I sat leaning against a vehicle hulk, calmly smoking a cigarette as I looked up at the multitude of stars in the desert sky. The stars appeared so close tonight, almost as if they were reaching out to possess me. It was one of the sights I enjoyed most about the desert: the clear night skies perfect for gazing at the stars. Even at our family's estate in the countryside, one couldn't see them this brilliantly. Tonight, I relished the stars and the heavens even more than I normally did since I realized I would never be in their presence again.
I have always been a sound sleeper, but on the rare occasions I was unable to sleep here in the desert, I would leave my tent and look up at the heavens, wondering what answers they held. I would speculate if there truly was a God amidst them, and if He saw what his magnificent creations were doing to each other and how He would judge me for my participation in this mindless madness.
I yearned for God's comfort in my life and yet its soothing calm never arrived, there didn't seem to be a divine plan or purpose, no power currently guiding the universe. There was no final line in this book of life that gave the suffering any meaning. I would at times have the haunting sense of hopelessness and the meaninglessness of life's circumstances. I was plagued at times by anxiety, fear and the demons that are legion to us who were serving. My devout faith in God had begun to falter more frequently over the last few months even though I knew that mankind was to blame for the carnage and not the Almighty.
On this final night, I remembered when my shattered faith had become complete. It was during the last time I had returned home to Germany on leave, when I was at long last able to slip away from Africa's intoxicating strangulation. On the final day, I had spent the day quietly with my family, enjoying my time with them, realizing that it was an unknown when, or even if, I would see them again.
The day had ended late with my father and me treasuring an excellent cognac in front of a fire in the library. After being in the continual blazing day time heat of the desert for almost two years, I always seemed to be cold and the fire seemed to welcome me with its warmth. The fire felt so gentle against my skin and the cognac had warmed and relaxed me from the inside. I felt the tension and anxiety that always seemed to be within me slip away into the night.
We sat there talking about nothing in particular. We spoke about everyday life, something the two of us had rarely shared while we politely avoided discussing the war. It was an unusual occurrence for the two of us to share something so ordinary as a drink and conversation together. He was a compassionate but stern man, and as one soldier to another, I admired him greatly for all he had accomplished on the battlefield.
I frequently thought I knew him better as a fellow soldier than I did as my father. I loved him as my father, but we had always had an extremely formal relationship where I was kept at a distance and very much at arm's length. He expected complete discipline from me and would accept nothing less. I always believed this was due to the way he was raised by his father, an even sterner man, and my father knew of no other way to raise a son. When I was a young boy, it was completely foreign for me to witness the close relationships my friends shared with their fathers. This closeness was unfathomable to me and sometimes I would pretend these men were my father instead of my own.
At times I believed my relationship with my father might have been different if my younger brother, Joachim, had survived and lived to be a man. Joachim had been still born when I was ten; a perfectly formed second son who never had the opportunity to draw his first breath. My parents were devastated over such a grievous loss and the emotional pain to them must have been inexplicable. It was the only time in my life I ever witnessed my father crying.
The formal relationship I had with my father tightened after Joachim's death. Perhaps my father was trying to shield himself from a possible further loss in case I was killed in a war. As his only surviving son, the assumption had already been made that I would follow in his military footsteps. Talk of war was quickly becoming a common conversation staple even at my young age and I knew it was only a matter of time before I would see the reality of a battlefield. If Joachim had survived his birth, no doubt he would also be serving in the Wehrmacht under our obsessed leader, possibly already killed during this never ending conflict. Ironically, his ultimate fate would have remained unchanged.
My relationship with my father was quite different than the one he shared with my younger sister. They had a very warm and friendly relationship and, at times, I was jealous of it. She could easily wrap him around her little finger which she would do shamelessly with good spirits when there was something she desired. He never seemed to be able to tell her "no" or be stern with her, situations so unlike with me.
Perhaps it was because I was now his only son, the one expected to continue the family's tradition, the one to lead men into battle and to order them to their deaths. I felt that he always held me to a higher standard than himself, wanted and in many ways demanded me to be an even better man than he was himself. Over the years, I came to believe that this belief was something I was destined to never achieve.
"I strongly suggest for you not to marry at this time," he said quietly during a momentary lull in our conversation, interrupting my thoughts about him. "I understand how things are with young men away at war since I was once one myself, but it could end up not being fair for either the young lady or yourself. Do what you must in the meantime, but do what you believe is right and always maintain respect for the lady."
"I understand, Sir. I have already made a vow to myself not to marry until after the war," I replied honestly and without hesitation. I was rather surprised as to why he would bring this subject up to me at this time given that the war was already several years old. Although he was aware I had had quite a few relationships over the years, I hadn't been in a serious relationship with any women even remotely since the war had begun. However, a deep part of me understood he was looking out for my best interest during these difficult times and was not prying into my personal life. I could be killed at any time leaving my wife a widow and possibly leaving her with a young child. However, it was what he said next that took me completely off guard and which seized me all the way down to my wretched soul.
"You must know what they are doing," he said flatly and I could see him from the corner of my eye turn to face me. I immediately noticed that his words were a statement and not a question and I knew exactly what he was referencing. It wasn't necessary for me to ask him to define "what" or "they" to me; I already knew their meaning.
I immediately found myself tensing up at his words, the effects of the cognac and the relaxed evening instantly dissipating. I had always avoided this topic, but I knew it eventually would be brought up by someone, anyone, surrounding me. For this subject to be broached by my father, who, if possible, had an even greater sense of honor than me, made it all that much more difficult to face. It took me a few minutes to respond to his statement, carefully choosing my words as I did so.
"Yes, Sir, I do," I finally replied quietly, continuing to look into the fire, unable and unwilling to look at him directly. How could I ever possibly admit that I already knew more than he ever could possibly imagine in his worst nightmare?
"Have you been involved with any of it?" he asked frankly. "I will know if you are not telling me the truth."
"No, Father, I have not," I replied honestly, looking at him directly as his piercing eyes studied my face closely. Even if I had been involved with these horrid acts, I would have felt obligated to tell him the truth. Lying to him would have been even more difficult for me than admitting my participation in something so abhorrent.
My choice to call him "Father" at this intimate moment surprised even me. It was the only time in my life I could remember calling him anything other than "Sir". Even as a young child, I had always addressed him formally in this way. It had been expected of me to respect him properly and nothing else would have been accepted by him or the other men in our family. My sister always called him "Papa", an affectionate term I could never imagine using myself. For me to call him "Father" during this conversation was an extremely close and personal moment for me.
"Your response is what I would expect of a son of mine. You are not to bring dishonor upon yourself or this family. See to it that you do not." His final words were direct and cut though me. The closeness I had felt with him just a few moments ago dissipated quickly into the fire.
I resented that he spoke to me like one of his lowest young recruits or as a boy instead of as his grown son. I also resented him for not speaking to me as someone who already knew that these events were repulsive and despicable. Finally, I resented him for doubting my honor as a man, not realizing that I also possessed the same principles that he did, the same ideals which bound me not to participate in these events.
I wanted him to recognize that I was doing everything in my power to live up to the Dietrich name, to live up to the Germany I knew was better than the men currently leading her. In these brief moments with him, I hated myself for believing myself not his equal, not the one worthy enough to continue the family heritage if I was fortunate enough to survive the war.
I knew our conversation had ended. From my perspective, I could think of nothing more to say to him at this difficult moment. What else could I possibly say after such an unspoken topic? I waited several minutes before I believed I could respectively leave and escape the uncomfortable situation.
"Sir, would you excuse me? It's later than I realized and I will be leaving early tomorrow. Thank you for the cognac and the pleasant evening."
I went up to my room quietly, not wanting to disturb my mother and sister who had already retired for the evening. I opened up the doors to the balcony and stepped outside after slipping a blanket around my shoulders. It was a beautiful, crisp evening and I found myself bathed in moonlight. I could smell rain in the air and see the darkness of the storm clouds in the distance. When I longed for home from the desert, this was the beautiful Germany that would come to my mind and thoughts. At times, my need and desire to return had been so strong I thought I would go mad. It was only the reality of what waited for me in Nazi Germany which would bring me to my senses as to what actually awaited me.
I lit a cigarette and looked up at the stars. They were surely beautiful here, but not as perfect as those I frequently visited in the desert. I found myself sharing the quiet and my inner turmoil with them.
What madness had Germany brought upon itself? I knew this was something that future generations would pay for dearly and Germany would never be allowed to forget. I loved my country, but I knew it would end badly for Germany and for all who had supported her. I was a part of it; I had been, for several years. I had made a dangerous decision many years ago to serve the Nazis through the Wehrmacht, a decision I had made willingly.
I gave a tight smile at the thought of making a different one; I would have been shunned by my family for walking away from and damning my military heritage. But I knew, deep down inside, I never would have made any other decision. The military was the career I had always wanted. I had never even remotely considered or thought of dedicating my life to anything else. I had been bred for the army; I could not even begin to imagine doing anything else with my life.
This realization forced me to finally admit that my self-worth and self-satisfaction were derived from being a German officer, serving my country honorably while trying my best to limit the senseless madness behind this war. I had had the misfortune to be born at the wrong time, to serve in the wrong war, to have sworn allegiance to the wrong commander-in-chief. I had done what I could to serve the honorable traditions of the Wehrmacht while minimizing the under lying darkness of this war. While I had served honorably, I knew the war's final result would be the same for me.
There had been a Dietrich serving for several generations and there was a very real possibility it would end with me, I thought calmly. My military life that I held so dear would end with the war along with my family's tradition of serving. Assuming I survived as the fortune-teller had predicted, my life would be completely different in a few years, perhaps even sooner. Everything familiar to me would be different or removed from my life.
I found my thoughts drifting from that night in Germany almost a year ago back to the present. The last evening I had spent with my father when he had warned me in his own way about the unfolding events, was now nothing more than a distant memory. I was again in the desert, stranded and wounded with only the presence of the stars and the two other half-dead men to keep me company.
I continued to take pleasure with the evening as the moments passed into hours. The moon was full as it had been that final night in Germany. There were no sounds in the air, none from the wind or any birds or animals, not a sound except for the constant drags on my omnipresent cigarettes. I imagined I could even hear the twinkling of the stars reaching out to once again embrace me.
All of my senses were so alive, trying to take in everything one last time. I didn't even mind the bone chilling cold of the night; in fact, I relished it tonight. It made me think fondly of the weather back home, the weather I would never feel again, the weather so different from the daytime hot and arid climate of the desert which had captured my soul and held it in a vice-like grip.
