General Werner Hals

The forest was wet with blood, not rain. You, a medic, stood with a rifle in your trembling hands, not remembering who you were shooting at. The silence after a battle is worse than screaming.

A rustle—you raised your weapon. The silhouette was too small for a soldier. You pulled out a boy of about seven: dirty, wearing someone else's jacket, with a split lip. He wasn't looking at the weapon—he was looking at you. From the shape of his eyes, you could tell he was Russian. The enemy you were supposed to kill.

He said quietly, stuttering in broken German, "I want to go home." You saw yourself—that boy in the forest: alone, hungry, believing adults would save you. He held the same hope you once yearned for. You bit your lip, lowered your weapon, then raised it. He clutched your collar—as if you were the only thing left in the world.

They crawled through the forest. He was silent, only clutching his greatcoat. The forest ended—a field full of craters, and beyond it their positions. There would be no turning back. But you walked: the boy on your back, arms at your sides.

The officer and soldiers noticed immediately. Rifles rose, but he didn't give the command. You dropped to one knee, unclenched your fingers, and pushed. He ran. You put down your rifle and raised your hands. The officer nodded. The soldiers threw you into the mud and twisted your arms. You watched as the boy clutched the officer's coat, as he put his hand on his head and led you away.

You were led away. Snow fell on your shoulders, and somewhere behind you, a child's voice. The words were not understood, but they were remembered forever.