Forgive Me

The shells, the bullets, were all messengers of death.

Hellstrom could feel it in the air. Could feel the very cold chill of death's fingers grazing the back of his neck like a lover's caress and yet here he was, abandoning his position, crawling through the mud and blood and broken debris, to reach a fallen soldier he didn't know. A soldier he himself had shot.

A soldier who was the enemy.

A soldier whom he could not consciously leave lying in the mud to die like a dog.

He was a Sturmbannfuhrer.

A major.

His duty was to the soldiers.

To protect them.

Even if they were not his soldiers.

So, despite the heavy threat of his own death hanging thick in the air all around him, he crawled through the space between his trench and the spot where the soldier had fallen. It took him longer than he'd expected, but will hell breaking all around it was no wonder really, and when he reached the soldier he instantly knelt by the man's side. Blood had soaked through the man's shirt from the wound in his side. A wound that was slowly killing the man.

"Sei still, mein freund," he said softly when the soldier tried to jerk away from the hand he rested on the man's shoulder. "Das wird schon wieder."

The injured man coughed, blood speckling his lips and chin, it made Hellstrom cringe. "I…I don't…understand what you're…saying buddy…"

The man's voice held no accent. American most likely. Hellstrom had encountered many since the Normandy landings several weeks earlier. Reaching up, he carefully removed the man's helmet. This, like his touching the man's shoulder, was rewarded with a jerk but the man's injury limited his movements. He drew in a sharp breath as he stared down at the man's face.

No, he silently corrected himself as he gently ran a hand through dark brown curls, a gesture meant to sooth. Not a man. This is a junge. A boy.

"You must be still," Hellstrom said again, using English this time, not surprised that the soldier, the boy, looked shocked. Like many of the so called Allied Forces the boy did not think he, as a German, spoke English. They did not seem to think it was possible that German might have studied at Oxford. "You do more damage by moving."

The boy let out a low sound, one of his hands moving to cover the wound. Blood slipped through his fingers, staining them crimson and the mere sight made Hellstrom's stomach churn. There was still time. The boy could still be saved. Looking over his shoulder, the Sturmbannfuhrer saw some of his men, hunkered in the trench, peering over the edge of it, watching him and obviously trying to figure out what he was doing.

"Sanitäter!" When none of his men moved, obviously confused by his yelling for a medic, he put a little more snarl into his words. "Hab ich mich nicht klar ausgedrückt?! Holt sofort einen Sanitäter!"

If the situation had not been so serious he would have laughed at how quickly and comically two of his men jumped to follow his order. Looking back at the injured soldier, he found that the boy was watching him with wary brown eyes. "It is good, ja," he said as he studied that pale, smooth face. The face of a boy who couldn't have been any older than nineteen. "The sanitäter…the medic…is coming."

"Wh…Why?"

Hellstrom frowned. "Why what?"

"The…The medic…why…"

"Weil sie verletzt sind," he said without thinking only to quickly realize his mistake when the boy looked at his quizzically. "Because you are hurt."

"Shouldn't…matter…we're enemies, right?"

Hellstrom shook his head. "Right now we are soldiers and nothing more."

The boy blinked at him, as though disbelieving the words. After a few moments the young soldier gave the faintest nod. "Soldiers…just soldiers…" The boy's chest began heaving and pain etched itself onto his face. "Well I'm…I'm Joseph Collins…but people call…call me Joey, sir…"

Hellstrom smiled. "I am Niklaus Hellstrom."

"Pleasure to…to…meet you…sir."

"The pleasure is mine, Joey."

A pained smile graced Joey's face and Hellstrom began to silently pray that the medic reached them quickly. His gaze slipped down to the boy's wound. It was still bleeding and he knew that if it wasn't treated quickly it could potentially become infected which was as much of a threat to the boy's health as the initial wound. He covered Joey's hand with his own, feeling the blood sticking to his skin, and tried not to look as fearful as he felt.

"Where are you from, Joey," he asked calmly, hoping to distract the boy.

"New…New Brunswick…Canada…" Joey's eyes seemed to light up and Hellstrom could tell the boy was proud of this. "Little…Little town called Woodstock…What about…you?"

Hellstrom chuckled. "Berlin."

"Guess we're both…pretty…far from…from home, sir…"

"Ja, we are," Hellstrom agreed with a slight smile. "You have family, ja? Someone waiting for you? Pretty girl maybe?"

A soft, weak chuckle sounded from Joey's lips. "No, sir, I don't…don't have a girl waiting…just my…my momma and family…" Joey's eyes took on a shine to them and Hellstrom knew then that the boy loved his family a great deal. "What about…about you, sir?"

"A fiancé," Hellstrom lied smoothly, making it more believable by smiling. There was no sense in telling the boy he had no one waiting for him. That he was alone. "Her name is Ingrid. We're to be married when I get home."

Joey smiled but coughed, causing blood and spit flying. Hellstrom looked over his shoulder and yelled once again for a medic. When he looked back at Joey he found the boy's face was much too pale. He gave the boy's hand a squeeze. "Hold on, mein freund," he said as he stroked Joey's hair back with his free hand. "Just hold on. Help is coming."

With a low sound the boy shook his head.

"I don't…I don't think it's going to…to matter, sir."

"Joey…"

The boy struggled to reach in his pocket, pulling out an envelope, his hand shaking so badly that he nearly dropped the envelope. "I…I'd really appreciate it…if…if you could…mail this home for…for…for me…"

Hellstrom wanted to say no. He wanted to say that Joey was going to be okay. That the medic would reach them soon. But he knew the truth. Just as this boy knew. So he did the only thing he could. He took the envelope and tucked it protectively into his jacket. "I promise, Joey, I will mail it."

Joey smiled again, this time it was faint and the light was slowly fading from his eyes. "Thank…Thank you, sir…thank you."

"You're welcome."

Tears prickled Hellstrom's eyes and he blinked them away just as the medic knelt next to him. He shook his head at the man before he could even open his kit. Looking back at Joey, Hellstrom drew a deep breath. "It's going to be alright, Joey," he said softly, holding Joey's gaze the entire time. "Everything's going to be alright."

Joey made a soft sound, a sound Hellstrom had heard numerous times in recent months, and the German tightened his hold on Joey's hand, physically telling the boy he was not alone. He watched, helplessly, as the young Canadian's life slipped away. Hellstrom drew a shaky breath as he reached up and closed Joey's eyes.

"Ruhe in Frieden, Joseph."

Without another word Hellstrom and the medic returned to the trenches. Quickly composing himself, Hellstrom began barking orders to his troops, needing to maintain control of not only the situation but also his emotions. He could mourn the loss of a young life later. For now he had to focus on the living.

oOoOoOo

Two days later Hellstrom was sitting in a military hospital, his arm and leg bandaged from shrapnel. He'd been pulled from battle after shielding two of his soldiers. Now he was being honourably discharged from service. He was no longer a Waffen-SS officer. He was going home. But first he had a promise to keep. He looked at the envelope on the little table next to the bed. It hadn't been sealed and, the night Joey had died, he'd sat and read Joey's last letter.

It was a 'just in case' letter. Something written in the event that the worst possible outcome occurred.  And it had.

Picking up a pen he pulled a piece of paper towards him and began to write a letter of his own.

Mrs Collins,

You do not know me, nor do I know you, but for a short time I was acquainted with your son, Joseph.

He was a brave young man who, even at the very end, loved and thought only of his family. I wanted you to know, ma'am, I was there with him at the end. I tried to help him, ma'am, I truly did but I was too late. I am deeply sorry. Not only for your loss but for what I am about to tell you now.

I am the reason for your son's death.

By this I mean that I am the German soldier who shot him.

I was not going to tell you this originally. I was merely going to send his letter to you as he asked of me but then I began to think that you would want to know what happened to your son.

I do not ask for your forgiveness, I've done nothing to earn such kindness from you. I do wish for you to know how deeply sorry I am for what I have taken from you. If it were possible I would trade places with Joseph just so that you might be able to see him again.

Again, I am deeply sorry.

Sincerely Yours,
Niklaus Hellstrom

Hellstrom set his pen aside and reread the letter before folding it and carefully placing it in an envelope he'd already addressed to Joey's mother. He also placed Joey's envelope into it before sealing it. He'd drop it in the mail after he was discharged in the morning.

Sitting there, envelope in hand, staring at the name of Joey's mother he felt tears prickle his eyes.

As they fell a ragged sound tore from his throat.

He closed his eyes and soon found himself sobbing. It had been a long time since he'd openly cried. A long time since his emotions had been strong enough that they'd threatened to destroy the cold exterior he portrayed to the world.

"Vergib mir, Joseph," he sobbed, burying his head in his hands, shoulders shaking as the sobs continued to wrack his body. "Bitte vergib mir."

Forgive me.