That Others May Live
My stories are copyrighted, so NO takee! This is not a Furry or Yiff story I'm afraid, it's just something I felt I had to write. It's dedicated those soldiers who go into combat unarmed, not to kill, but to save lives.
That Others May Live
By William W. Kelso
I had been meaning to do this for many years, and now that my own time was running out I figured I'd better do it before it was too late. It was a debt I owed and something I just had to know. I would have done it sooner, but getting married, having kids, and working at the same job for over thirty years had pretty much kept from doing it. I had other reasons for going back too, old friends to visit, memories to refresh, and hopefully to find some closure.
I was in an Infantry company with the 106th Infantry Division in Belgium in the winter of 1944. We were in a "quiet" sector so weren't expecting much action as it was almost Christmas. Most of us were just thinking the damn war would be over soon and we could go home. Of course "intelligence" screwed it up as usual. When the big German offensive started we held our positions as long as we could, and anyone that says we broke and ran is a God Damned liar. I stayed at my .30 Cal. MG until a mortar shell landed in our foxhole, and poor Lou took almost all the shrapnel, if he hadn't been behind me handing belts off ammo to my loader I would have died for sure along with him and Rudi. As it was my legs were full of shrapnel. I tried to get the MG working again, but I was too badly wounded and out for the count. I remembering looking up as a King Tiger drove right over my foxhole and kept going accompanied by swarms of infantry. I guess they thought I was dead as I was drenched in my own, and my buddies, blood. I passed out from shock a short while later, but before I did something happened I've never been able to explain.
It was colder then Hell and snowing too as I lay there looking up into the grey overcast sky. Suddenly I heard voices, and managing to look up I saw men moving through our position, but there was something odd about them. Some looked like Germans, but their helmets looked wrong, some were just wearing robes or leather clothes, but one looked like a Limey so I called out to him and heard me. He came running over, and immediately started working on my legs. I looked up as he bandaged my legs and he was wearing one of those old flat helmets the Brits wear, but his uniform was strange. He was wearing one of those old stand-up collar coarse wool tunics with "US" and medical branch collar discs on the collars, but they were black instead of shiny brass. He had several bags over his shoulders with white circles and red crosses on the flaps, and his helmet had the same design painted on it. One of the Germans came over and said something to him, and the Kraut had the same design painted on his helmet as well. They were both medics I realized. When he started to get up to leave I grabbed his hand and it was warm and I felt that warmth pour into me and drive away the terrible cold. I asked him not to leave, but he said he had to go as others needed his help. I reached up and grabbed at his tunic and told him "Thank you", and he just smiled and said it was his pleasure, and turned and disappeared along with the others into the falling snow.
A few hours later the Germans found me, and took good care of me all things considered. They seemed to be impressed by the resistance my outfit had put up. The German doctor told me whomever had worked on my legs had saved my life and I was lucky as I'd keep them and my toes as well. And when I'd first woken up in the German aid station before they sent me to a hospital for surgery I realized I was gripping something in my hand. It was an aluminum ID tag about the size of a quarter, and stamped into it was "Johnston, Robert B., 334,329, U.S.A." and it was attached to a piece of old cotton boot lace. I stuck it in my pocket and the Germans didn't take it like they did my watch and ring, guess they didn't think it was worth anything.
I was put in a Luftstalag along with a bunch of other prisoners, many of whom had been there a lot longer than me. It wasn't as bad as it could have been as the Kraut guards were a pretty decent bunch. One old WWI retread Sgt. named Dorfmann was "adopted" by my barracks as he was a nice old guy and went out of his way to be nice to us. When we found out one of his grandkids birthdays was coming up we all chipped in from our Red Cross parcels and gave him a box with chocolate bars and other goodies in it. We we're supposed to do that, but screw the regulations. We just left it on his desk, but he knew where it came from. A few days later we came back to the barracks and found little gifts on every bunk. Gloves, scarves, socks, and mine was a beautiful cane carved out of black walnut with the inscription "In Freundschaft". I really needed it too as I have a permanent limp from my wounds. I still have, and use that cane, today. It is one of my most prized possessions and my only "war souvenir" other than some shrapnel still in my legs. After the war we stayed in touch and when Doftmann died in 1957 I sent a big bouquet of flowers to his funeral, and got really nice letters from his family and a German veterans group thanking me for them.
I still have that old aluminum dogtag too, and over the years it came to bug me more and more. I had thought originally the medic that saved my life was a Brit from his helmet, but the US collar disc and dogtag didn't make sense. I got a guy who collects military war souvenirs to look up the name on my tag, and was shocked to learn that Robert B. Johnston had died in the Argonne Forest in WWI! But that had to be wrong because he'd patched me up in a foxhole in Belgium in 1944, and save my life! And over the years the mystery kept growing on me, and I just had to know. So after I finally retired and the kids all moved out I decided to make a trip back to Europe to try and find some answers. My wife knew I had to go, and didn't have a problem with my going alone.
First I visited a graveyard in Belgium were my two best buddies were both buried. I put small American flags on their graves and tried to remember them, but so many years had passed it was hard. Lou had been a tall quiet Okie from some little town in Oklahoma I couldn't remember the name of, and Toni had been a feisty little Italian kid from the Bronx. We'd all been so young. As I looked at their graves memories came flooding back. Toni had been a big Yankees fan, and we had argued the merits of various teams all the time, and if I knocked the Yanks he'd get really mad. Lou had liked to read and always had a book in his pack. One time I stuck a copy of "Mein Kampf" in his pack, and you should have seen the look on his face when he pulled it out. Soon I was laughing and crying at the same time and realized how much I still missed those old friends and buddies. Later as I was leaving I saw a small German cemetery, and to my surprise is was as well maintained as the Allied ones. I couldn't help but wondering if any of the soldiers resting there were ones I'd mowed down with my MG in the snow on that cold day so long ago when they'd bravely charged across an open field. Before I left I bought a small wreath from a vendor and left it on a German grave with a headstone marked "Unbekannter Deutscher Soldat" that I picked at random. Maybe he had some family somewhere that would appreciate the gesture.
I felt a little better after leaving the cemetery. I knew my buddies graves were lovingly being cared for, and in a way I felt I'd met them again and finally had a chance to say goodbye. And then I headed to France where I hoped to find some answers.
The Allied Meuse-Argonne cemetery was huge, with soldiers from both sides and two wars resting there, thousands upon thousands of them. All buried in beautifully maintained cemeteries dotted with monuments. I was far from the only visitor. There were old men visiting old comrades, younger men visiting fathers they'd never known, widows, grandchildren. It was a quiet, peaceful, restful place. It was so huge I had to find a guide to help me find the grave I was looking for. It was one in a long line hidden among other long lines of crosses and Stars of David. The headstone was a little worn, but the grass was perfectly mown and green. The stone said "Cpl. Robert B. Johnston, U.S. Army Medical Corps, November 1st, 1918". He was nineteen when he died. I looked at the old dogtag in my hand, and it matched. It just doesn't make sense, I thought. I had to know! So speaking out loud, I said,
"Where are you? I know you can hear me. Please, I have to know. You saved my life, but how, why?"
I suddenly felt a presence and as I looked a beam of sunlight suddenly flared and seemed to thicken, and when the light faded a young man wearing old doughboys uniform was standing there smiling at me. He still had his bags with the Red Cross emblem on them. And I could see others standing behind him in other beams of sunlight, some more in WWI uniforms, some in WWII. And I could see French, German, and others I didn't recognize wearing uniforms and clothing from every period of history I could recognize, and many others I didn't. He smiled at me again, and said,
"I remember you; I'm surprised you remembered me. It's very nice of you to pay me a visit; I've never had a visitor before."
"How could I forget you? I replied. You saved my life." But I don't understand, if you were killed in 1918 how did could you save me in 1944? Are you a ghost?"
He laughed, and said, "In a way I guess I am a ghost, we all are, but a more proper term would be Angel. We're what you call Angels of Mercy. When we all died we were trying to save the lives of others, and there's no greater gift we could give then our own lives. I died during an artillery barrage trying to drag wounded soldiers to cover, Hans died trying to get a wounded French soldier out of a barbed wire entanglement, we all gave our lives trying to save others. So when we passed over we were offered a chance to return and continue what we had done in life. I don't think any of us turned down that offer because it's so rare. But most of those we help never see us; but you were so close to death that cold day you were able to see into the other side for awhile. But I'm glad you made it buddy. And thank you again for coming to visit me. It was nice of you."
"I want you to know something, I said. I had four kids, and one of my sons won the Navy Cross by pulling wounded men from a flooding compartment onboard the USS Arizona at Pearl Harbor, another son is a doctor who does research on cures for childhood diseases, and I have a grandson who is a medic in a place called Vietnam. None of that would have been possible without you. So for what it's worth, thank you for my life."
The Angel beamed at me, and then turning to the German medic he said "Sein Enkel ist auch Doktor." At which the German replied "Sehr gut!", and he turned to another Angel and soon they all heard. "Bonne" said a French soldier, "Salute" said one in Roman armor, and others waved or clapped their hands. Then the doughboy looked at me again, and said,
"Thank you again for coming, we all like to hear that what we do makes a difference, it makes it all worthwhile. I hope your grandson comes home, but if he doesn't he'll have good company if he joins us. And by the way, your buddies are waiting for you. You'll like it where they are. And now we have to go, we don't get to do this much. There's another battle being fought somewhere, and we're needed."
"Wait! I said. I have something of yours!" And walking up to him I handed him his old dogtag. He looked at it in amazement, and said,
"Shucks, I wondered where I'd lost this old thing." But then he handed it back to me, and said. "You keep it for me, send it to your grandson and tell him a story about another medic. And if he needs me, I'll come. And it was my privilege to be able to help you. And by the way, Rudi says the Yanks are still No. 1."
And before I could reply they all faded away into beams of sunlight. "Rudi, I said, the Red Sox are going to kick the Yankee's butts!" And I heard the sound of faint laughter and a loud Bronx cheer.
The End
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