Chapter Twenty-Two
He walked alone for several days, the distant plumes of smoke, explosions and artillery fire of the front line his constant companion and guiding star.
It was both heartening and terrifying to watch the evidence of battle grow in size and volume with each step he took.
Bombing raids paved the way for the Allied advance.
As he dived for cover, he had to admit that it still lifted his spirits that the front line was moving in the right direction.
Soon they would march into Bremen. He prayed for the umpteenth time that his fellow Allied soldiers had not lost their moral compass during the horrors of the last few years and still stuck to the rules of war and would treat Elsa and Klara as the civilians they were.
He chose a small town to be his rendezvous with the approaching soldiers, as he hoped he would mix in with the community.
A lone man approaching a front line in the open might be shot at before questions were asked.
He was convinced further when he saw the local inhabitants fixing white sheets and cloths to broom handles and hanging them out of the windows in surrender.
A nearby field was filled with at least a hundred bedraggled, war-weary German soldiers waiting to surrender to the approaching force in a decent manner.
The Third Reich was in disarray as the soldiers who propped it up were now utterly fed up with how the war was going and wanted an end to it as soon as possible.
Sam walked slowly through the main street and watched the townsfolk hanging out billowing white bedsheets from their windows.
He could see that they were as tired and weary as he felt, but he also saw genuine fear in their eyes.
They did not know how they would be treated by the invading army, or if its soldiers were intending to seek revenge.
Sam heard the low rumble of tanks in the distance.
There was gunfire too, but at this stage it was only spasmodic as this was a town with few organized defences.
He discarded his stolen German identity papers.
There was no going back. If a skirmish took place and the British lost, so would he — but that seemed unlikely now.
In the far distance the large metal frames and relentless rolling tracks of tanks came into view, and walking beside and behind the convoy were British soldiers with rifles held in readiness.
The gunshots had stopped. The town was surrendering without a fight, everyone tired of the bloodshed.
Something moved high up. It was the type of movement that kept you hypervigilant during army manoeuvres, and the skill of spotting flooded back through his body as if he had not spent so long imprisoned or out in the open air.
A gun had appeared at a window, but then it quickly disappeared after the sniper realized the British soldiers were temporarily hidden by trees and a parked van.
It appeared not everyone was willing to surrender and was still willing to fight for their motherland.
A British mother would receive the news that her son was dead if Sam did not stop him. He had to do something.
The sniper had left the door of the house ajar, so Sam stepped carefully into the gloomy interior in search of the stairs.
The ground floor of the house appeared abandoned.
He listened for a creak of the floorboard above.
The breathing seemed closer than that. He looked to his right and saw a mother and her child huddled on the floor by the sofa looking up at him.
Were they afraid of the German sniper, the advancing army or him?
Probably all three. The child began to whimper, so he held a single finger to his lips.
The woman nodded and buried the child’s head into her breast to muffle any sound.
He looked into the adjacent room. It was a kitchen whose cupboards had been ransacked, probably by retreating, hungry soldiers.
No wonder the woman wasn’t taking sides.
Sam crept up the stairs to the room above.
He stepped over an abandoned doll at the top and looked through the closest open door.
The room appeared a cross between an unused bedroom and a storeroom.
Amid the boxes and bottles knelt a bedraggled soldier, his rifle balanced on the windowsill.
He looked young. He looked determined. But ultimately he looked misguided.
Shooting from up here wouldn’t make a difference to the inevitable occupation.
Faced with his armed enemy, a sliver of doubt snaked through Sam. If he could avoid bloodshed and convince this man to surrender, then he would gladly do so. But as he stepped forward, the aged wooden floorboard creaked, alerting the sniper. He swung round and aimed the gun at Sam.
The sniper was about the same age as Sam was and he looked as shocked as he felt.
At some point the sniper had been provided with a uniform — just like Sam.
He’d had a gun thrust into his hands — just like Sam.
And he’d been indoctrinated until he was determined to fight to the end — just like Sam. Were they so very different?
But Sam was in civilian clothes. Questions raced across the soldier’s face like flashes of light until he cocked his gun, ready to shoot.
Sam leaped forward and forced the barrel down towards the floor and a struggle over the weapon broke out.
Lack of food, years of imprisonment and weeks of walking had taken their toll on his stamina and he felt himself already weakening.
The boy was young, but he was well built and, at this point in the war, had little to lose.
‘I don’t want to kill you!’ Sam shouted as he attempted to push him away with his body. Hearing the English words, the soldier clung on to the rifle with renewed strength. ‘Stop! You have lost the war!’
The soldier didn’t have the will to understand and continued to wrestle for the gun. They came together, brow to brow, as they both pulled and struggled for their lives.
‘Stop!’ shouted Sam. ‘Surrender!’
The gun fired and their struggling ceased. They stared at each other, unsure who had been shot — if anyone at all.
This young man could be Otto, thought Sam as they remained locked on the precipice of death together. He imagined the soldier’s grasp was weakening. He hadn’t wanted to kill any more. He had just wanted to go home . . . yet why wasn’t the soldier collapsing?
Suddenly his own leg gave way. He hastily rebalanced but it almost immediately gave way again. He finally felt the blood pouring down his leg and the growing, splintering pain that shock had blocked out. He fell heavily to the ground.
Bolstered by his success, the soldier became reckless in his madness and lunged at Sam to finish him off with the butt of his gun.
Sam pulled at the barrel and sent the gun rattling across the ground.
The two young men reached for it and a struggle ensued, their bodies rolling together with the gun in between.
Another gunshot split the air and splintered bone.
The soldier looked at Sam, then his own stomach. Disbelief, then horror slid across his face as he saw the blood stain grow. His eyes brimmed with tears as he realized what this meant.
‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Sam as the young soldier’s body sagged heavily against him.
He held him tight as if he was his own brother.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want this.’ He thought the young man nodded as he grasped his coat tight.
They lay for a moment, both seeking comfort in an embrace at a time when their lives were ending.
The soldier’s increasingly lifeless body grew heavier with each breath expelled, until finally the faint rise and fall of his chest fell still.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sam whispered again into the dead man’s shoulder. Rasping sobs rose up, burning his throat and robbing him of breath. For several moments he sobbed as he held him close.
In his mind he was holding Tubs, Otto and the other young men who had died without family and in terror.
Finally, he carefully lowered the young man to the ground.
His uniform was dirty and neglected and still bore the symbolism of everything Sam hated, but inside the bloodstained cloth and stitching was a man like him, sent to fight in a war that he never wanted to happen.
Sam frantically wiped his trembling bloodied hands on his trousers as he pulled himself to standing and slowly stumbled away.
He’d wanted to avoid a British mother learning of the death of her son.
He had achieved this. An act of bravery, they would say at home.
But he saw no reason to rejoice. Somewhere out there was a German mother oblivious to the horror that had just unfolded.
He had killed her precious child and he felt sick to his stomach for what he had just done.
* * *
Sam used a broken wall for support as the tank approached.
As it neared, he pushed himself away from its rough surface, lifted his hands in the air and began limping towards the groaning, rolling metal monster.
His leg dragged behind him, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.
The approaching soldiers took aim and the tank rolled to a halt.
Sam struggled to find his voice. ‘My name is Lieutenant Samuel Walker, 7th Battalion, Queen’s Own Royal West Kent Regiment.
’ The blood drained from his brain and every muscle in his body.
He fell heavily to his knees. Stubbornly, he continued to speak as he held his shaking hands high above his head.
His English accent and identity were the only things that could save him now.
His voice grew stronger. ‘I’ve been a prisoner of war since 1940.
I escaped. I’ve walked from Stalag XXA Camp in Poland. ’
A British soldier stepped forward, ordered him to stand and patted him down. He noticed the blood on his clothing.
‘You’re bleeding.’