The day was ripe. I enlisted for the army. Just as my fathers had before me, I was to march on and bring glory to our country. War against the British was inevitable. With the Führer’s plans, no German would starve. He would win back the territory lost in the Great War. He would win back the Third Reich’s dignity. I was proud to fight for such a noble cause. I was willing to give everything for this valiant effort, even my life, to guarantee my family’s prospects to live comfortably, with enough food and money.

    I was mobilized under Commander Friedrich Wilhelm Ernst Paulus, of the Sixth Army. I was ready as I was loaded into a draped truck. Rowdy men joked amicably, talking about their families, girlfriends, wives and children. Not one mentioned that they wouldn’t come back. Everyone said they would bring some land or a trinket back for their troubles. “I want a big farm, with a nice dog,” said Rudolph, a stout man. “All I need is the pay,” said a wiry thin man whose name I didn’t know. All I wanted was the life I had growing up, when my mother and I lived in the countryside, before we went to the city. My father had died in the war, so we lost our farm, as we had lost the steady stream of money he had made.

    On my days crossing the treacherous Russian terrain, all hell broke loose. My battalion was ambushed, as we trekked across Stalin’s razed villages. Was their leader that mad? Did he kill his own people? I saw a single corpse, mangled beyond belief. Revulsion clutched my stomach as I gagged and threw up. As I coughed my lungs out, Soviet troops jumped out, guns blazing. Our battalion retaliated as the Soviets tried to run. Trying to stay calm and act as I was trained to, I fired round after round after them, yelling, “Get back you mongrels!” Men with fear in their eyes desperately tried to get away from our superior weapons, but were mowed down to the last man. The flashes of gunfire subsided, and the ringing in my ears stopped echoing. Holding his hands up, the last surviving ambusher was escorted away, under guard, and I was told to go to the medical tent. Looking down, I realised that I had been shot multiple times in the leg, but to me, it felt like a dull ache. The adrenaline had covered the pain up. I shuffled to the medical tent, and a medic probed through the wound, extracting bullets.

    The medic, who was named Otto, looked at me hesitantly. When he said the words, they seemed distant. “We will have to send you to a hospital, and it would be far away,” he said,”But you probably won’t ever get to this front again.” Tears clouded my eyes. I wanted to fight for the Führer, but then I realized if I died, what use would I be? I was carefully maneuvered to the the medical truck, and I was sent to the Bayreuth General Hospital, and treated for anthrax, which I had contracted on my way there.

    As I was admitted out, I received my formal honorable discharge, which had been sent to me when I contracted anthrax, assuming that I would die, and a letter to work as a prison guard, with the SS, dated from three days ago. Since I was not in the general army, I took the other opportunity to work for the Führer. I was briefed on how to handle situations, and this was when I began to waver. If you have to beat the prisoners? I felt soft-hearted, and steeled myself. “I’ll do anything to make our country great again!” I told the examiner. “That’s what we want to see.” he replied.

    At the grounds, I was shown the map and weaponry. I made sure to know the barracks and places for the prisoners. The Slavic camps were drastically different from other prison camps they had shown. Beatings were more regular. There, I met the prisoners, whom I was supposed to beat, hurt, and otherwise torture them for being alive. My misgivings of the Führer had just started. My best friend as a kid had been Slavic. Anton was my partner-in-crime for everything. We built snow forts and swam in the brook together. Any starving prisoner could be him.

    I was sure the Führer could not have organized this, but I was wrong. Confirmed by the other guards, Hitler himself had ordered the Slavic people to be counted as subhuman. Did the man that I had held in such high esteem want all these people to die? Without warning, I stole away, taking guns, the rations I had saved and the keys, running, just any which way, trying to get away from the hellish prison camp. Was the Führer himself not a Christian? The atrocities I had seen in the camp were terrible enough to make God himself cry.

    I slept in a farmer’s barn, sleeping deep into the hay, so not to get caught, but covered in filth. It was only then when I realized the folly of my actions. I was to be imprisoned for treason or worse, killed, as sure as death and taxes. A single gun would not protect me from the SS. Life was precarious, but I knew I could not condone the acts that the German High Command had committed. I knew I had to head for the Allied Front. The British one to be exact, as the Russians would never accept me. So I headed there, dodging the sun as not to be seen. Day in, I hid in farms and trees, and day out, I hit the road, jumping into ditches when any light came, and generally doing my best to survive.

    Luck was with me when I passed through Cologne, and no one recognized me. As much as I wanted to stay and enjoy myself, I headed south and west. “Halt!” a voice behind he said. I froze, as I had just reached the outskirts of the city and I had forgotten to check for anyone following me. I looked around, but there was no one other than the soldiers around. “By the order of the Third Reich, I order you to stop!” cried the colonel. I ran, smugly pleased that a man of such a high rank was ordered to capture me. I had important news from the prison camp. News that would spark international controversy. News that some of my own people may not know.

    I had hoped to somehow retreat into the wilderness, dodging the bullets until I could somehow get free, but was shot down fast, bleeding onto the dirt road.

My body went limp as a rag doll. My vision went fuzzy as I lost consciousness, knowing I would never see my family again. Knowing that I had committed treason

against the German High Command. Knowing that I had tried to do the right thing. And knowing I might, just might, go to heaven.