Hate

Bombs explosions echoed all around the dugouts and through gas and dirt-filled air. With each burst of flame, soldiers were consumed by fire and shrapnel. The mud made it hard to walk and bodies littered the ground like in one of the dreaded concentration camps. The Nazi-Axis aircrafts that flew over head only brought more turmoil to few scattered survivors of the strafing run. One figure could be seen, along a one mile stretch of the maze of dugouts, dragging a short, stubby gun behind him in the dirt.

Greg plodded along, muddied from head to toe and his face an open window to his exhaustion. He had been alone for nearly a day now with nowhere to go. He was wedged in between the enemy lines and with no way out. His black regiment had been wiped from the face of the earth in the bloody battles they had fought, and it was mostly because they hadn't the necessary equipment needed to fight a proper war. He was angry with all the white people who held his race in contempt. He was angry with his friends that were in his small scouting group for not listening to him. Now they were dead.

Plopping down on the ground, he expressed a heavy sigh and looked at the horrific scene around him. If he hadn't been trying to get over the shock of death, he would have knelt and cried. His emotions were worn to the limit and his sorrow was beyond what he had ever imagined before. He knew just about ever body that lay at his feet. He had been trained with them and had been with them ever since they had come to this country and fought in the war for the fate of world freedom that was now threatened by the governing of Adolf Hitler.

A slight drizzle began and started to pick up pace. Slinging his gun over his shoulder, he wearily stood up and continued walking along. He didn't care where he went, where he was. It didn't matter where the opposing troops were. He was going to die from lack of food or from being killed. Either was just as likely as the other.

A plane flew over head and zoomed out of view. Then it circled again. After the second pass, it let up a red flare. As Greg passed a hastily dug cave, he heard the plane starting to circle again. He looked up into the air and right when the stubby, red swastika came into view, a hand reached out and pulled Greg off his feet. He landed in a heap, a little ways into the cave right as the sound of a machine gun filled the air. It ceased when the sound of the plane passing, over was heard.

Greg looked about him in fright. In response, a voice issued from behind. "Greg, it's me." A light flicked on and pointed upwards. The beam fell across a black, old and wrinkled face. It was full of concern and care.

Greg calmed down instantly. "Henry. I thought that you were sent out."

The one that Greg had called Henry shook his head in sadness. "Nope. They hadn't enough space on the plane to carry me. They had no concern for a sixty-five year old medic. Besides, I'm black. They don't really care if we die out here or not, just as long as we fight for them." Flicking the switch on the flashlight, the old man slowly leaned back against the dirt that made up the cave walls, grunting as he did so. When he was propped up, he let out a sigh of relief and blessed the wall. There was a clanking sound and the old, laid back voice answered in response. "Thanks, Bill."

At the sound of water swishing around in the canteen, Greg's dry mouth started to water. As if the old man could read his mind, Greg felt the cold metal against his arm. Grasping it in both hands, he let the dirty water drip down into his mouth. Even though the taste of it was revolting, it was the only thing that they had and they had to use it. After he was finished, Greg wiped his face on his sleeve and put the cap back on the canteen. His eyes were adjusting to the darkness now and could make out other figures in the darkness. There were five at least.

Passing the water back to Henry and shuffled through his ratty pack. When he felt the object he wanted, he pulled it out and set it on the ground. Then pulling out a smaller object, he stuck it against something and lit wick. After many seconds, the wick caught and sent a beam all across the small cave.

Other black men put their hands to their eyes in response to the intense light. There were seven of them, all skinny, under fed, and muscular. All of them had their guns at their sides and were ready to take action if necessary at any moment. There was a bend in the cave, which explained why he couldn't see the evening light. How he had landed where he did, he hadn't a clue. One of the muscular guys must have pulled him in and around the bend, because Henry wasn't muscular enough to do that.

"I thought that we should have more light in here." Setting the lantern and his gun aside, he laid against the wall as well. "What are you doing here?" Greg raised his hand and motioned towards all of the men in the area.

Henry sighed and turned to the smaller of the men. With a quick gesture, he closed his eyes. Taking the cue, he began the tale. We were going along, the big group of us, when we were jumped, and most of us died. We got the Nazis first because they had a smaller group but they fought like demons. When we finished, we found this fox hole and hid it as best we could." He paused here and looked at the ground. After a while, he began flicking pebbles against the mud walls. "It's only a matter of time before they find us here."

Henry began to boil in side. After several moments, he couldn't hold it in any more and let it all out. "Why do we have to have the bad stuff when we fight just like them? Why can't us blacks be treated like a normal person instead of the treatment of animals? We are normal even if we look like we are different! We are just as different as a dog and another dog!"

Greg reached over and grabbed his arm, holding him steady with a grip the could have been from a twenty year old. "What happened to your scouting party?"

At this, Henry couldn't hold it in anymore. Tears flowed from his eyes and fell to the ground, slowly turning it to mud. "They're dead. We got spotted by a plane, and they dropped two bombs. It was over that fast. We hadn't even gotten to behind enemy lines." He couldn't go any further because of the tears that were coming on at a steady rate now. Even as he was ending his words, he started choking from shortness of breath.

Greg reached over and pulled a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and handed it over Henry in a swift motion. Accepting it gratefully, he wiped his eyes quickly and blew his nose. He still whimpered, but he was mostly all right. "I am sorry about that. It's just, my best friend was in there with me. My wife's brother also." With these words, he reached inside his vest pocket and extracted a small sheet. Upon the light toughing it, the faces of the photograph became clear and the smiling faces brought a little light into the gloom. Looking up, Henry turned to Greg. "Do you think that I will ever see my wife and girl again?"

Greg looked him full in the eyes. His words were quick and his face was sad. "I don't know." Stretching out a hand, he wordlessly asked if he could see the picture. Hesitatingly, Henry gave the old man the picture and leaned back against the wall. His mind was full of sadness, but mostly hatred; hate to those that had sent him into this war without proper supplies and who left an old man that should have retired, to die in a bunch of muddy and death filled trenches.

"That's quite the family you have there." Greg's words brought him out of his own mind and into the present. Pointing a finger at the smaller of the figures in the image, he asked, "How old is she, in this?"

Henry received his treasured possession with care. He studied it for a second then answered. "This was taken two days before I left. We saved enough money to buy one from an old white man that hated the segregation laws. My girl was only seven months old. But that was also a couple of years ago. I haven't seen them since."

Just as he finished, foot fall sounded and a German soldier jumped from his place. Shouting a phrase in his native language, he shot one of the other black men. With this, most of the men in the hole jumped up and grabbed their guns. Firing a few more times, he got another in the heart and he fell to the sodden ground. The Nazi rushed to cover, but the man that had told them the story of how they got here, found his target before the other was to safety.

The first man to fall gulped in the air. The bullet had pierced right next to his shoulder and he was holding it, rasping with each breath. Hurrying to his side, Henry pulled him from the ground and began dragging the soldier beside him. Setting his gun on the ground, he placed his last possession in his breast pocket, and picked his weapon back up. "Let's go! They've found us." Leading them to the entrance, the group was more prepared for the next attack. A small patrol of five Hitler youth patrolled the exit and began firing at the site of the African Americans. Hate for the opposing race, burned in their eyes as they began to assault. They were quickly downed and forgotten.

Henry shouted to another, less experienced soldier, to take the man he supported. The addressed, rushed to do the sergeant's bidding. Free of his load, he clasped his Springfield rifle with both hands as he turned to the black commanding officer. "What's our plan, Lieutenant?"

The man was tall and stout faced. His eyes were blue, which was unusual for a black man. Pointing a spindly finger down a narrow and long passageway, he started walking in that direction as he issued his commands in a deep, ruff voice. "Not far from here, around this bend, is a small area that isn't very deep and possibly has a machine gun with ammo. We will crouch there, and take out any troops that come our way." After darting his finger in hand motions, the dropped it and continued to the area that he had specified. He motioned for his fellow soldiers to follow, and they hurried after their commanding officer.

Henry found himself walking by Greg, who was limping along with great difficulty and was huffing and puffing with each step. Putting an arm around the experienced medic, he supported him with as much strength as he had. Greg let out a sigh of relief as Henry did so. "Thanks for that. I needed it."

Henry turned his head and nodded, picking up the pace as they went. When they were nearing the position that the lieutenant had mentioned, Henry let out a sigh. His anger against the US Military was as strong as ever. Because of them, millions of men would never see their families again. Because of them an innocent man was killed, out right without a chance to defend himself. Because of them, all black Americans were a disgrace in the eyes of the western world. That was why all of his regiment was either dead, or about to die at the hands of Nazis.

At the moment that Henry set Greg down, boot steps could be heard coming across the plank bridge, towards them. He quickly took position behind the large mounted gun and loaded one of the two ammo strings. The lieutenant turned to face the remaining troops. "It has been a pleasure serving with you. If this is to be our last stand, then lets give them every thing we've got." Right then, a mass of German soldiers rounded the bend.

Two popped up from their hiding places and threw their last grenades. The aim was true and stuck down several Nazis before they knew what had hit them. The remaining acted instinctively and raised their guns to counter the ambush. Two fell in the first few seconds. Henry took out some more Nazis and another in his regiment took out a couple more. His side still had the upper hand from the element of surprise. As the other side dashed for cover, most were killed without a shot fired from their guns. The few that did make it out of the cross fire, took out grenades and threw them. The leader saw them coming and yelled a harsh, "Look out!"

As most of the small group ducked, the one that was already injured didn't duck fast enough. With the smoke all around them, they weren't able to see so another was killed from the enemy's random fire. After the smoke cleared, four lay in the mud, dead. There was only the lieutenant, him and the aging medic left. With luck on their side, they were able to finish off the others that remained without as much as a gun-pepper wound. After the last had collapsed, they stood up and the leader issued for them to follow, not daring to speak, lest other Nazis were around. After several turns and bends, there was not even a mouse.

Gripping Greg's shoulder, Henry tried his best to support him. Planes now flew over head, and off in the distance, explosions could be heard. So there were other survivors. Henry hadn't doubted that. But there was always the glimmer of doubt in the back of his mind. And now they were getting slaughtered now without the slightest chance of emerging from this death pit alive. He made the accident of voicing his opinions loud enough for Greg to hear. "So you think this is the fault of the United States that we were left here? If so you must know that we are here so that millions can enjoy freedom. We are saving the lives of all the men and the few women on those planes."

"Well they left you here, a sixty five year old war veteran to die like only an animal should."

"They left me because I wanted someone else to get on that plane! I am here on my own free will!" Greg stared the younger down with a large and very distinguishable cowl. "I don't blame the US for this war." Right as he ended his sentence, a whistle sound filled the air right above them and Henry, acting on instinct, dove for cover. With the older in tow, his weight anchoring him in place, Henry only got a few feet before his body twirled around, mid air, moving Greg quickly behind him. The bomb exploded behind him, sending shrapnel in all directions, and blowing the two farther away, resulting from the shock wave.

As he slammed into the wall, his left arm snapped like a twig. Grunting at the force of the impact, he hassled to get up from ground, with Greg's weight pinning him to the ground. Unable to use his useless arm, it took much strength and exertion to get on both feet. Then as realization dawned on him, he quickly turned Greg over with his good arm. He had received many pieces of shrapnel in his back and the chance for survival was none at all. In his last moments, the medic barely whispered the words, "Don't blame them for this. Don't hate them." With that, his eyes clouded over and he died in the arms of the younger.

Henry sat there for a minute, shock rippling through his body. If it hadn't been for Greg, he too, would be dead. Lifting him into his arms, he cradled what was left of the old man. After a few seconds of this, he began to sob lightly then it grew. He had been almost a grandfather to him and many years to end like this was out of his grasp of reality. Bombs went off in the distance, but he didn't care. He would have preferred to die, before seeing the other's life end like this.

After many minutes of sadness, Henry carefully set the body on the ground and through tears and turmoil, he dug a shallow pit. It wasn't much, but he couldn't bear to leave the body out in the open. Wrapping the deceased with his jacket and those of his friends, he laid the man in the small hole and with tears streaking down his face, covered the hole slowly. When all that remained to be covered was his head, he studied the face for a moment longer. It was a picture of calamity, but somehow, the picture of calmness and peace was painted on his face; like what he had deserved in the first place. Whispering the solemn good-bye, He pushed the remaining dirt over the man and began a walk that was certain to end in death.

After walking for many minutes, he slumped to the ground. The old man's last words were echoing through his mind as he had been walking. Don't hate them. Don't hate them. The peace that had been shown on Greg's face affected him like nothing else in his life had. He no longer hated them, but he hated himself for not standing behind Greg, protecting him from those lethal pieces of metal. He had lost one of the wisest men he had come across in all his days and he couldn't help but blame himself for this. It was useless to try and think otherwise.

Choking on his tears he turned to the only comfort he had left. Putting his hand to his chest, he searching in all of his many pockets until he found what he was looking for. Pulling the photograph into view, he studied the figure of his wife and his small daughter, barely able to support her own head. Homesickness overtook him and he cried harder then he ever had in his life. It was soft, but he had trouble just to take breaths from the air that was again filled with rain. Stoking the picture, he didn't see the figure that crept into view. A shot sounded, and Henry's grip on his last treasure died along with the man.

Henry found himself in a white hall and he saw many people that he had met in the life past him. He just walked along, without anyone noticing him. After a time, there were some stairs that seemed to be clean of color. Pausing at the stairs, he looked around. "You're late." At the voice, he looked up the stairs and saw a figure descending the passage with ease. He couldn't make out the face, because of fog that was drifting until the figure was upon him. "There is work for you to do." Greg's keen and smiling face beamed down at him. "Welcome home.         



                                                                                ~P. Glen