Frankie and his fellow soldiers had just settled in when word came down that the Germans had broken through the line and were still coming. Frankie’s division, among others, stood by waiting to mount a counterattack. Soon, their orders came to proceed ahead to the front line and to prepare for combat.
They traveled light, one blanket, one gun, and one knapsack per man. The route to the front line was entangled with Germans, the going exceedingly tough as casualties mounted. Frankie walked cautiously, carrying his gun at the ready. Many of his comrades who walked with him fell wounded and dead, and they were still miles from the front, where the combat was supposed to begin. This was not a drill, not a training exercise, but the real deal…war and all its horror.
Artillery explosions peppered the night sky, lighting the heavens in what seemed like a fireworks display. Frankie’s heart raced as he wondered when his number would come up. He walked, then began running. The men regrouped from time to time, those who were still standing.
When they finally arrived at the front line, Frankie thought he had seen it all, but none of his training had prepared him for this. There were American soldiers dying all around him, artillery shells exploding everywhere, the screams, the smells, the ear-piercing noise…nothing but confusion and chaos. Some men ducked for cover, while other brave souls charged ahead firing their weapons. It was as if he wasn’t even there—just watching it all happen from a distance. It all seemed like a dream…a bloodcurdling nightmare, in fact. Terribly frightened, Frankie did his best to fight through it.
A sergeant yelled, “Soldiers! You, you, and you…take this machine gun up that hill where you’ll have a vantage point and take out some of these Krauts. They’re killing us here!”
Frankie obeyed the order, following two men he didn’t even know to a place he never wanted to go. Once at the top of the hill, they set up the gun. By the flickering lights in the sky, one soldier pointed out the Germans, the other manned the ammo, and Frankie took out as many “Krauts” as he could…just like he was ordered. The enemy dropped by the dozens, but they kept coming.
He mowed down another group. One man got through and started charging toward them. Frankie took aim, but hesitated for a second while the thought flashed through his head that this was another human being. What am I doing?
“Shoot him!” a soldier shouted.
Frankie pulled the trigger again as a shower of bullets sprayed from the gun’s barrel, hitting the rogue German soldier, knocking him to the ground.
“He’s not dead. Shoot him again!”
The German struggled to his feet and pulled a grenade from his belt. Wounded, he staggered toward them. Frankie could see his face, which reflected the same fear as his own. Confronted with no other alternative, he fired again. The bullets exploded against the young man’s chest and he fell—dead.
Suddenly, the gun jammed. Frankie tried to dislodge the shell casing that was wedged in the magazine. They were pinned down and taking a constant barrage of bullets. The Germans advanced and were overrunning them. Retreat being their only chance for survival, Frankie picked up the machine gun and they all ran just as fast as they could. The weight of the gun became a hindrance, so they made the impulsive decision to drop it to hasten their flight, while bullets whizzed by their heads and into the bushes around them. Frankie ran for about a mile until he caught up to some of the division. When he turned around, he discovered that he was alone. The other two men were taken by enemy fire, all before Frankie was even able to introduce himself.
The refuge Frankie sought was short lived. A soldier handed him another rifle and told him to fall in line. It would be a long night, but he successfully survived another scrape with death.
Early the next morning, Frankie began writing Emma a letter. He couldn’t stop thinking about the German soldier he’d killed…the look in his eyes. All of a sudden he felt sick to his stomach. He climbed out of the foxhole on his hands and knees, succumbing to a case of the dry heaves.
“God, forgive me. Please, forgive me.”
He knelt there shaking for almost five minutes before he could regain his composure. A sergeant, who saw the whole thing, yelled over to him, “Buck up, soldier!” Frankie wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket before returning to his foxhole and resuming his letter to Emma.
* * *
Dear Sis,
I thought I’d write you a brief note while I had the chance. We were in a horrible battle last night. I wish I could say it was exciting, but it wasn’t. It was downright scary and I’m not embarrassed to admit it. I had several friends die and many that I fought next to that I never got to know. I did a terrible thing last night. I killed many men. One, in particular, still haunts me. I can still see his face as I shot him over and over again. I hate this. I’m just not cut out for killing. We’re waiting for our orders. Who knows where they’ll send us next. I just wanted to let you know I was safe—relatively speaking. I will write again when I get the chance. If you talk to Tom, tell him I’m waiting for a letter from him. Take good care of yourself.
Love, Frankie
Tears of worry welled in Emma’s eyes as she read the letter. She wished Frankie could come home, that all the men could come back to America and be safe. The thought that the entire world was at war seriously disturbed her.
She pulled her daughter next to her and held her close.
“Is Uncle Frankie okay, Mommy?”
“He’s fine, dear. He’s fine.”