A Reason to Fight | Schofield

10 | Survival of the Fittest

Schofield and I wasted no more time as we climbed the stairs to the street. We paused, unsure of where to go next. Schofield looked to his left down the lengthy corridor.

"We need to head Southeast. Towards the trees." He started down the road. I followed.

We moved through the shadows in what we guessed the be the right direction. Time was catching up with us, nipping at our heels. Even if there was a doubt in my mind we were going the wrong way, I wouldn't have dared stop to recalculate. We didn't have time to second guess ourselves anymore.

Ahead of me, Schofield reached a divide in the road, where multiple alleyways branched off of the main road. He dipped into the one on his right, quickly glancing back to make sure I was close behind. I stayed light on my feet as I followed, doing everything I could to keep as quiet as possible.

A loud noise stopped us in our tracks—ahead, a door flew open and a German soldier stumbled out onto the street. He vomited all over the ground, leaning over with his hands on his knees. We were probably fifteen feet down the street from him, but the man was too occupied to take any notice of us. Schofield grabbed the sleeve of my jacket and tugged me through a doorway to our left, slipping into the darkness.

The room we found ourselves in had little light—only that of the church fire burning in the distance. At the far end of the room, its light spilled through the door the puking soldier had just exited. A small fire pit burned nearby on the floor, and the rest of the space was covered in smoke and empty bottles.

Schofield, still gripping tightly to my sleeve, lead us quietly through the shadows around the perimeter of the room. My eyes searched wildly for a way out which didn't lead us into the soldier at the door. The smell of alcohol, sweat, and smoke clogged my nose and burned my throat. I fought the urge to cough.

Movement from a few feet away caught my eye, and someone stepped into the light. I looked up and locked eyes with a young German soldier, fear striking me through the chest. All three of us stopped dead in our tracks, staring back at one another, wide-eyed and shocked.

Looking into his eyes, I knew that all three of us wouldn't come out of this alive. It was us or him.

The boy—he was just that, a boy, probably only in his late teens—opened his mouth to scream. Schofield was on him in seconds, pushing him hard against a pillar with his palm clamped over his mouth. I remained still, unsure of what to do and scared of provoking the situation. The boy stared back at Schofield with wildly frightened eyes as Schofield brought a finger to his lips, begging him to stay silent and let us slip away unnoticed.

The boy nodded.

Schofield ever so carefully brought his hand away, glancing at me as he took a step back from the boy and warily prepared to escape. I thought maybe he really would stay silent, that he would show mercy and let us live.

I was wrong.

"Engländer!" he cried, turning his head in the direction of the soldier who was presumably still outside wallowing in his own vomit. Schofield rammed himself into the boy, shoving his hand against his face once again and tackling him to the floor. The scuffle created a great deal of noise, and I was torn between watching anxiously for the drunken soldier to come running in or trying to help Schofield as he struggled against the boy on the ground. Schofield's gun fell on the ground behind him as the two fought.

Schofield let out an agonizing gasp as the boy bit into his hand, which only made him push deeper against the boy's mouth. His other hand reached for the boy's neck—watching in horror as he began to strangle the life out of the boy, I suddenly became sick to my stomach.