Free Unlikely Warrior by Georg Rauch

to all and tell them I’m fine. 100,000 kisses from your Georg
    On January 1, we were sent to search a nearby woods and the adjacent village for partisans. The village had been evacuated sometime previously. We found nothing in the woods, and then we were ordered to search each house in the village thoroughly. I checked each one assigned to me, going first into the room on the left, then the one on the right, and finally the attic.
    In the fourth house I found a young man, about seventeen years old, in civilian clothing and cowering in a corner of the attic. I gave him a sign to come out and follow me, which he did without hesitation. A few officers were standing outside in the square. I brought the man to Hauptmann Winter, the battalion commander, and reported. Then I received the order I shall never forget.
    “Go with the man over there and shoot him. He is a partisan.”
    I stood paralyzed.
    “Well, what are you waiting for? Carry out my order. Dismissed.”
    I was nineteen years old, three weeks on the front, and now I was supposed to shoot a young, unarmed person. I had already studied his face. It was handsome and filled with fear, the features still almost those of a child. Maybe he simply hadn’t wanted to go to war, just like me, and had hidden himself when it came time to be a soldier. Or maybe he had still been too young.
    I marched away with him, not knowing where I was going or what I should do. I knew I couldn’t just shoot him. But was I certain of that? If I didn’t do it, what would happen? Refusal to obey a direct order meant court-martial, with an automatic sentence of death. Those were the rules farther to the rear.
    Here in the front lines, perhaps it would depend on the mood of the officer. He could have me shot immediately to set an example or have me ordered to a minesweeping unit. I knew from hearsay that this was also a death sentence. The young man would be shot either way, whether I did it or someone else did. On that point nothing could be changed.
    Haas came around the corner. He must have sensed my dilemma. Desperate, I turned to him for advice. He already knew me well enough to see right off that mine wasn’t one of those smaller problems, something that one just wasn’t in the mood for doing. I must have been very pale.
    Haas was certainly not a bad person, but thanks to his years at the front he was hardened, rational. He said, “I’ll do it for you.”
    He led the boy away. In all of the war, there was never again a shot more painful for me than the one that shortly rang out over the quiet village. I will hear it the rest of my life.
    This was one of the stories that I didn’t write home to my mother. In fact, I had made up my mind at the beginning to write only reassuring letters, but I soon found out that it wasn’t possible. She wouldn’t have believed me, anyway, because of something that I didn’t know at the time. She was taking my letters to her sister-in-law, Rhoda Wieser, one of the most highly respected graphologists in Germany. Together the two women regularly analyzed my handwriting in order to ascertain my true mental and emotional state.
The East, January 5, 1944
Dear Mutti,
Today I am more or less on my feet again. For the last five days I’ve had a fever that was constantly between thirty-eight and forty. In addition I had terrible headaches and was vomiting all the time. I was completely wiped out. At sick bay they took my temperature and then informed me that they couldn’t do anything for me. “Everybody has that sometime.” Not even an aspirin. Today I have no more fever, but I can hardly stand up. My mood is below zero; that’s why I’ll write when it’s better again. I still haven’t caught sight of any mail. I hope at least that you are receiving my letters, since they usually leave with soldiers going on furlough to Germany. Till next time, kisses,
Your Georg

 
    MARIANOVKA—THE FIRST BATTLE
    A surprise command to pull out of the village came