Battle of the Rhine

Michael unwrapped his lunch of cigarettes, four Philip Moores.He pulled one out, held it between his fingers, and stuffed it back a few seconds later.He didn't smoke, and that stuff always tickled his throat.Mary liked that about him. "Men who smoke stink," she said. "You don't. You smell like sweat."

Michael raised his hand and sniffed his armpit.During the war, you couldn't count on a hot bath every day.During the march before, he took a full ten days to wash himself at the longest time.Tim was still talking about how he'd just had two German women wink at him. "They saw the bread in your hand," said "Big Girl" ruthlessly, tearing open his share of chicken, "or else? Your dick is no longer as long as a cigarette."

"Fuck!" Tim jumped up and grabbed "Big Girl" by the collar, and the two got into a ball.Michael lifted the plate so it wouldn't hurt the fish.Tim tried to take off "Big Girl"'s pants, and "Big Girl" fought back. "You guys can't finish it," Oliver Bowman, "Little German", also picked up the plate, "Don't touch my coffee!"

Tim and "Big Girl" must decide the winner, Oliver frowned and sat next to Michael. "You look like a German when you frown," Michael stuffed the sausage into his mouth. "Well, I just found out that German letters are a little different from English letters."

"Yeah," said Oliver, "the pronunciation is different."

They enjoyed their lunch side by side. The spring sun lazily enveloped the land, and the vegetation was lush. If it weren't for the prisoners of war digging pits a few meters away, this scene really looked like a field trip organized by the church.Michael quickly finished his portion, leaving behind the cigarettes, the chocolates, and the half-pack of coffee. "There are two dots on their letter," Michael pulled out a note. "Look, there are two dots on this O."

"Oh," Oliver swallowed the last bite of bread, "when will we finish?"

"Soon," Michael said, "didn't you hear that right now groups of Wehrmacht troops are frantically running west, surrendering when they meet the Allies—no one wants to fall into the hands of the Soviets, no one willing."

Oliver shrugged and took the note, "What's this? Oh, 'King'. Are you learning German?"

"I can't learn."

"Then why did you write that word? Are you ready to be king?"

"Is this what the king meant?"

"Almost." Oliver said once, and Michael imitated, but failed. "There's a prisoner named that," he scratched his chin, "that's the second lieutenant."

"Second lieutenant? I don't know which of them is a second lieutenant." Oliver pointed at the O with two dots, "It should be read like this."

"Sounds like vomiting."

"I was vomiting."

The sun moved slowly, and the prisoners rested for half an hour at one o'clock.They didn't have any tools at hand, they only found some thick branches and dug shallow soil in the mud. "This is for yourselves!" Tim triumphantly stood on the edge of the trench, "Damn it, what are you looking at? I'll send you to God after digging!"

Quincy sat on the fringe of the crowd, with mud marks on his face, eating his share of brown bread in silence.Black bread was better than boiled beans, too. Michael had searched their lunchboxes, and there were no potatoes. "He's the 'king,'" Michael said. "Look, the blond one."

Oliver was uninterested. "Hitler said pure Aryans were blond—listen to him—"

In the afternoon, Michael was called away by the joint captain.When he came back, it was already five o'clock.The prisoners of war were still digging holes in the mud, and some were cutting branches and tying them into crosses.He turned his head and looked around, and immediately noticed that Quinnessy's legs were bare, his white feet stuck in the black mud, and there were several fresh scars on his calf, which were red and swollen.

Tim and Peter Eisen stood on the ditch with their guns in hand. "Where are his pants?" Michael asked. "Why are his pants missing?"

"No reason." Tim imitated his accent, "—well, because he refused to cooperate."

"Isn't that good?" Michael jumped down the ditch, "The regimental captain gave an order not to abuse the prisoners... It's best not to do this, the war is over soon, don't make trouble for nothing."

"I'm being polite by not giving him a gun!" Tim yells. "Fucking Nazis!"

Quinnessy dug his head down. He took a stick and dug the soil out of the hole. "Hey," Michael cleared his throat, "put on your pants."

No response, nothing.Quincy continued digging his soil, his legs white in the setting sun. "Pants!" Michael yelled at Tim. "That's ugly!"

"I burned his pants," Tim said. "There's no pants!"

Spring is cold and cold, and the weather in Europe is different from that of Michael's hometown, and there are occasional snowflakes at this time.Michael climbed up the ditch and pulled out a pair of pants from his backpack.There were a few scorched marks on the trousers. "You're not going to give him your trousers, are you?" Tim said in astonishment, "Let him freeze! A German..."

"It's ugly," Michael said. "I can't stand a man with a naked ass in front of me."

"Nazis are not people."

"Okay, okay, okay, I really don't want to be court-martialed." Michael jumped down the ditch and threw his pants to Quincy who was digging the hole.He suspected that Quincy's legs were longer than his own, and the trousers might have been shortened. "Even if he's going to be tried and hanged, he can't be hanged naked." Michael went back to the edge of the trench. "It's spread out to make the Soviets laugh at us—God, you don't want the Russians to read our jokes. Bar?"

The grave was finally dug to the proper depth before sunset.The prisoners of war carried out the corpses in groups of two, put them into the pit, covered them with thick soil, and inserted a cross.Michael eats the can and sees Quincy put on his pants.Sure enough, the trousers were an inch shorter and hung above the ankles. "It's all your fault," Michael kicked Tim, "you burned his fucking pants, I don't have any pants to wear."

"You deserve it, who made you soft on the Nazis." Tim said carelessly.