Note from Kanuro5: It's been a while since I've put an update to this. Glad I was able to. Also, I want thank -Fireman23 for providing me invaluable knowledge about German customs and the German military, and to thank -Darkfire7881 for helping to proofread the tiny mistakes that I glance over.
The Translator
July 22, D-Day + 46
"And let me tell you, you boys of America, that there is no higher inspiration to any man to be a good man, a good citizen, and a good son, brother, or father, than the knowledge that you come from honest blood."
Able Company's so-called "R&R" ended two hours ago. The 29th Division mounted up on trucks and started heading out of Saint-Lo, left in ruins after their wake. Gossip circulated that the 29th Division and 4th Cavalry had the mission of hunting down the fleeing Panzer Lehr Division, with the 1st Battalion of the 116th Regiment spearheading the assault.
On the road south, the men of Able witnessed destroyed wrecks of German armor, scattered sporadically on the sides of the road; victims of the American Air Corps and alert Armored Divisions. They noticed armored cars, Panzers, Stugs, Ostwinds; some of the men even made an impromptu bingo game out of the wrecked pieces of armor. Winner would get a whole pack of smokes. But even amongst the demolished German pieces of armor, there were remains of Shermans blasted to pieces with entire hulls split open. When the Able boys saw these, they stopped their game, they knew full well that the Germans weren't going down without a fight.
The men drove on for 45 minutes until they came to the town of Villechien. The 1st Battalion was going to rest here for the night. Elements of the 35th Division had seized the town from the Germans early in the morning and were busy sorting out prisoners and rooting out stragglers that were hiding within the buildings and homes of the town. Yet this village was declared "secured" by the colonel.
As the trucks from Able Company careened to a stop, the men of 2nd Platoon began hurrying to get out. Private Thomas King of Alexandria, Virginia hopped out of the truck, stretched his legs and took a relieving piss behind a bush. King was an Omaha veteran and one of the members of the "2nd Platoon Nine", the surviving nine original members of 2nd Platoon during Cherbourg. The platoon started off with around 45 men on D-Day, and within 20 days, it was whittled down to nine men; the highest-ranking man at the time was Duck, who at that time was a corporal. And now the "Nine" were down to "Six" since Pappas was wounded in Cherbourg and didn't return, and Hannigan and Rawlings were killed in Saint-Lo. Veteran Terry Cavanaugh returned to the platoon after Cherbourg, but he was one of the first men wounded on Omaha and wasn't a member of the Nine.
The six men were now Sergeant Duck, Corporal Blackwell, and Privates King, Saywell, Hefferman, and Lovett. Everyone else was new. Everyone else was a stranger. He felt so… alone with these men, especially remembering how these new men replaced the irreplaceable. Not all of them were bad, they all tried, but they were not properly trained and made stupid mistakes. Mistakes that got men in the other platoons wounded or killed. Such mistakes, that King didn't want to be around them in cased they made them.
"2nd Platoon, gather up!" came the call from the L-T.
This man was 2nd Lieutenant Emory Peck, he came in to replace Lieutenant Croons after Cherbourg. He was young and an alright guy, he made some mistakes in reading maps, but his heart was in the right place. He led the platoon into battle competently enough, but he was no Lieutenant O'Leary; every enlisted man in Able Company wanted a platoon leader like Lieutenant O'Leary. But now O'Leary was gone, transferred to Charlie Company, and in his stead… the inferior Lieutenant Gittens…
"All right, 2nd Platoon, the 35th are close to finish in mopping up. We got a half-hour rest before the CO finds something for us to do. Sergeant Hudson and I are going to have a debriefing with the Company HQ; meantime, I suggest you guys take it easy and don't wander too far. In our absence, Corporal Cavanaugh is in command."
The men looked to Terry and sighed in relief. Better him in command than Corporal Blackwell. It was no secret among the men that Lieutenant Peck couldn't stand someone like Blackwell.
Duck made a parting joke about staying put like a replacement's virginity, and both the Platoon Leader and Platoon Sergeant left. Most of the replacements sat down among the rubble conversing. King observed Blackwell walking off by himself; he wondered if anyone else noticed, and if so, did anyone care? The veteran men: Terry, Lovett, Hefferman, and Saywell, sat down with their backs against a wall and tried to catch some sleep, away from all the replacements.
For once, King felt rather rested, a rarity for infantry. He didn't want to sleep, and he didn't feel like speaking to replacements. Blackwell seemed to have the right idea in wandering off to kill the time, King decided he should as well. He muttered to Terry he was taking a walk, and Terry waved to him with a mutter of affirmation.
Whilst passing by the bustle of the American GIs doing a menagerie of tasks, King took a notice to something near the corner of his eye. He noticed a 35th private standing guard over four men who were sitting in a blast crater. Moving closer, King identified the four men as Germans; they were helmetless and had battle-patches of dirt on their faces, their eyes showed defeat and humiliation as they were captured.
Though the four men were captured and docile, the guard had a face of utter apprehensiveness. He was looking around over his shoulder with eyes that were bulging out of the sockets. From a distance, King could see that this man was breathing hard. Was it his first time on guard duty, was he truly afraid that unarmed prisoners will jump him? Even though the prisoners were surrounded by the enemy and a successful escape attempt was impossible? Why was this guard panicking?
Well, curiosity got the better of King, and he walked over to the private. "What's wrong with you?" King asked the guard.
The guard sucked his teeth in a high-pitch before speaking, "Oh, buddy! I gotta take a shit! Like, goddamn yesterday!"
"Huh." King tilted his head, he looked over the four prisoners. "And I guess you're on guard duty, and I bet your buddies don't want to guard the Krauts?"
"Yeah, exactly that, buddy!" the guard was now pacing in short distances, his legs held tight together. "Bunch of bastards! I'm freaking groundhogging over here, damn near going to shit myself, and no one wants to help poor ol' me!"
King looked around and recalled Lieutenant Peck's words. "Well if it means anything, I'll look after them while you take care of business."
The guard's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Really? Oh, thank you, man! You're a lifesaver!"
"Yeah, I've done guard duty a bunch of times, I know the drill. Also, I'm a translator. Now hurry up and go in the bushes over there. Make sure you dig a hole too."
The guard was then cross-eyed, "Wait, you expect me to go out in the bush? Like a hobo?"
"Uh… yeah? You should already… wait, are you a replacement?"
"Yeah, I am. I just got here two days ago, and the replacement depot had toilets. And I'm from New York, I don't shit in no park like a homeless man."
King chuckled, not at the joke, but at the replacement. What were these kids learning back in basic? King looked around and pointed to a building, "Why don't you try in that building? I bet there's a john for you to do your business."
The guard was nodding ardently, "Yeah, sounds good! Thanks man, I'll be back as quick as I can!" He waddled off as fast as he could, but he looked so awkward it bordered on humorous. He was trying to sprint while clenching himself with his legs together, he looked like a penguin with its tailfin on fire.
King exhaled and turned back to the prisoners, who eyed him with suspicion. King cocked an entertaining smile and unslung his M1 from his shoulder. The four Germans stopped looking at him and turned their silent attention back to each other.
On closer inspection, he could tell the ranks of the four prisoners. One of them was a Leutnant, a Lieutenant, the other was a Feldwebel, an equivalent to a Staff Sergeant, and the last two were Soldats, both were Privates.
King dug in his pocket and pulled out a pack of Lucky's. He himself wasn't much of a smoker, so he didn't mind giving them away.
"Hey, cigarettes," he told them in German, and tossed them to the lieutenant. He then tossed him a matchbook.
The officer shared the cigarettes with his men. Two of them turned around and nodded to King, "Danke." King nodded back.
He looked at them smoke contently, the wonders of an American cigarette lifted the fears of being captured, ever so slightly.
One of the privates began to speak, "Thank God we got a decent American who gave us something to smoke."
"And these are the good ones, the packs with the red circles are the best," said the other private.
"I know," said the sergeant. "The Americans had the best cigarettes. When we were in Saint-Lo, I caught an American by surprise when I rushed the house he was in and shot him. I dug through his body and got this kind of packet, best smoke of my life. It's always great to smoke after you come close with death."
King's eyes focused on the sergeant, but the NCO didn't notice.
The sergeant continued, "I love these cigarettes, so much. Can you imagine those poor bastards on the Eastern Front who don't have these kinds of smokes?"
King began chuckling, the four Germans looked at him. King pointed to the Lucky Strike and told them in German, "I am glad you all enjoy our cigarettes. I understand, your cigarettes taste like grass rolled around in garbage."
The Germans were incredulous.
The private was the first to speak, "What? Y-You speak German?"
"I do. I know the German language very well, just as well as I know English," he smiled.
The officer narrowed his eyes, "Your German is very clear, as is your accent. You are German yourself, are you not?"
"Yes, I am German-American."
The sergeant spoke up, "You actually have an accent. It's not absent like most Americans, where are you from? Bavaria?"
"Düsseldorf?" said one of the privates.
"No, my family is from Hamburg," the translator told him.
The other private gasped, then remarked to his comrades, "Hey, 'Lucky' is from Hamburg, yeah?"
"Yeah, he is. He would get a kick out of hearing this."
King chuckled lightly. "Where are you four from?"
"I am from Dachau, it's in Bavaria," one of the privates beamed with pride.
"Neu-Ulm is my home in Swabia," said the other private.
"I hail from Cologne," the sergeant declared.
"And why would you care to know about where we live?" the officer slurred venomously.
"Well, why not? Since we're talking about birthplaces and homes. And why not pass the time?"
"We're prisoners. You, the captor. Why the hell should we even bother?" he retorted.
King made a simple grunt. The lieutenant was right. But King still felt like talking, "Well me, I'm from the state of Virginia, the city where I was raised is Alexandria. It's not too far from Washington, DC."
"Have you ever been to New York?" one of the privates inquired.
"Twice."
"What was it like?"
"Big. As big as they described it. Hundreds of thousands of people, everywhere. So crowded and so noisy. The biggest city I have ever been to. When we were shipping off to England, I was in the Harbor as our ship sailed past the Statue of Liberty, and all these tall buildings that towered in the sky. It was incredible, I only wish I wasn't on duty when I went there."
The other private exhaled smoke, looking at the sky listlessly, "They say New York is crowded and yet is so beautiful, so is America."
"Some parts," King told them. "I hear Germany is beautiful."
"Some parts," the sergeant replied. "I've been to many countries around Europe. Germany is indeed beautiful, the countryside where the mountains and the green grass roam for acres upon acres. Pure pristine, the cities… they're congested with people and squalor, especially during war."
"Sounds like parts of America," King said.
"What is your name," one of the privates asked.
"Hmm, I shouldn't say, but what the hell… my name is Thomas King."
"That is your name?" the lieutenant asked. "But you claimed your parents left Hamburg to immigrate. What is your real name?"
"That is my real name."
"Hmm. I see. Fine then, King, what was your German name? Your surname, the names that your parents Americanized so you could be accepted."
King gritted his teeth, yet he hid such behind his lips. He never told anyone this, only his parents knew. To escape anti-German sentiment that ravaged the Western World during World War I, many German families changed their names. And his family was no exception, especially as they just emigrated from Germany. And yet, he felt compelled to tell the truth to those who shared a nationalistic tie to his parents.
"My German name… is Tomas Koenig."
The officer gave a deep chuckle, "Now that is a proper name of the Fatherland. And let me guess, 'Tomas' is spelled without the 'h'?"
King exhaled, "That's right."
One of the privates asked the lieutenant, "Sir, how did you know his name was changed?"
"Once the Reich came into power, many Germans who emigrated from the Fatherland began returning, in droves. Pledging their allegiance to Hitler after his call for all "true patriots" to return."
"Hypocrites," the other private stated. "They leave the Fatherland when it's hard, but return when it resurges, stronger than before."
The officer gave that private a sideways glance, but continued, "The sons of the emigrated enlisted in the Army, and I heard their stories. From America, to Britain, and France, those that left faced discrimination from calling the Fatherland home. German owned businesses torched, Germans beaten in the street, German homes attacked. The West showed them hate, so of course those that left changed their name and heritage, to shelter themselves from violence. They even forced some countries to change the names of food, like frankfurters and bratwurst."
Yeah, King had heard of such things from his parents and neighbors. The community he grew up in was predominantly German, who changed their names and hid their culture for years. In public, they all spoke English with the hint of a German accent; they would lie to the ignorant Americans that their accents were more Polish than German. Yet in private gatherings or community parties, they would all be speaking German. Yet despite their German heritage, everyone in King's community ignored the Third Reich's propaganda of Volksdeutche, the calling of all people of German blood but not German citizenship, to serve the Reich. They were all Americans now. Now and forever.
King was not the only German American in his unit, or at least, there were others of German-descent. There was Staff Sergeant Fischer of 1st Platoon. He had no accent, but "Fischer" was of German origin. To everyone who said his name, it sounded to them to be "Fisher", but King saw that "c" in his name, and knew he was of German descent. Fischer claimed he was German-Irish, with more emphasis of the Irish in his blood. Then there was Staff Sergeant Hilbermann, who used to be in 3rd Platoon before he was transferred to the new Charlie Company. When King asked about German heritage, Hilbermann scoffed, saying how his great-grandparents emigrated from Germany. But King was the closest German of his company, probably in the battalion.
He was conceived in Hamburg and was born in New York just one month after his parents sailed to America. They spent a solid year in New York within the German community, improving their English before they could venture off into the country. From what his father told him, the German community in New York was very close, a tight-knit group who banded together amidst the hostile anti-German sentiment at the time. All the immigrants had to ensure that their children were properly Americanized, they had American names and knew English just as well as the natives; and yet, they must know of their German heritage.
The prisoners stared at the silent King, the sergeant broke his recollection, "So, Koenig, did you witness such discrimination?"
King blinked out of his memory with a shake of his head, "No, but I heard stories from my parents."
"How many Germans have you killed?"
King didn't even need to pause to think about it. "Two."
A wall of silence grew between them, before King asked, "How many Americans have you all killed?" He turned to the sergeant, "I already know that you killed one."
King noticed a strong glare from one of the privates. "What's wrong with you?" the American asked.
The private's glare continued, "You dare ask methat question. You're a traitor, a goddamn traitor."
Something burned within King's chest, albeit briefly, when he heard that accusation.
The prisoner continued, "You are German, and you go around killing your own people?"
"We're not the same."
"But you're German."
"German-American. That last bit is important," he corrected.
"Ah, so growing up in the land of the Yankees makes you different from us," the sergeant sneered.
"Oh, it definitely does. It may sound callous to you, and I don't mean it to be. It's a fact."
King stopped once he said that. The prisoners picked up on it as well. King hated how that came out of his mouth. As if he was an elitist or something. As if his family, making it out of Germany and taking a piece of "The American Dream" meant that he was better than these four men.
"That's how it is, huh?" the private sneered.
King didn't respond.
"The Fatherland is your home," the private continued.
"America has been my home for 24 years," King replied, "I know English better than German, and my German is damn perfect."
"So, you didn't feel a thing shooting us?"
"I'm damn sure you all didn't feel a thing while shooting at us."
"We didn't know you were German or some of you Americans were German, but you definitely did!" said the other private.
"And would that have stopped you from killing me, and vice-versa? You've all been in combat before, you know the cardinal rule in warfare and killing, just like I do."
It is always better to kill, than be killed.
"We may speak the same language, but we are not the same,"King continued, "What about your brethren in Austria? You both speak the language, but you are not the same. You both have your own history and culture. Just like America and England, same language, different culture and history. But not the same."
"Yet your family left the Fatherland," the surly private spat out. "The cowards that they were. You never had to suffer the same hardships as we did."
King sucked his teeth at hearing the truth of that. "You're right, I didn't."
"Where everyone suffered the hardships of the war, the economy was nothing, until the Fuhrer came. Your family left Hamburg for America, and in shame of their heritage, they changed their names. What cowards would leave and have the gall—"
"Steiner! Shut up!" the officer snapped at the private. "You badmouth things you cannot comprehend. You label this American's family 'fools' for seeking a better opportunity? You label them 'cowards' for ignoring Hitler's call of Volksdeutche? For they saw what a lot of men and women in the Fatherland could not see, that Hitler was mad and doomed to fail, that the Fatherland had nothing for them anymore?"
"But the Fuhrer—"
The sergeant looked to him, "And you still have the balls to call him that?"
"But he's—"
"Shut up, Steiner," the officer groaned in irritation. "Enough of this. He is not the man he used to be. Just look at this war. The war cannot be won. Russia is conquering in the East, and now America and England are conquering us in the West. The world is against us, and our only worthy "ally" is on the opposite side of the globe. This war is over. And what shall happen to the Fatherland now?"
The officer finished his cigarette and flung it to the ground. He stared at King, "You are right, American. We are not the same. And it doesn't matter now. The war is drawing to a close. The only thing we can do as True Sons of the Fatherland, is to stay off the inevitable, as best we can. We cannot win, but we shall fight and hold on to our lands. That is what we can do. That is what the SS will do."
King squatted closer to the officer, "Is that where the SS divisions are going? They're falling back?"
"I can only guess. We lost offensive initiative the day you Allies landed in Normandy; we could have pushed you all back to England. But we didn't. Everything from here on for us is defensive, I presume. But when you reach the Fatherland, we will fight for every inch."
The officer's eyes were cold, and his words were heavy, "When you reach your parents' home of Hamburg, I wonder what you shall feel? Tell me, King, what shall you feel when you see all the buildings and homes are nothing but rubble? When your bombs from your planes destroy history, culture, and friends that your family abandoned? What will you feel?"
"I don't know. I really don't. When I enlisted, I thought of that as soon as I was shipped off to England. Would I feel anger that this was the home of my family? Or content, now that another German city fell in the war? I don't know. I can only find out when I reach that city. If, I reach that city."
"Hey buddy!" a voice came behind him in English.
King stood up and answered back in English, "You good?"
The young guard returned with a relieved expression on his face, "Hell yeah, I am. Thank God. I feel eight pounds lighter," he joked. "Good job, guarding the prisoners."
"No problem."
"Buddy, my Sarge told me to take these guys back to the prisoner truck near the outskirts of this village."
"Oh, let me help you with that." King turned to the prisoners, "All right, you guys are leaving this town. Stand up slowly, get in a single-file line two meters apart, hands either behind or on top of your head."
The prisoners got up slowly, without a word, and got into the formation King described.
The guard was grinning, "Hot damn, you speak good Kraut!"
King shrugged, "It's a gift."
"Y'know, buddy, thanks for the help. No one tells me shit, since I'm a replacement and all. And you helped me out. What can I give you, buddy?"
"Uh… got a chocolate bar?"
"Uh, yeah… uh, hold on," he dug in his pack and pulled out a luxurious chocolate bar and handed it to King. "Thanks again, buddy!"
"Good luck, kid."
The last glances King was given by the four men held neither anger nor compassion. It was just a look that possessed no emotion in their eyes. And King was giving them the exact same look.
The guard led the four men away.
"You alright, King?" Duck said with a pat on the arm.
"Yeah, I'm good, Duck."
King had made his way back to 2nd Platoon, where Duck was looking for him.
"You sure?" the sergeant asked.
"Yeah."
"Good."
"So, Duck, what's the skinny with MacKay?"
"Right, so it's true. We're chasing down the Panzer Lehr division. The flyboys are slowing them down for us."
"Huh. So, any major cities we're heading to?"
"Nope, name of the game is simple: hold Jerry by the hair, and kick 'em in the ass."
"Gotcha."
"Also, King, got a present for you."
King gave a light smirk, "Gee, it's not even my birthday."
Duck chuckled, "Here you go." It was a tiny burlap sack that could fit in the palm of someone's hand.
"What's this?" he asked.
"Open it and see."
King opened the small sack and pulled out Navy blue double chevrons, with a T-patch below the chevrons.
"A… A technician's patch?" King muttered.
"You see, King, we're pretty short-staffed in the NCO department in this platoon. I'm the only sergeant, and Blackwell and Terry are our only corporals. Another corporal as acting squad leader is what we need. And since you act as the company translator, Captain MacKay has seen fit to give you a bonus pay as a Technician for your specialized service."
"B-B-But… wh-what about Saywell? Hefferman? Lovett? Why not them?"
"Who you think recommended you?"
King blinked incredulously. Duck continued, "They're not going to be sorry that they were passed up, I squared it with them. You do a lot for the company, and for yourself; high time you get rewarded for it. How does that sound "Tech Corporal"? Or, just "Corporal"? Heh, you'll come around to it, King."
Duck patted him on the shoulders and walked back to find his Platoon Leader. King looked at his new chevrons in his hand, his mind racing through all the responsibility thrust upon him. Then he thought of his parents, submitting to all hardships in their attempt to attain the American Dream. To have their son fighting to preserve the ideas of freedom, liberty, and diligence that they traveled so far for. He thought of his parents' smiling faces at their son being promoted, climbing the ranks in America.
King smiled and clenched the chevrons in his hands. Not bad for a German kid in the American Army.