Christmas Eve On The Eastern Front
Dec 26th, 2016 by thegooddoctor in 100 Words
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Schmidt and I carry Braun into the church. Outside we’d freeze to death this Christmas Eve.
Icy wind blows through the shell hole in the cupola. We break up a pew for a fire.
It illuminates a statue of St. Michael.
We share a cup of schnapps.
Braun cannot partake. His stomach wound means he will die during the night.
We hear the squeaking of metal tracks.
“Tanks!”
Schmidt extinguishes the fire. If they’re T-34s we’re doomed. The Russians take no prisoners for what we’ve done to their land.
In the darkness I sense St. Michael’s eyes staring down unforgivingly.
From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher
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