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.’
Sam looked down, feeling dazed. ‘It’s not just mine.’
The soldier studied him for a moment. Finally, he accepted who he said he was. ‘You’d better get it seen to. There’s medics at the back.’ He signalled to a soldier behind him, who immediately stepped forward and offered him support to walk. The pain in his leg was building again and he gratefully put his arm about his shoulders. Suddenly his leg gave way and he sagged against the other man, just as the sniper had done only moments before.
‘You are going to be okay, pal,’ his helper reassured him. ‘Your war is over. You’re going home.’
Sam nodded, rebalanced himself and limped deeper into the line of troops. It felt surreal to be walking against the tide of tanks and soldiers on foot. He had not seen so many British soldiers since his imprisonment.
He looked up at the waving white flags as the occupying army walked beneath them through the small town. The town had been taken easily, to the relief of many of the soldiers who passed him. He hoped Bremen would fall just as easily. There had been enough killing and he still feared for Elsa and Klara’s safety. It would continue to worry him until he saw them again. He hoped to God that he would.
* * *
His leg was briefly tended to before he was taken by a military lorry to a camp several miles away. The journey was bumpy and he spent much of the time supporting his leg, which was now becoming unbearably painful.
At the camp his clothes were burned and he was deloused — as a matter of routine, he was reassured — then allowed to wash. He was finally supplied with a new uniform and a hearty meal, which went some way to making him feel human again and nurture the small grain of respectability he still had. Yet with each mouthful he thought of Elsa and his guilt at leaving her. The gnawing guilt turned into a wound that only festered as the hours went by.
That night he slept on a spring mattress in a room he shared with four other men. Everyone seemed too exhausted to talk; they fell upon the beds and he slept deeply until dawn eventually broke.
In the morning they were taken to a makeshift airfield, where over five hundred men, gathered from the vast broken landscape of war, waited patiently for their air transport home. For the first time, he no longer felt alone, for despite being with many soldiers over the previous few days, they had still been fighting for their country and he had not. Somehow being with others in a similar position made him feel less ashamed to be going home, although like many he had no stomach to stay.
