Disclaimer: I own nothing of anything…ever
I ran across the wet muddy battlefield to aid a wounded man, stumbled over a body, and collapsed to the ground. A thick coat of blood soaked sand splashed my face and dripped off my chin. As I reached out to lay my hand on the fallen man's shoulder, only then did I notice the swastika on his armband. A shot of fear raced through my body like a sharp needle, I looked up into his eyes. A single tear streamed down his face, his eyes were blood shot, and filled with pain. He looked back at me as if to ask "Why" "there has to be a better way." He reached down into his pocket and began to cough; he tried to roll over but could not muster the strength to do so. Rolling onto his back the coughing became more violent. He snapped a hand out and grabbed my shirt, rolled his head to look at me and pulled me close to him. The stench of rotting corpses mixed with the musk of war filled my nostrils, my throat choked up as I fought back the vomit seeping up my throat. He stared straight into my eyes and said something in German, trying to gather the strength to finish his sentence. He loosened his grip on my shirt, I slowly pulled away. The dying man struggled, reaching his hand back out of his pocket holding a folded piece of paper. I reached over and took the paper from him. It was partly crumpled, and looked like he had been through a lot with it. I studied it and looked up at his face, he was still, his hand dropped to the ground as his last breath left his lungs. I unfolded the paper and began to read the partly smeared writing. I could not understand the language, I didn't speak much German.
Sixty-three years later I found out whom the letter was intended for, so I contacted the family. And here I sit across from them, telling the story of how I, Lt. Mike Powel met their father.