Happy October 🎃

Day 4: Willi

When Willi woke up from the blast of an American grenade, he groaned, feeling numb at first, then his pain began to settle in. He winced and cried out as he opened his eyes, blinking a few times to clear his vision. He was still in his pillbox; he was not dead. He could smell iron and blood. He could still hear the firing of his comrades, the firing of his enemies.

When Willi looked down, he screamed in horror.

"Herr Gott, hilf mir!" he shouted.

His innards had likely been punctured by shrapnel, and he was regurgitating his own blood. His left leg was entirely gone from his knee down. His left arm had been ripped right off. He saw the blood oozing and squirting from his wounds, his uniform soaking up whatever it could. His own blood had even swept his face, and he vomited whatever his stomach was currently holding, which included his breakfast and his blood.

The older, German soldier was going to die here. Willi was going to die here alone.

He shook as he pulled off his stahlhelm, picking out a photograph of his little boy. He had died young a decade or two ago in a horrible public accident. Willi breathed every breath just for him, living and fighting just for him. And now, he was going to die for his son.

He cried as he held the photograph close to his aching heart, as he tried to muffle out the noises of war.

"My son..." he whispered. "Papa is coming home... Yes..."

Willi tried to slow his breathing, but it was incredibly hard. He slumped against the wall of his pillbox, letting himself bleed out as he continued to watch his little photograph.

Willi gagged on his blood, panting. He gripped the photograph harshly, crinkling it in his hands. He had given his life serving his country, but most importantly, his son. Now he was on the brink of unconsciousness, ready to see his son again. He closed his eyes, his life flashing before him. There wasn't much that was exciting to remember. He remembers his son being born, raising him, and his death. He remembers enlisting in the Heer shortly after, still a young man.

And as he accepted his passing, he felt warm and comforted, the dark loneliness of the pillbox suddenly drifting away as he felt himself floating on clouds.

He took his final breath there, and finally lay limp against the wall, his breathing coming to a halt, his son's photograph loosely clutched in his hand.