text: “517th Parachute Infantry. Dropped just shy of midnight near Manhay, Belgium. From that high up, looked like we were landing on the moon. Dark and grey. Full of craters and mostly rubble. We were looking to get the jump on a few bunkers in the outlying forest. We stumbled around in the dark for a while before we found one like Washington found the Hessians, cozy and warm sipping a little of the kirschwasser halfway through a game of Skat. They were so far gone they practically asked us to sit and play a hand. Some of us did. By this time, after the jump, the hike, and the miracle ambush of the Fuhrer’s finest, my bladder was ready to bust. So, as soon as we’d disarmed the few Krauts in the bunk, I slunk off to treeline to relieve myself. My time in Europe was a series of dismal missions ending in death and retreat, so this was a real divine moment for me. The ease. The fraternity between parties. It was a gift. I beamed like we’d just taken Berlin, so much so that I missed the German cadet laying a steamer in the latrine trench not but 20 yards away. He must’ve been 18 or 19 years old, still shedding baby fat, shivering from the cold, and totally unaware of my approach and the fact we’d just captured his comrades. Just a constipated kid trying to avoid dropping a log in his NAZI fatigues. I finally noticed him, his backside to me, when he let out a few grunts. I didn’t even realize I had my rifle trained on him until it went off. The report of my weapon echoed through the woods like some unnatural thunderclap. The next sound I heard was the Captain calling my name. His soft voice appeared at my side. “What the hell did you do, son?” The kid had dropped his log in the back of his fatigues and I had blown the back of his head into the trees. My rifle fell to the dirt. I’d killed, to the best of my understanding, five men before that. But those were different. I’d seen those men eye to eye, and met them in the heat of battle.This wasn’t warfare, this was a boy taking a shit in the woods. There was shouting in German. The once jovial drunk soldiers from the bunker now demanded to see their comrade. If we knew more German maybe we could have stopped it, but the best we could say was nachlassen -- or relax. When they’d finally realized what had happened, one of them smashed a glass bottle against the side of the Captain’s head. They grabbed his weapon and in the rush we lost 2 men. A single sweep of the Thompson put an end to the madness. A few minutes later, our guys picked up the game of Skat left on the small table of the bunker. And soon after that, the Captain laughed as he pulled the glass splinters from his face. I didn't feel like playing or laughing, but stumbled off to find a new place to piss.