Fatherland

Troop 132 sent out their 625th monthly report via an old backpack radio which rested inside a little hole in the dirt wall of the trench they called Home; it would be the 615th monthly report to go unresponded by Military Headquarters. Despite the gaping lack of appreciation for their unrelentingly heroic efforts from their superiors Troop 132's morale was always maintained. A few of the men had a beautiful little wife and a handful of kids waiting for them back home and the prospect of seeing them once again was more than enough to keep them going. For those who did not have a family of their own, the promise by FDR that they wouldn't have to worry about financial security or the woes of the Depression when they got back home kept their spirits high- mostly because they knew that if there's one thing the girls at shore loved it was a war hero with a full wallet.

With the report sent in expert detail as they always were, the men returned to their posts and awaited signs that the enemy was advancing. Private DeLome was in a tree perch 20 feet off the ground scanning the distance with a pair of badly-worn binoculars. As was typical, the sight was nothing more than the dreary landscape of the Hurtgen Forest. Private DeLome was the newest addition to the tightly-knit Troop 132, for this reason his induction had been slightly more severe than the group had exercised priorly. It involved regular beatings with one of the privates' old soccer cleats fashioned onto a long piece of scrap metal and deemed "daddy's foot" by the fraternizing privates. There were also brutal nightly assaults forcing him to perform sexual acts that his small town mind would never have thought took place in what he imagined was one of the few organizations this nation still took pride in.

As time passed the troop eventually lightened up on him and reassured his now-broken spirits that it was simply to test his will and strengthen their brotherhood; yet somehow Private Delome couldn't help but think that it was because they all had some form of mental damage. His thoughts drifted over these times and over his red headed sweetheart whom he hoped was still faithfully waiting for him as he blankly examined the open field in front of the tree line. For a moment he felt very distraught and alone, as if he would never escape this place and was damned to survey the Hurtgen Forest for the rest of his days. But as he felt himself paying less and less attention to the task at hand he quickly snapped back to attention remembering the harshly ingrained words of the boot camp Major General, "YOU are WORTHLESS! Every breath you take is a slap in the face to whatever god you think made you. It is my job to teach you idiots how to not get yourselves killed out there. If there's one thing you retards remember from this it will be to ALWAYS," he paused and looked them all in the eye, "always goddammit, always keep your guard up. The second you let it down, you'll get shot! And then what? You're dead; Dead and Worthless!"

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Second Lieutenant Marsh filtered through the notes he had taken while listening to the encrypted shortwave radio broadcast of regional enemy movement in the morning. He was the next highest ranking officer and the natural choice for the troop's new lead after their prior CO went mad and fled in the midst of their most heated battle. There was heavy gunfire and grenade explosions littering the field that night. The enemy had attacked them during Private DeLome's late night patrol; he had fallen asleep at his post. By the time the troops realized what had happened it was already too late. A strategically thrown grenade had left little to recognize one of the Hispanic privates. Few had time to get properly dressed before grabbing their rifles and firing point blank into the onslaught of imminent death. It was at this time that the men needed a leader the most and it was at this time that the men turned in terminal desperation and cried to their fleeing Commanding Officer to save them. The only response returned was a wild and hopeless scream "GOD SAVE THEM! GOD SAVE THEM!"

Without discernible reason the enemy began retreating the gruesome scene. Strewn about were bleeding, orphaned limbs and the half-nude and shrieking soldiers they once belonged to. As the night's cold slowly released its icy grip so fell the last tears and cries of the fallen soldiers. Lieutenant Marsh opened his eyes to what could have been purgatory as far as he could tell; it was hard for him to discern what was real and what was illusion since his consciousness was weak and varying in intensity. There were lightning flashes of the night's battle as he staggered across the ghostly field searching for any who remained.

By the time the first bird was singing its morning song everyone left was huddled together, defeated but not broken, resting their backs against the inside wall of the trench- "home". The Lieutenant searched desperately for something to say to his troops to lift their spirits. He stood and announced:

"I don't know what I can say," he looked at them all individually "I can't promise you that this war will be won; I can't promise you that you will all make it back to your families and homes. But I do promise this, I will never- NEVER leave your sides. So long as their is blood in my veins and gun in my hand I will fight for you and our country!" This little speech was often repeated in the minds of all of Troop 132, the Lieutenant's especially.

He ran this moment through his head as he reached the end of his enemy movement notes and whispered, "for you and our country." followed by what might have be perceived by some as a small sigh. Though it seemed in this context he was referring to someone other than his troops. He made a point of never letting much emotion escape in front of his men lest they doubt his rigidity; he knew the last thing they needed was another weak-kneed leader. If nothing else, the Lieutenant was an expert in pretending everything was under control.

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Private Ortiz ran frantically through the forest, looking for something that only he knew was there. He had hid it there when they first arrived; it was his most valued possession and he couldn't risk the others finding it and making some manner of joke or game of it. His mother had given it to him as a very small child back in the outskirts of Mexico city.

"Keep this with you always, mijo; it will keep you safe. So long as you have this with you, I will be with you and no harm can come to you."

Shortly after this, Private Ortiz's mother was killed during a riot on the streets of Mexico City and he was left alone since his father had left them before he was born. The object he was searching for now was the only shred of family he had left and it seemed at the present time that he could not recall where it was buried; the frustration was driving him mad. "Where could it be?" he asked himself, "I remember putting it somewhere around .... here." An owl sitting in a tree branch observed the worn out scene and fluttered off in boredom and disappointment once again. What made this act of searching all the more frustrating was that Private Ortiz always felt as if he had already made this vain search a hundred times before.

Defeated, he rested against the strong trunk of an evergreen and started to cry. Pausing briefly to look around for others that might notice him but finding only the wretched, unforgiving body of the Hurtgen Forest.

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Thirty yards away from the trench, deep in the field, lay Obergrenadier Gerhardt. He was on another one of his Hauptmann's secret missions to acquire the decrypted notes of the enemy's radio transmissions from their trench or as Obergrenadier Gerhardt preferred to call them "suicide missions." The reason these missions gained this title was because they often ended in the Obergrenadier running for cover after the enemy spotting him midfield. Why the Hauptmann never chose any of the Obergrenadiers or even the Grenadiers for these missions he did not know but he had suspicion that it might have been the aftereffect of an earlier battle in which he had made a fatal error with properly reassembling his rifle that morning which resulted in the loss of three of his comrades. He wondered why it would be justified if he were to be killed in the name of his fallen brethren. Would that somehow satisfy them in the afterlife? Are they watching my every move even now, waiting for me to be slaughtered in the pursuit of a pointless goal? There would be no poetic justice in that, just another dead body trapped forever in the soil of the field.

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"ENEMY SPOTTED!" Private DeLome shouted from his perch. Instantly the troops quit their current task and assumed their battle positions. Second Lieutenant Marsh dropped the papers and grabbed his rifle as he started to run through the trench to where the bulk of the fire was commencing.

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His tears having dried, Private Ortiz was sitting numb against the tree when he heard the call. He sat up without hesitation and headed back to the field. There was something very mechanical that took place when the word "enemy" was shouted out there he noticed; every emotion that had been felt was rushed away, every important thought was nil by comparison, and the only objective in mind was to end the life of whomever this "enemy" was.

Unfortunately for Obergrenadier Gerhardt the "enemy" in this case was him. Bullets were whizzing by his helmet and ricocheting off of nearby rocks as he crawled to cover. He felt a sharp pain in the back of his right thigh and shrieked in pain.

"Eine Hilfe hier!" he shouted in desperation to the Obergrenadiers that he hoped were still following him. He listened through the deafening gunfire for a response. "Eine Hilfe hier JETZT!!" He noticed several bushes moving behind him and then came a familiar whistle that let him know he was not alone. They started returning fire on those in and behind the trench, giving one of them time to dive over by the injured Obergrenadier. He began frantically mopping up the blood and trying feebly to bandage the wound. The soldier in the bushes signaled to the Unteroffizier in the trees across the field; it was his assignment to destroy the enemy's radio and any other vital equipment or information while they were distracted by the battle. He made his stealth advance toward the tree line and trench then stopped when he heard someone running nearby. He crouched behind a nearby shrub and squinted his eyes, scanning for the cause of this noise.

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Private Ortiz was running as fast as he could toward the gunfire, paying little attention to his surroundings. He knew the Lieutenant would be upset with him for taking so long so he had no time to waste. As the tree line came into sight he heard an unfamiliar voice and turned to face it.

"Excuse me." was all he heard before a muffled shot and the feeling of a sharp sting in his throat. He looked down to see his own blood start to flow down his uniform and drip onto the forest floor; he tried to breath but found it impossible. As he fell to his knees a tall, pale skinned man emerged from a some shrubs and walked over to him.

"It is all for nothing, mine friend." said the man staring at him eye to eye. Private Ortiz looked away being nauseous with the dissatisfaction of his untimely death until his eye caught something impossible; the same owl as before was staring from a nearby tree and resting in its mouth was the golden chain with Santa Maria on the end of it. He wanted to scream at the owl to bring it to him; just to touch it one last time, to remember what life was once like but his efforts brought little more than pain and convulsions followed shortly by constricting darkness. The Unteroffizier looked up at the bird and shared a moment of familiar puzzlement but soon remembered his duty and continued on.

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"PAGE, WATCH THE FLANK! STEVENS, GRENADE THE BASTARDS ALREADY!" dirt sprayed in the Lieutenant's face as he attempted getting a better look at where the enemy lay. He glanced over to Private Stevens just as he was biting the pin out of the grenade like a starving man taking the first bite of a fresh apple; the Private took quick aim and then hurled the grenade as hard as he could.

Private DeLome had a bird's-eye view of the whole battle from the scope of his Springfield rifle. He shifted his sites to the trench right in time to see one of the privates throw a grenade at two poorly-sheltered enemies in the field. There was a little explosion followed by a distant rumble but he knew it was enough. "Bullseye!"

"Precisely." said a voice directly behind him. Before he had time to turn and face the voice there was a strong hand over his mouth and slicing knife against his throat. It was a painfully exquisite feeling to have all the air in his lungs escape through the fresh and bleeding slit in his throat. He felt like he was drowning for he could not get any air in his lungs and he could feel the blood pouring down his windpipe. The attacker said something inaudible to him because of the choking before climbing back down the tree.

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"Behalten Sie Druck darauf!" Obergrenadier Gerhardt followed the other soldier's instructions and kept pressure on the wound; he vainly tried not to stare at it and wonder what effect it would have on him should he make it out of this battle alive. His pondering, however, was cut short by a grenade that bounced within two feet of his of his already injured leg. He couldn't help but be mildly amused by the irony as he rolled away and muttered, "Scheisse."

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Now drunk with the taste of death in his veins, the Unteroffizier stalked through the forest and readied his Luger pistol. He had the enemy's Lieutenant in his sight; he wanted this to be perfect. Creeping slowly like a spider toward its helplessly trapped prey he replayed the glorious scene that was about to unfold in his head. The Lieutenant was in a rage and firing illogical amounts of bullets at the unrelenting enemy; it was very unusual of him to behave in a manner such as this and it was because of this that the Unteroffizier was able to creep up right behind him and thrust the zealous Luger into his back. "Surrender!" he exclaimed in an uncontrollably victorious tone. The Lieutenant turned his head and was filled with a hatred beyond defeat and disappointment; it was a pure loathing of everything in existence and non-existence.

"FUCK!!" cried the Lieutenant, "NO!! I'M NOT GOING BACK!!"

"You know the rules." the Unteroffizier replied fighting back a grin.

"No." he shook his head "No, we're not going back." He looked desperately through his moistened eyes at his enemy, "Please, we do not want to go back."

The Unteroffizier lowered his gun. "I do not make these rules. Now you must go back."

Lieutenant Marsh breathed a heavy, broken attempt at calming down then cupped his hands together around his mouth and shouted, "RETURN! RETURN!!"

Out on the forest floor Private Ortiz heard the call and reluctantly pulled himself up and started towards the place he knew all to well. "It is all for nothing." He whispered to himself. Private DeLome sighed hopelessly when he heard the familiar words; he pushed himself up and started climbing down the tree. The rest of the soldiers gathered their things and scuffled off to their spots where they had last known mortal existence then sank into the evening soil.

As Private DeLome passed his Lieutenant he gave him a look that was forlorn but appreciative; it seemed to say "If nothing else, thank you for at least never leaving." He felt the cold grip of unconsciousness and repetition as he approached the post where he had once so tragically fallen asleep. He made one last look around then took his rightful place in the ground.

"That leaves just you, Lieutenant." said the Unteroffizier looking around for exactness of procedure. Lieutenant Marsh nodded his head and extended a hand to him which the Unteroffizier could not help but be surprised by. After a moment's hesitation he accepted and shook it firmly and with a brief moment of symbiotic sympathy. He watched numbly as the Lieutenant made the walk back to his place of rest then, just as he had done so long ago, gathered up his troops and moved on.

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Troop 132 arose the next day and started on their 626th monthly report; part of them hoped it would not become their 616th report to go unresponded by Military Headquarters but better judgment assured them that, of course, it would be.