Chapter 1079: A Letter from Afar

My Dearest:

Everything here is terrible, completely different from training. We waited a whole day in a stuffy, choking train car before arriving at the front where we were needed. We were issued our rifles here. You can tell they are very well-maintained.

We are fighting on the Eastern Front. Last time, in a wheat field, a new soldier didn’t keep his body low and got hit by a Soviet sniper. He fell in the field, and we had no way to find him. You have no idea how hard it is to find someone lying down in a field. By the time the medic found the poor man, he had already stopped breathing. We spent that whole day in terror and dejection.

Another deadly battle was when we were attacking and stumbled into an unmarked minefield. It wasn’t until a soldier’s foot was blown off by a mine that we realized the danger. In the end, we could only retreat. More than 100 soldiers returned to our starting point in disgrace, without even seeing the enemy’s face.

Now, we are on the German border. That’s right, the border. A thousand meters to the east is the Soviet-controlled zone, and I am leaning in a trench right now, writing this letter to you. There’s a defense line of at least ten thousand friendly troops around me. The trenches are full of people, but I was lucky enough to find an ammo box, so I can sit and write to you.

There are corpses everywhere. Ours, and the Soviets’. As soon as the Soviets charge, or we decide to charge, the bodies pile up, one on top of the other, with that unique smell of decay. I really want to return to your side. I swear to God.

In your last letter, you said that Mrs. Welen next door had received the official government notice that her son had died in battle, saying he was a hero. But I can only regretfully tell you that I have not seen a single person die heroically. After being shot, they fall to the ground and howl, begging the medics to save them. Or they are taken by a bullet or a shell, just collapsing as if they’ve suddenly fainted.

I drag those unlucky men, my hands gripping their clothes, covered in their blood. Sometimes, before I can even drag them back to the trench, they’ve stopped breathing. After a battle, I always feel like my hands are covered in blood, and I can never wash it clean.

Two years ago, I never would have thought that today I would have to rely on killing to earn my chance to live. The Soviets won’t stop to listen to my explanations, so I can only use my weapon to make them quiet. Yes, I have killed people. I have killed many, many people. I’ve shot at least ten Soviet soldiers, and I finished one off with a bayonet. For this, I received two medals and was promoted to NCO candidate.

Speaking of killing, my dearest, in this insane and desperate place, it’s actually a very easy thing to do. There is no psychological pressure, no obstacle. I just have to aim my weapon at the enemy’s body in the distance, hold my posture, and fire. Soon you can see the other person struggle, then fall and disappear. And at that moment, all you need to do is to shift your muzzle and aim for the next target.

The Führer has equipped us with many efficient weapons for killing. For us, who have to save our own lives on the battlefield, this is very fortunate news. My G43 rifle can automatically load and chamber a round. I just have to keep pulling the trigger, and I can keep firing. The 10-round magazine can be loaded with 5-round standard clips. It’s a very good weapon to use.

At least I was resting far from the front line the day before yesterday, with a hot shower and a hot meal, so I shouldn’t complain so much. But when we passed a row of Soviet soldiers’ bodies that hadn’t been buried yet, and arrived at a position only 11,500 meters from the city of Moscow, the Soviets greeted us with artillery. Four soldiers in the company were killed. The closest one was less than 20 meters from me.

This damned war has kept me from you for so long, but my longing for you has never stopped. God knows why we gave up our good lives to carry a rifle and walk here, to sacrifice a thousand lives just to fight for a piece of land a few hundred meters wide. Maybe the Führer is right, but I don’t see any happy faces here.

Revitalizing Germany has always been my ideal, but my dearest, I don’t know if what I’m doing now can really be considered fighting for my motherland. I fight almost every day, but it’s on someone else’s land. I swore to the flag to be loyal to my Führer, Akado Rudolph, but now I am terrified, afraid that the Führer I swore allegiance to will make me fight this damn war until the end of the world.

I shouldn’t be complaining so much, right? The main reason I’ve been complaining for so long is that my leave was canceled again. I have to stay on the front line and wait for the next rotation. Not being able to see you has put me in a terrible mood, so please forgive my grumbling and chattering…

As he was writing this, a rough, muddy hand pressed down on the not-so-white letter. This hand belonged to his officer, the company commander. “If I were you, I wouldn’t write like that. You know the mail department has very high standards for letters. What you’ve written will only make them ‘accidentally’ lose it.”

The company commander, as he spoke, found a place to sit down. He looked at his subordinate, then lit a cigarette before continuing. “They won’t let this kind of letter go back to the rear. If you really want to tell your wife something, choose some nice words. That way, your wife will know you’re still alive and can still write home.”

“I know, sir. I’m just venting. My letter was already sent to the mail department yesterday. What I wrote on it… you could probably call it a model essay,” the German soldier who was writing the letter said with a smile, putting his pen away. He then unscrewed his canteen and took a sip of water. “You know, I was a German teacher, so sometimes I just like to write these things.”

As he spoke, he tore the letter, which was full of wonderful content but would never have passed the censors, from the notepad, and then tore it to shreds in his hands. He didn’t need anyone to remind him that such a letter could not be mailed home, so he was really just venting and had no real intention of mailing it.

“Yes, Mr. Wenger. I know you are a teacher, and I also know you were a good German teacher,” the company commander said, watching his subordinate tear the paper, which was covered in text, and then begin to rip it into strips. He was relieved. He forced a smile and said with some regret, “You shouldn’t be here. You should be in a school in a small town, standing at a podium, teaching the children things they want to hear.”

“Maybe. But unfortunately, there are too many things that shouldn’t be,” Hans Wenger said with a bitter smile. He then threw the shredded letter at his feet and stomped on it a few times to make sure the paper had been completely destroyed by the mud in the trench, before he looked up. “Maybe this war should have ended a long time ago, don’t you think?”

The company commander looked at Wenger and finally let out a sigh. “Wenger, we all swore an oath to be loyal to the Führer. Do you think you’re the only one who complains? Everyone knows that this war, having reached this point, should have ended long ago. But why is everyone still holding on here?”

He paused, then looked at the faint barbed-wire in the distance. “We all know we have to end the war, and the Führer knows it too. But we must end the war as victors, right? Can you imagine? If we lose, what will happen to Germany?”

It would be turned into a scorched earth, just like Stalingrad. And large swathes of its territory would be carved up, just like the German-occupied territories. Their own children might be sent to concentration camps, and their wives would become the playthings of others… If Germany lost this war, then everything they had done for the Führer, for the German nation, would become a sinful bargaining chip, a burden to be borne by every German in the future.

In a small town in Bavaria, Germany, on a bright and sunny afternoon, a slightly plump young woman took a somewhat stained letter from the postman. She tore open the slightly curled envelope with her delicate white fingers and began to read the contents.

My Dearest:

I am fine at the front. We can take hot showers here and even get hot meals. I don’t know how much effort they must have put in to build such a good frontline camp for us.

The men around me are fighting desperately, shedding their blood and sacrificing for the motherland. I stand among a group of heroes and feel an almost endless strength. We are working hard to crush these Soviets and to fight for a greater living space for our descendants. God as my witness, I have never been afraid, nor have I wavered, because my love for you makes me brave on the battlefield.

The Führer is with us, victory is with us, and my heart is always with you. I will kill the enemy with all my might. General Kluge is a genius. Our army group is always victorious… Maybe before winter comes, we will end the war. At that time, I will come to see you, with a chest full of medals.

Your loving,

Hans Wenger.

The girl closed the letter in her hand, her face as bright as the sunshine. She tucked her hair behind her ear and looked to the distant east. Her beloved was there, in the suburbs of a city called Moscow.

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