Tommy Guns

Felix was exhausted.

Mentally, physically, spiritually – it didn’t matter to him how he described it, just that he could barely keep his eyes open. It wasn’t as if he could even sleep for a few hours, not with the sound of men screaming in the depths of the trench. The stench of stale urine was almost unbearable and, as he pulled the collar of his jacket over his mouth, he couldn’t help but curse the bloated bodies lying in the corner. The dead were useless to the war effort; little more than a burden on those who had to carry them back to the camps after the assault had been completed. They drew vermin into the trench and as the pile of bodies grew in magnitude, so did complaints of dysentery and rat-bites from the depleted numbers within Felix’s division.

They weren’t losing though – no, the Nazis wouldn’t ever let anybody even entertain the idea of losing the war. For all intents and purposes, Felix imagined the people back at home in Berlin would be listening to an almost-constant stream of glorified reports about the German victories of the war. There would be no mention of the massacre of those stationed at Karlshorst – only the relatives would be contacted about the deaths – or about the conditions that the soldiers themselves were living in. No, there would simply be reports of the Wermacht’s victories on the ground, and how the war effort was going splendidly. The women sitting anxiously in their parlours waiting on husbands and sons returning would be placated with news that their loved ones were well, strong and fighting for what they believed in. It made Felix laugh, the very thought of a healthy, fit land assault. For the past thirty minutes, he had been listening to the on-again-off-again sound of one of the infantry members next to him vomiting; a horrid, sweat-inducing groan followed by extended retching. The smell was unbearable. Felix had considered asking him to move away for at least ten minutes now, but he couldn’t even pluck up the energy to raise his voice.

A low whistle from his right drew his attention back into reality. The young boy that they had sent to keep lookout as the twilight hours descended, Schäfer – or maybe it was Schröder, Felix couldn’t really remember – was stabbing his thumb violently in the direction of the ground above them. Instantly, Felix forgot about the vomit and the rats scurrying across the marshy floors of the trench. Keeping his head low, Felix made a dash in his direction, nodding upward as he did so.

“How many?”

“About ten. Don’t seem to realise where they are. Armed, but not ready to attack.”

Felix frowned. Stragglers weren’t uncommon – a nearby village had been taken over by the British, and they were prone to wandering off on off-duty hours. Most weren’t poised for a fight, but there was always the possibility that the Brits were sending out feeder teams to ascertain how many were still left in the trenches. Even if they hadn’t been sent to scout the area, they could still raise the alarm if they were to get away. There was only one way to deal with wandering groups, and Felix didn’t like it at all.

“Get Ziegler and Pohl. Pfeiffer too. We’ll do this quickly.” Felix’s orders were barely audible over another wave of nausea hitting the young soldier a few feet back, but the young boy nodded, motioning to two boys in the corner of the trench. A third materialised from the bunker on their beckoning, and all three picked up their guns from their resting perch against the wall before jogging over.

“We go on my count,” Felix murmured to the makeshift group. “Shoot to kill; if any get away then we’re dead.”

The boys all nodded firmly, lips tight and eyes void of life. Felix always thought it was a terrible shame that they allowed boys as young as eighteen to sign up; it drained them of their childhood and turned them into emotionless voids. After the war was finished, these boys would probably spend their time alone, trying to figure out whether what they did was justified. Lord knows Felix had agonised over his own actions enough in the past few years.

There was always a sense of paralysing fear that gripped Felix when he looked over the edge of a trench. Perhaps it was the simple knowledge of what could happen – just a few weeks ago, he had watched one of his division have his head blown off by an expert marksman simply for peeking – but it was something that he simply couldn’t quell. He had done this hundreds, perhaps thousands of times, but he still couldn’t keep himself from thinking that something would happen this time, that he’d be leaving this world with a bullet buried firmly between his eyes.

They were closer than he expected, and talking loudly amongst themselves. They clearly didn’t know how far they had strayed from their camp, if they were drawing attention to themselves in the way they were. Felix assumed they were drunk – their stumbled footing seemed to attest to their intoxication. They would be easy to pick off – doubtlessly. Two enemy soldiers per person, two shots each if they were lucky. A relatively easy operation by all accounts.

Felix held up a hand to the others, a silent signal to hold on. He wanted them closer – less chance of shots missing if they were in close range. Not long, though. A few more steps and they’d be in prime position.

Three more seconds.

One more second.

“Go.”

Felix jumped up in sync with the other four, and took aim at the nearest man – dark haired, probably in his mid-thirties. He barely even heard the pop of the bullet leaving the chamber before his target dropped to the ground like a dead weight. Adrenaline surged through his veins as he took aim at the next. The bullet whizzed by the target’s ear – younger, probably only twenty at most, Felix noted. He fired a second shot and it hit him in the shoulder. He dropped to the ground, but continued to move around, thrashing in the grass. Felix cursed loudly, counting the heads he could see. Three, four including the man he had just downed.

He shot again. The shot went wide of one of the men, scraping the arm of the next. One of the other boys had managed to down another one, leaving two standing. Barely paying attention to those around him, Felix aimed again. The bullet connected, sending another man into the grass. The final one followed his target, leaving the horizon clear of men.

It took a few seconds before the adrenaline wore off. Dropping back down so that his head was below ground level, he took a deep breath. With their guns in such close proximity, his hearing had gone a little foggy but he could still hear the screaming – far too close to be the men on the field above. A hand gripped his arm, and Felix looked up into the terrified eyes of Ziegler.

“Schäfer’s been shot, sir. What do we do?”

Felix glanced behind Ziegler’s stocky frame. Sure enough, the others were attempting to lower Schäfer’s body into a sitting position, but the young boy was fighting against them all. In a rush, all of his senses came back to him and he dived to his feet, silently thanking whatever god was listening that Ruedi had forced him to pack an extra med kit before he had left the camp last week. Pushing the others out of the way, he forced the boy to the ground.

“Ziegler, Pohl, check the enemy. Kill any of them that’re still alive. Pfeiffer, go and get me a medic. Now!”

The three boys nodded and jumped to their feet, fear written across their faces. They had barely been there a day – new recruits sent to replace the pile of bodies they had amassed over the week’s battles. They were all too young to understand war, and too new to have seen the horrors that went along with it.

Satisfied that they were following his orders, Felix turned his attention back to the casualty.

“What’s your first name, kid?” Felix asked, unravelling a ball of gauze and pushing it into the boy’s wound. He hissed in response, squeezing his eyes closed. Felix shoved the boy’s shoulder with his spare hand. “Hey, look at me. Your name?”

Schäfer winced, squirming violently under the pressure Felix was applying to his stomach. “Otto.”

“Okay Otto. I know this hurts, but you’ve gotta stay still for me, okay? The medic is on his way. We’ll patch you up and get you back home to you family. Stay with me, kid.”

It was obvious that Schäfer wasn’t listening to a word Felix was saying. The gauze in Felix’s hand was already soaked through, and his hand was sticky with blood. The shot seemed to have gone right through his stomach, ripping through muscle and leaving a gaping hole in his lower abdomen.

Cursing internally, Felix scrambled for another roll of gauze, but his fingers kept meeting the thin cotton of the underside of the bag. He was no doctor, not like Ruedi, but he could tell when somebody was dying. There was too much blood, his skin was too pale. He had a few minutes of agony, if he was lucky. If he wasn’t, he’d last hours. He would become more pallid as dusk set, and his skin would become cold and clammy. If he was really unlucky, he’d last a few more days – if the blood loss didn’t kill him, septicaemia would kick in and ravage his body faster than they could pump antibiotics through his veins. It’d be the fever that would get him in the end – it was always the fever that got those who fought through the first few days.

Resisting the urge to curse aloud, Felix shrugged his coat off of his shoulders and placed it over Schäfer’s body. The youngster seemed to have shrunk in stature – there was little doubt that he was barely into his late teens. Looking into glassy, unmoving eyes, Felix lay a gentle slap on the kid’s cheek.

“Otto, keep your eyes open. C’mon, stay with me. The medic’ll be here soon. Stay with me.”

By the time the medic eventually emerged from the bunker, Felix had already started digging Schäfer’s grave.

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