War in the Streets
February 1945: Germany- In soft rain I trudged the cobbled streets. I had no direction, no purpose. To my right
stood the old cathedral, a symbol of hope and faith now desolate and battered. The rain fell upon my jacket creating a symphony of soft sound. I carried on, my footsteps echoing around the empty buildings.
The bookshop lay dead to my left. It was completely empty except for the shelves that yearned to hold books
again. The handwritten sign on the window was shattered, the smell of burnt wood and ash was strong. The fire
had devoured most things, leaving only a skeleton of burnt shelves and the four standing walls. Darkness seemed
to loom over the shop like a sickness. These streets had seen death and I did not wish to dwell any longer. I lifted
my backpack, filled with all that I owned, higher on my hips and the let the sound of my footsteps take over my
thoughts. The rain started to fall heavier as I crossed the town square.
The eerie silence haunted me for I pictured a town so bustling with life. I dug my hands deeper into my pockets,
discovering the contents as if for the first time; a pocket watch, a small black and white photograph, a lighter, one
standard army issue pocket knife, and a small black book with the words “Holy Bible” written across the front in
faded gold italic. My rifle swung in harmonic motion with each step I took.
“Hurry it up Mason!” Captain Roach called from around the corner, snapping me out of my day dream. I picked
up the pace, my helmet bouncing up and down as it was tied loosely around my head. I rounded the corner to
see the rest of my squadron resting outside a derelict bar.
“We’ll rest here tonight,” Roach growled.
He led with an iron fist but at the same time he was one of the most genuine blokes I had the pleasure to meet. He
was about five foot five inches, a short man, but built like a concrete bunker. His hair was shaved neatly but he had
stubble growing ever so slightly from two days on the road. He led us into the bar. It was set out just like any British
pub, without the England flags and football paraphernalia on the walls. The liquor was all gone, much to the disappointment of a few of the lads but the stools and tables remained. It was untouched by any shell fire or flames.
I joined the force because I was looking for an adventure. I was a patriotic lad, full of hope and excitement. That
hope still remained as I entered the bar. The excitement and anxiety still coursed through my veins. I wanted to fight
for my King and Country and get a free holiday as well. I was placed in a scout squadron, appointed with looking
ahead as the Nazis retreated. We hadn’t seen much fighting and I was still humming with optimism and a naïve
courage. We were closing in on the Germans, forcing them back into inner Germany. The town we were in had a
name I could not pronounce but I knew we were close to Merkers, a small salt mining town.
As I sat hunched over the bar lighting a cigarette, I thought of home and Mother and Mary. I pulled out my pen to
write just as the familiar sound of a Gewher 43 went off and rung in my ears. Simultaneously a bullet whistled past
my shoulder, colliding and splintering the shelves in front of me. Shards of wood pierced my hand and uniform.
“Ambush!” I heard someone shout to my left. I grabbed my helmet and clumsily put it on my head. My rifle was
out of reach as more bullets whistled in through the smashed windows. I picked up my rifle and crouched behind a
pillar.
“Grenade!” I heard another person shout, but before I could react I was knocked back by an explosion. More
wood shattered and splintered around me. My ears were ringing and all I could make out were blurred silhouettes.
A man lying on the ground, surrounded by a pool of red. Another crouching behind the bar, he popped his head
up for a second before he was immediately blown back in a cloud of red mist. I could not hear the commotion.
All I could make out was a scream coming from a distance. My vision returned and I was struck with the sudden
realization that I was the one screaming. I regained focus and crouched tightly against the wall of the building.
Bullets pummeled the exterior walls with heart wrenching thuds. To my left I saw Captain Roach lying face up, a
blank expression on his face, nothing in his eyes. Dunfield was hudd led in against the wall clutching his rifle like
a child holding a bear. Suddenly there a thunderous boom. The sound of rubble hitting concrete and crackling
flames leapt out from across the street. A plane roared overhead. The familiar sound of a British Spitfire penetrated
the walls. Machine gunfire proceeded to follow the explosion. Bullets rained down on our attackers till there was no
longer any incoming fire. We had been saved. Although I did not know who ‘we’ were anymore.