Number

Number

It happened earlier than the Eastern Reich Commission had expected. Just a minor miscalculation. One should have been able to hear the bombs dropping from the other side of Earth, but the Commission didn’t hear anything until after it was far too late. After the explosions stopped, the Soviets sent a small recovery crew to see if there were any survivors from the wreckage of the German bunkers. There were only two men still intact. One who was young, the other in his mid thirties. They had been crushed, toppled by the roof of the bunker preserving their bodies from the devastation of the bombs.

“Were these ones ours? They’re wearing our coats,” one of the Soviets asked.

“Budala, look at their uniforms.” The commanding officer kicked one of the bodies over.

“Check their tags just in case,” another said. The first soldier reached down and gently tugged the tags from the necks of his fallen enemies.

“It’s blank. Wait no, see here,” The three men looked and could only one thing on each tag: “356” and “368.”
…

“Do you want a smoke?” 356 asked as he lit his fat cigar with an old match he had found in his backpack.

“Not one of those god-awful Polish cigars,” 368 said bitterly. “My last smoke will be a German cigarette.”

“God-damn, why are always you so gloomy? You lower the moral of our entire platoon. The fact that we have been stationed in Warsaw, trying to fight off the Commie onslaught is already dreary and nightmarish. Every time I see their planes drop a bomb, I hear the sound of thousands of civilians crying for help. Your pessimism pisses everyone off.” He took his cigar out his mouth and blew smoke through his nose. “I believe in change, and I still believe we can win this war,” 356 muttered.

“Change?” 368 scoffed. “My boy, you believe in mere fiction. Most of our platoon is sick, and two of them have already died. We are running low on food and water, plus we are running low on ammo and fuel for our vehicles. We’re wearing the coats of dead Soviets just to keep ourselves warm. Don’t you realize that we are wasting our time out here? That madman Hitler fantasizes that he can still win this war with both the Americans and Soviets crushing Germany like a python. You think that German High Command sees you as a savior, but to them, you are just another nameless number fighting for their whims.”

“Oh, screw you Otto!” 356 shouted, shoving the older man hard in the chest. Two Volkssturm soldiers rushed over to break up the fight, but neither men resisted. They were too tired. Suddenly, the sound of hard boots marching on concrete came from down the hall.

“Achtung!” ordered the Feldwebel. “Did I just hear you use a name, soldat?” 356 stared at the floor, saying nothing. “Look at me, and listen very, very closely. In your personal life, I could care less what name you call yourself or someone else. But in the army, you are nothing but a number. You have no name. The only reason for your being right now is to defend the Fatherland from those filthy communist scum. If I EVER hear you refer to yourself or someone else by anything but their number, I will personally see to your execution! Do I make myself clear, 356?”

“Yes sir,” 356 replied.

“Now, all of you need to make sure that you are ready to leave at 0500 hours before the Soviets begin their raid. Twenty miles west of here we’re bringing the division supplies to construct AA cannons and bunkers, so I suggest all of you pack your supplies now because we won’t be coming back,” the sergeant said. His tone was as cold as winter in Warsaw. He didn’t hate them. His bitterness was just another cruel necessity. And who wouldn’t be bitter, fighting for a lost cause just to stall for a delusional leader…









“Lone Sentry: The German Volkssturm (U.S. WWII Intelligence Bulletin, February 1945).” [Lone Sentry: Germans Disguise Panthers, WWII Tactical and Technical Trends], www.lonesentry.com/articles/volkssturm/index.html.