AH MEN ARE
345
Smitty explained, with much resentment, that he was as law–
abiding as the next. He was a good citizen and he'd never done
any harm to an American. These were krauts, not Americans.
There was this much to his argument. A dead German didn't
seem as imposing as a dead
G
I.
Not by any means. He could only
die incoherently. The GI wore a field jacket like ours, carried
weapons similar to our own, wore boots he'd gotten from a com–
missary at an induction center, and it wasn't impossible imagining
oneself in those boots. But the German wore a helmet like the back
of a horseshoe crab. He wore an ill-fitted green overcoat and carried
a Mauser rifle. His uniform was different, his equipment was dif–
ferent; in fact, the habit of a dead German was as alien to our mor–
tality as the pelt of a dead animal. Dead GIs could be identified
by their uniforms as once having had the same possibilities as live
GIs. They were far more suggestive of one's personal mortality.
We rooted an SS sergeant from a forest, a huge, blond, arro–
gant man. He was handsome and unyielding.
A
patrol had caught
him while he was squatting over a ditch with
his
pants down. Other–
wise, he assured me-I was the only man in the platoon with a
small knowledge of German-he'd never have been taken. We were
on the march to a village and couldn't send him back. The lieutenant
decided to take him along with us. The lieutenant didn't like the
boastful German. The fellow stood calmly, his hands on his hips,
his weight resting on one leg. "Stand up, you sonofabitch!" he
roared. The SS sergeant grinned.
"Nicht Verstehe!"
"Achtung!"
He let his hands drop and grinned so insolently I
thought the lieutenant would hand him his death warrant on the
spot. The lieutenant stared at him. They considered each other for
several seconds. "Okay," the lieutenant said. "Smitty, I want you
to keep your eye on this smart alec kraut.
If
he gives you any
trouble, Smitty, well, I'll be at the head of the column, and I don't
want you lagging. I don't want you to let this kraut sonofabitch hold
us up. You understand?"
Murder was authorized and Smitty loved it. He jabbed the
muzzle of his rifle into the kraut's back and motioned
him
to the
end of the column. The kraut grinned at Smitty.
"Brav soidat,"
he
said.
"What did the guy say?" Smitty asked me.
