term used for Germans by the French and others. "Heinie" and "Kraut" are historically derogatory terms used for Germans by English speakers.
Translation for what Mello says in German. "Beautiful." And then he says "Freckles. Beautiful." At the very end, he says "It was not meant to be, not for me."
Translation for what Matt says in French. "What are you doing to me?"
As a final note, methamphetamine was regularly given to the German troops because of its hyperactive properties. They wanted their soldiers to be awake longer and to be able to fight with more energy, so they figured that drugs was the way to do it.