Against Army Orders

Chapter 1: Patrol

Chapter 1: Patrol

August,1940. Poland. 18:20

Milo
I was patrolling for survivors after the attack on a village in Poland. My boots made soft steps on the soil beneath me - the smell of smoke from the burning houses fills my nose. My eyes linger at the light fire on one of the buildings but I continue walking.

I am in the Wehrmacht patrol unit.

I stumbled across a dead man on the ground, his body lifeless. He was a Soviet Union soldier.

Another soul taken - I have shot many - not because I wanted to, but because they told me to. This is war. You see people die. I feel like I should be used to seeing cold, dead, rotting bodies by now. But my eyes still sadden when I see them, even if they're not on my side of the war.

And then I think: Why does that even matter? We're all just trying to fight and survive through the brutality of war itself.

But that's the thing - it doesn't matter. A dead body is a dead body, no matter what side. I sigh and keep walking, listening as if the corpses might rise and do... something. As I continue to patrol, I look at the things around me. I see small bushes, burning and or broken houses. Gunshots echo in the distance every now and then - just another reminder of war.

Then I hear it - movement. A sign of life. I immediately raise my rifle toward the wall, where the sound came from. It's barely standing, barely covering whoever's behind it.

"Zeig dich," I say.
Show yourself.

I don't know if they even speak my tongue.
I hear breathing - fast, heavy. They're scared. I can tell just from the way the air shakes coming out of them. I take a few steps forward and peer behind the wall.

A Soviet soldier. Young. No helmet, no weapon.

He looks terrified. His eyes - a greyish blue - are wide with fear, but not hate. He's seen too much. Every soldier has, but something about him... it got to him more. It makes me feel sorry for him.

I raise my rifle, my finger on the trigger. I am one second away from shooting before he speaks.

"Nicht schießen," he whispers.
Don't shoot. His pronunciation is broken.

I'm surprised he knows any German, but I don't question it. I pause, still in the same position. Rifle pointed, finger on trigger, aimed at his head.

I hesitate but then I slowly lower my rifle - I don't know why but I do.

I take a deep breath before saying. "Ich werde nicht,"
I won't.

"Ich werde dich nicht erschießen."
I say again to let him know I really won't hurt him. I won't shoot you.

He is wide eyed, actually surprised I didn't shoot. He eyes my rifle, still afraid I'm playing a trick. Maybe he didn't understand. Or maybe he doesn't believe me. Maybe he just doesn't know that much German.

But then his gaze meets mine, an intense pause of searching through my eyes, and then something shifts - his fear softens. I don't know why or what I did to trigger this and lessen his fear. Maybe because I didn't pull the trigger.

I hesitate, then hold out my hand. He pauses - thinking, weighing whether he should trust the enemy. Then he takes it. I help him to his feet, off the ground.

"Ich kann mehr Englisch," he says, thick with a Russian accent.
I speak more English.

"Are you fluent?" I ask, my English battered with my German tongue.