Comes a time in every life when you're forced to re-assess. Circumstances of the extreme or the absurd give one pause to ponder. And God knows I'm in that circumstance now.
I'm hiding within an impenetrable fortress of Gothic Germanic efficiency. This where the Third Reich takes their most valuable prisoners for interrogation. I guess I should be flattered. I'd rather have hope. I'm alive but I'm a dead man. I cling to life I know not why.
My papers show me as a German officer. Truth is I'm an American who was stationed in England. The English are big on their spy games and skullduggery. As for me, well, so far in the biggest war in the history of the world I've been a useless pimple. Soon the war will be over and I'll be forced to listen to war stories from the brave and useful for the rest of my days. That prospect frightened me into action.
I'm attached to a British intelligence unit as I'm unfit as a foot soldier. I'm of Austrian descent and speak flawless German without the giveaway accent of the British. At first I wasn't too impressed with the mind games the British play but I grew to have great respect once on the inside. In war, one fights for every scrap, no time for self-pity or negativity.
The German invasion of Russia is a perfect example. What no one knows is how close it came to actually succeeding. What would the outcome have been without the aid of the famed Russian winter? What if the invasion had started earlier in the year? These are questions the British asked.
Without going into details, the Brits attacked this problem twofold. One was a campaign of misinformation on opposing forces. It took some weeks before the confusion could be cleared up. Secondly was a campaign of irritation and distraction, assassinating high German officials in nearby occupied territories infuriated them into mobilizing forces to hunt down the culprits. Had they held to their notorious German discipline the plan would have failed.
In the end, two and half precious months of good fighting weather were lost before the final call for invasion came. No, the Brits couldn't stop the Nazi blitzkrieg but they found a way to strike a blow nonetheless. Brilliant! Had I been in charge I'd have thrown up my hands and said there's nothing to be done against such overwhelming forces. That made me feel worse than ever.
I had to go on a mission - even a suicide mission. I was feeling desperate, that my life was in danger. I'd be outcast or, worse, silently shunned. When I accepted this mission I was in a high state of panic. I'm thinking that's how all misbegotten adventures begin. I guess I should tell you the rest, stupid though I feel.
My cover as I said before is a German officer but one who'd decided to defect. That way if caught I wouldn't be immediately suspected as a spy. I even had a diary of my growing disenchantment with the Fuhrer and the direction of the war. The diary, I'm proud to say, was my idea. All in my own handwriting, my claim if captured was that I'd use it for proof of clearing me of any war crimes. When the intelligence staff agreed with me my heart skyrocketed.
But hearing about stories behind the lines and experiencing them are two different things. The mind and heart do not operate the same when you're on the spot. Suddenly, every decision you make becomes magnified and one must have the courage of one's convictions. For a while, I was able to hold on, infiltrating the heavy water facility and amazing even myself. But I was walking a high wire act.
The value of bluffing cannot be overstated. The German cogs in the machinery are trained not to question. And having a sort of natural intelligence that too along with my rank allowed me to reach my objective. I started to get a different picture of myself. I was dreaming of the stories I'd tell upon my return to England. Me, a war hero! See, I've never really been successful at anything before.
But my cockiness betrayed me. There are smart Germans too. I hadn't realized that luck had been on my side on the way in with the head of security called away that day. Upon departure I did not know this foe awaited me. I instantly recognized a fellow thinking creature, one who could apply critical thought and follow internal instincts despite how valid any piece of paper might look. That's when I stumbled.
My identity up to that point had always been one of a loser. That's when the question popped into my mind at the worst possible moment: "Who are you to ever be a successful person? You've never been one before." I didn't belong to the bragging war hero crowd. What a schmuck to think so. I started sweating and stuttering, giving myself away. It's only now days later I realize had I kept up my bluff I'd be back in England safe and sound and I don't give a goddam if it is as a phony or not. Just get me back.
That's how I ended up here freezing my ass off. My cover stuck and my nerves recovered. Somehow, losing again had made it alright, I was me again. That gave me confidence in lying. I understand now how many missions come down to simple heart and confidence. I had tried to prove mine in a fatal self-deception. But I hadn't wanted to die yet. And luck would once again strike in my favor.
The colonel in charge read my diary and I could tell he was a closet supporter of my "thinking" on the war and the future. He couldn't come right out and say it, of course, but I could read his body language and also it what's what he didn't say that tipped me off. Could I use this to my advantage? Would this provide a weak spot I could exploit? It did.
I think the colonel had plans for me. Maybe to involve me in a conspiracy against the Fuhrer in which he was already involved. I wasn't sure. But he was lax with me. So I conked him over the head and strode my way out in my most supreme bluff yet. Leaving the compound, however, would be a different matter. I hadn't really escaped, only delayed my fate. That's how I find myself hiding in the day in dark places.
I have to remain in one spot for several hours at a time. This has given me time to think and reflect. Not my proudest hour, this. I want to die with no one knowing I'd ever been here, come on this mission or ever taken this fool's errand. Doing the right thing for the wrong motives still ends up with disastrous consequences. However, this diary writing is addictive and I feel the need to confess. I just hope no one reads this and I die a mystery. Who cares about one lone American more or less in a vast stupendous war like this anyway?
Knocking out the colonel had been an irrational act. There is no hope of escape as I feed off food scraps and suffer nervous breakdowns. But in this time another truth came to the fore, the real reason I was here: Jennifer. My failure with women had defined me and haunted me. I couldn't have the jaunty conversions other guys had about their conquests. In England, we Americans attained a sort of status among the English women, simply by fortune of birth. Maybe even my luck could turn.
Things started wonderfully with this shining star of a nurse. I was enthralled by her, wholly captivated having the time of my life. I was living the dream amid the falling bombs; the fortunes of war. But inevitably my insecurities overcame me. She hadn't said anything negative or in rejection, but I felt it coming and turned on her, putting her in tears. "Doing her a favor," I told myself. But I had died with the dream.
That's when the panic set in for me to go on a mission. Now I can see no mission can make up for losing Jennifer. That is why I sabotaged myself right at the moment of success. What an utter, utter idiot. No, the mission doesn't make up for Jennifer but getting caught didn't make up for it either! Guilt is truly the devil's tool. Too late the fog is removed from my eyes. The coward's path until the end.
No one can see the tears rolling down my cheeks. Maybe I'd be accused of self-pity. Had I come to my demise honestly I wouldn't feel so bad. I fought on because I wanted to know, to understand how someone can get in such an absurd position like this. Now I know, now I understand. But where is the road back?
Has this even been worth it anyway? The war will be over and had I never gone would it make any difference? Facing Jennifer would have put meaning in my life. So this is how morons end up in the Foreign Legion. Should I burn this tiny book? Has my presence on this planet been of any worth? Soon, I feel, these will be moot points. I cannot scurry around here forever. If only I knew the best course of action to take now. Or is there one?
