The warm, soft June breeze rustled the leaves of the trees in the Ecouves Forest. The day is June 20th, 1944 and five German soldiers lie in the brush a few yards away from the dirt yards away from the dirt road.
For the past week, Allied troops, tanks, and supplies have been transported on this road. The sergeant, a 5'8" 20-year-old man with ash blonde hair and gray eyes, shifts his weight while laying down in the and fishes out a pack of cigarettes from his left pants pocket. He grabs his lighter and picks two cigarettes from the box
"Möchte eins?" he asks a soldier to his right with light blonde hair, brown eyes, and a freckled face. He was about 18.
"Nein," the soldier politely declines.
"Sicher," says a high pitched voice is to his far left. It came from a small boy with platinum and ocean blue eyes.
"Nicht für dich. Du bist 12," the sergeant said sternly.
The boy mumbled something inaudible and returned to watching the road for any allies. Gunshots are heard behind them in the Southwest. The June wind whistles by them and brings the smell of gunpowder along. A rush surges through his nose.
"Achoo!" he says while sneezing. He is left in a daze with a cold, tingly feeling inside his nose.
"Stille! Sie werden die Amerikaner alarmieren!" hisses the sergeant.
"Pardon," the boy says sheepishly.
You can practically smell the tension as it grows by the minute. As the small troop layed on the hard, loose textured dirt as a convoy rolls by on the loose, sandy soil of the road. The sergeant gave the signal not to attack as they were outnumbered 4 to 1. The truck drove by, rumbling the ground where they hid and left a strong exhaust. It turned the bend, but you could still hear the humming of the engine.
The light filtered through the leaves and onto the convoy as the truck drove on the bumpy dirt road. In the truck sits a 21-year-old man with soft, brown hair and light hazel-green eyes. A sage green helmet with webbing rests nonchalantly on his head. He wears a beige button up shirt with his name, rank, and company on it and sage pants with brown laced up boots. A rifle rests on his lap as he closes his eyes and breathes in the summer air. It's warm and has the smell of fresh forest leaves. He opens his eyes to the sound of a sneeze.
"Bless you," he says indirectly to the culprit.
"No one sneezed, Johnny," says the soldier across from him. He has ginger hair, light brown eyes, pale, burnt skin, and a freckled face.
"Ya sure, Ralph?"
"Mhm,"
"Musta been the driver," John says and looks back while they turn the bend. He sees light reflecting off of something. Are his eyes tricking him? There's something-someone hiding on the side of the road.
The evening finally comes marking the soon-to-be end of a slow day. The soldiers chattered with each other as the crickets chirp. The smell of tobacco fills the air as the four older soldiers smoke.
"Wann kehren Sie zu Ihrem Gerät zurüch?" the soldier with light blonde hair asks.
"Ich weiß es nicht. Warum versucht du mich so schnell loszuwerden, Hans?" the boy asked teasingly.
"Ich weiß es nicht. Warum haben Sie sich von Ihrem Gerät verlaufen, Collin?" Hans retorts and lightly punches his shoulder. Collin only chuckles and leans against a tree. The bark is rough and the roots stick out from the ground. He rests his eyes as the orange sun dips under the horizon. The air cools and and carries the smell of forest leaves. The crickets continue to chirp as the full moon rises into the starry, midnight blue sky.
Crack! The sound of a boot breaking a stick jolts Collin awake. He slowly pushes himself up. He notices the other soldiers getting up and reaching for their rifles when somewhere behind the bushes, the intruder opens fire. Without thinking, Collin pushes himself off the cold ground and stumbles over the rough roots of the great oak tree, forgetting his only weapon, his rifle. He tore through the woods with occasionally snagging his clothes on extended twigs. All he could hear was the rustling of branches, pounding of feet, and his beating heart. Another pair of feet was now present and they were heavier...and closer! Collin peered back at his pursuer and saw an American after him. Darn Americans! He thought bitterly. He subconsciously slowed his pace, either out of fatigue or thought. Realization struck; my rifle. His face went pale and his mind wandered.
Oof! The boy gasped as he felt the American tackle him. He tumbled down a hill, crumpling some fallen leaves. He heard feet cautiously, but hurriedly jogged down the hill so he got on his elbows and pushed his right hand up on the ground. He felt the dried leaves under his hand as his body ached from the fall. Before he could get, a loud thunk resounded as the butt of the rifle connected with the boy's skull. His vision went black as his body went limp. He bit his lower lip as he went down causing him to draw blood from his lip. A sweet, sick scent filled his nose as he tasted the metallic taste of blood.
John Butt stocked the rifle to the back of the small German's head and watched his limp body fall to the cold, leaf covered earth. Why didn't he just shoot me? John questioned himself. Probably because he's just a young boy and shouldn't be out here, he reasoned. John turned the boy onto his back to get a good at his face. He was young: probably 12-13.
"Can't be older than 14," he muttered, "pity."
John picked him up off the hard ground and slung him over his shoulder and trudged up the hill. The sweet smell of blood was faint in the air as John trekked through the forest.
"Hey Johnny! Ya ready ta-," Ralph stopped mid sentence, "Why would ya bring that devil back with ya!" he exclaimed.
"Maybe cause he's just a boy," John retorted, setting the boy on the cold, hard ground. The air smelled of tobacco.
"He's between 12 and 13; no older than 14," John said directly to no one as he searched the boy's pockets for weapons. All he found were a couple rounds of amo and a picture of what looked like two parent figures and a letter which he didn't bother to read.
"Alright Turner, pack it up," the sergeant, a 25-year-old man with brown hair and eyes, a gruffly voice, and the first bristles of a beard, called to John, slightly annoyed.
"Yes, sir," John said briskly and threw the boy over his shoulder.
"The rest of you: move out," the sergeant commanded.
As the troop trekked through the forest and towards the truck, Ralph strided up to John.
"You fool," he hissed, "should've done away with that...thing!" he spat.
"Look, Ralph," John snapped, "I'm sorry about your brother, but what's done is done. I'm not going to kill a little boy!" He shifted the boy's weight on his shoulder and hustled to the group ahead.
John smelled the truck before he saw it: the smell of engine exhaust was thick and some of the men coughed as they approached. The army green truck sat idle as the men clambered into the wagon-like bed. The driver peered out the window as dust particles danced in the fluorescent headlights. The pounding of boots landing on wood was audible over the rhythmic humming of the engine. John laid the boy on the rough, semi splintery wooden floor. He hoisted himself up into the bed of the truck. John put his feet over and onto the other side of the boy. The rest of the troop climbed in, including Ralph, who had a sour face compared to the others whom either had a solemn or tired face.
The truck lurched forward and the sound of rumbling over gravel soon followed. John stuck his head out of the truck's wall and felt the cool, late-night breeze run through his hair. His eyes were closed as he remembered home: his little farm with all the corn he tends to. His father taught him how to plow the fields and sow the seeds. He was a big, muscular guy with a gentle heart. He has dirty blonde hair with brown eyes. And his mother's vegetable patch with lettuce and tomatoes. She was a small woman; 5 foot with brown hair and hazel eyes. John looked like his mother, but with his father's frame. He remembers the apple tree surrounded by wild berries. John opened his eyes to see Ralph maliciously stare at the boy. He glared back as the truck rumbled on.