A Reason to Fight | Schofield

11 | Mercy

A sickening feeling settled into my gut as I looked back at the man, my mouth falling open in shock and despair. How could this have happened?

He stared back solemnly, a soft smile creasing the dirt that covered his face.

"I'm glad you made it out of the trenches," he said softly. His German accent was thick, but I understood him nonetheless.

I stared quietly back, unknowing of what to say.

His body stirred and he grunted, like he wanted to get up, so I quickly helped push away some of the debris covering him. With utter dismay, I found his body under the rocks to be covered in blood, a gaping wound leaving a gash in his lower abdomen. The officer looked down sadly at it. Remorse flooded every vein in my body, and I dipped my head in sorrow.

"I'm so sorry," I said, turning away as tears burned my eyes. "You showed me kindness, and this is how I repaid you."

"No," the man said with a thick German accent. "I left you to die. You owe me nothing."

"You probably didn't have a choice."

"We always have a choice."

I finally looked up at him and made eye contact.

"Why didn't you help them interrogate me?" I asked, shaking my head in wonder. "You knew English the whole time. . . You could have translated, but you kept it from them. Why?"

The officer broke eye contact and turned his eyes to the sky above, where the sun was quickly rising above the trees.

"I wish I could give you a better reason," he said weakly. "I don't know. It just didn't feel right to help them hurt you. To terrorize a defenseless woman." His voice was coming barely above a whisper. I knew all too well that he didn't have much time left.

"One thing I do admire about the Germans is how deep your loyalties run," I told him. "But your kindness towards me, you allowed it to transcend even beyond your loyalty to your country. I can't thank you enough for that."

He started to speak, looking at me again, but then he broke into a coughing fit in which he spit up blood all over his jacket. I grabbed some of the rags from my pocket and helped clean his face.

"Yes, there is a fierce loyalty that runs in the Deutsche Heer," he said. "But even that loyalty can turn into ambition, pride, even hate. We lose ourselves in the war." He started coughing again, his breaths coming in short wheezes. "I didn't want to become like that. I wanted to remain compassionate in the end. But the longer I stayed in the war, the more I began to lose myself."

I decided to hold onto the man's hand as a way to comfort him in his final moments. He looked to me graciously and weakly moved his head in a way that I think was meant to be a nod of appreciation.

"Let me go get help," I said suddenly, starting to stand up. "I can go find someone and tell them you're here."

"No!" He barked with nearly all the strength left inside him. "They won't understand. . . They will only kill you."

I sat back down, overcome with sorrow. "I don't want to let you die here," I told him.

"Don't worry," he replied. "I am okay."

We fell silent. The man looked upon me, watched me fight the tears that threatened to spill.

"Do not be sad," he whispered. "I won't be leaving much behind."

"I never meant for this to happen," I said, my voice cracking. "Not to you."

"It's okay. I think it's better this way. I didn't have time to become someone I'm not. . . to live long enough to do horrible things and no longer regret them."