Leo E. Litwak
ALL MEN ARE
I knew a murderer. His name was Smitty, he was spec–
tacled, and lean as a minister's son. I watched Smitty kill two German
prisoners. His motive was honorable. Our company had approached
a German village decked in white flags and the lead squad, ex–
pecting a docile enemy, had marched into a recalcitrant machine–
gun nest. A corporal was killed. Now many corporals had been
killed. Many sergeants, privates, and officers had been killed. And
we were sensitive to this killing. Why, when the man next to you
is suddenly decapitated or sliced open or becomes the base for a
fountain whose source is his blood, you become terribly sensitive to
your own mortality. And if we soldiers were to be honest, that was
the effect of buddies dying- not a sense of loss, but an agonizing
appreciation of one's own mortality. Smitty captured these two men
-who knows whether they were part of that machine gun crew–
and he marched them down a gulley where our platoon had ducked
when the firing began. This gulley led into the town and had high
embankments. We were dispersed along the embankments, huddled
down. Smitty followed his two prisoners who marched ten paces
ahead of him, their arms raised. The two Germans had lost their
helmets. One was an older man. His hair was grey and still matted
from the helmet he'd recently discarded. He was tall, and he was
very tired. He walked stiffly like a man at the end of a long hike
and forced his shoulders back, as if aware that he was being ob–
served by the enemy and wanted to make a good impression. The
other was a young boy, short, not taller than Smitty, gaunt, with
wild blond hair. He was frightened and kept on glancing at
his
comrade. When they reached the center of the platoon, Smitty
stopped, raised his rifle, and his first shot hit the dirt to the side of
