The Boy Who Would Be Free

The guards try to assemble us, but it’s chaotic. I sneak out and go into an above-ground, domed shelter that was built for all the people of the town. It is made of cement and very long, and I figure I can hide among all the people. But even though I am just one among many, I know I stand out. I’m here for about an hour, listening to the bombardment of the town above, tense, like the others around me as the ground trembles with each explosion, all of us waiting for the Americans to arrive.

At once, the door opens and there stands a red-haired German with a flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other, checking to see if any foreigners are hiding in here. He spots me right away; he’s fuming, eyes bulging!

ROUST, he yells. While I raise my hands above my head, he turns over to me, grabs me by the shirt, and physically throws me out, locking the door behind me, while he stays inside. Patriotic to the end.

I can’t just stand out here throughout the bombing, so I race across the street to the trenches over there. What I’m scared of most are the explosive devices that blow up before hitting the ground, so I walk through the trenches in a crouching position, trying in vain to escape the flying death that thunders all around me. I come across a German soldier in position with a machine gun. He asks me if I have no fear, but I’m trembling too much to answer.

The trenches lead out of town, and when I hit the end, only a large, empty field lays ahead of me. I can see woods at the far end of the field, but that’s over a mile away. Meanwhile, the planes are flying overhead, observing everything below. Oh, hell, I think; I throw my backpack out of the trench, jump out, and from somewhere deep inside of me, I hear a roar escape from between my tightly gritted teeth and I take off, running with all my might for the woods. Despite the intense fear, it’s also a moment of wild exhilaration; I run, yet, my feet never touch the ground. I know the spotter plane sees me, and I think that the pilot wants to have fun using me for target practice, so every few steps I throw myself to the ground, then quickly get up and run some more, yelling, swearing, always looking up. It’s very dramatic.

Suddenly, one of the straps on my backpack breaks, so I hold on tighter to the other strap while running and I feel the pack flapping against my back with each step. I’m still in control, though, and I’m even starting to feel a bit cocky. That’s when my belt breaks and my pants begin to fall. Now I have to hold my backpack with one hand, my pants with the other, and the cockiness disappears; I run in a blind panic, huffing and puffing and trying to hold myself together. At the end of the field, just before the woods, I see a road, and as I cross it, I notice two things at once: On my left, a fighter plane is screaming as it flies right at me, and just in front of me, I see a big square hole, about five feet deep, and fifteen feet by fifteen feet on each side, originally used for antiaircraft protection, so I dive in, gritting my teeth as tightly as I can, and still holding onto my pants. The hole is occupied by almost a dozen people, maybe wandering refugees like me, maybe even Germans. Who cares?

The fighter attacks the hole with machine guns, but as he approaches, everybody runs for the side of the hole in the direction the plane is coming from so they won’t get shot. When the plane banks and comes in from the other side, all the people in the hole run to that side; we travel in a pack, going back and forth from one side to the other until finally the plane goes away. When it’s quiet again, I ask a man in the hole where he is going from here and he gives me directions to go east. It’s been a long day and I’m really beat, but it isn’t safe to stay here.