The Last Prayer Meeting

It was more of a winter than a winter ought to be. A cold shroud of snow and ice fell from a dark gray blanket of hidden sky and seeped deep into the marrow of men in foxholes. It seemed to most that hell had finally frozen over, especially when a German ghost army slithered in through the Ardennes Forest, their 88s raining down fire and brimstone. The clackety-clack of Tiger and Panther tanks and massive, fast-moving attacks from Panzer and SS units caught the Americans by surprise. What was thought to be a probing sortie, was anything but that. When all seemed lost, the skies opened and allied planes came.

         Rayfield Jackson and the rest of his platoon gathered around Sergeant Altus McFadden. “Alright, men, listen up. Those German bastards are in retreat so we will be doing some mop-up after morning chow. We know what they did to our boys at Malmedy. And a couple of weeks back when we captured those Hitler Jugend boy soldiers and told them to go home, they ambushed us two days later. So, I want to be clear. I better not see anybody coming back with German POWs. Man or boy, only dead Germans can’t shoot.”

          Bright sunlight bounced off snow laden branches of beech, poplar, and pine trees. Rayfield found the crunch of the frozen ground unsettling as he made his way through the forest shadows in search of Germans. The sound of a gunshot here and there signaled another German threat snuffed out. Cradling his M1 carbine in the crook of his arm, he pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and lit it. The second draw on his cigarette was interrupted by a cough to his right. Safety off, he lowered his rifle and peered into a stand of black pines. Squinting, he could make out the shape of a man sitting on a rucksack, leaning back against the tree. Kneeling, Rayfield prepared to shoot. A rasping cough was followed by another.

          The man turned his head toward the American and called out in perfect English with only the hint of a German accent, “I am not armed. I am wounded and would like to surrender.”

            Rayfield circled to his left until he was satisfied the German was alone and unarmed. Stepping out from behind a large pine, he looked down the barrel of his rifle into the eyes of a wounded adversary.

         “You alone?”

         The German winced. “Yes, I got separated from my unit and given my wounds, couldn’t keep up.”

          Rayfield peered at the wounded enemy soldier. “How come you speak English?”

          “Born and bred in the Queens section of New York City,” the German replied with a forlorn smile.

           “The hell you say. If that’s the case, what are you doing in a German uniform?”

          The landser shifted slightly and moaned. “Against my parents’ wishes, my older brother returned to Germany to fight for what he believed was the Fatherland-- before America was involved. I joined him a year later.”

           Rayfield leaned in for a closer look. “Looks like your shoulder’s busted up and a bad bleed coming from your thigh.”

            The German nodded. “Shell fragments from one of your mortars. Any chance you might give me a drink of water?”

             Rayfield thought for a moment, then handed the wounded German his canteen. Placing his carbine against a tree, he kneeled down and began to fashion a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.

              “Thank you. My name’s Martin—Martin Mueller. May God bless you for your kindness.”

               Rayfield looked up from the bandage he had fashioned around the wounded soldier’s leg. “May God bless you? What kind of Nazi are you? Anyway, I don’t see much evidence of God in these parts.”

                “The Lutheran kind,” Martin replied. “My mother was Catholic and my father, Lutheran. And I get your point about God . . . It feels like that . . . about Him not being around. My older brother convinced me that we would help rebuild the Fatherland. At least, that’s what we thought.”

                  “How’d that work out for you?” Rayfield replied, stuffing his first-aid kit into his backpack.

                  A shadow of sorrow passed over the German’s face. “Not so good. We didn’t want to believe what was happening until it was too late.”

                 Martin groaned as he shifted his weight. “What about you?”

                “What about me what?” Rayfield replied, fishing a cigarette out of his jacket pocket.

                “I’m guessing you are Presbyterian, Methodist, maybe even Catholic?”

                 Rayfield lit the cigarette from the one he was smoking and handed it to the wounded German.

                “Baptist born and bred. In West Virginia farm country most folks are Baptist.”

                The two men smoked in silence.

            Martin pulled a worn photograph from his tunic. “This is my wife, Julia. And my two daughters, Romy, named after my mother and Lily, the baby.”

           Rayfield flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette. “Nice looking family.”

           “How about you . . .”

            The American hesitated before turning back to the German.

           “Name’s Rayfield. Most folks call me Ray. No kids. Me and Matilda—I call her Tildy, tied the knot before I shipped out. We decided to wait on babies in case I don’t . . . anyway, looks like the bleeding’s slowed down.”

           Martin took another drink from Ray’s canteen and handed it back to him. “I have been praying a lot lately. I find comfort in the 23^rd Psalm a lot lately.  ‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . . “

            “John.”

            “John?”

            “Yeah, John. That verse where it says not to let your heart be troubled. That’s my go to verse when I can’t sleep and feel . . . Anyway . . . ” Ray’s voice trailed off.

            Martin looked up through the trees and returned his gaze to Ray.

            “I would like to say a prayer for you and Tildy.”

            “Pray for me and my wife?”

            “Yes . . . for you and your wife.’

            Ray rubbed the stubble on his chin and considered the German’s request. “Hell, why not?”

           When Martin finished, Ray coughed and cleared his throat, and returned the favor, praying for Martin’s wife and two daughters.”

           Ray lit another cigarette. “Guess I’ve now seen it all. Two enemies praying for each other in the middle of a war. Killing each other one day and praying each other the next. It’s enough to make a man’s head hurt.”

           Martin reached out and grasped Ray by the hand. “In God’s kingdom, we aren’t enemies. We are brothers in Christ.”

          Rising to his feet, Ray’s eyes glistened. “True enough. And I wish we could fly away from this place. But we can’t.”

          Looking down at Martin, he adjusted his helmet’s chin strap. “I wish things were different. You might be my brother in Christ, but you aren’t my brother in arms.”

           Ray flipped what was left of his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out with the heel of his boot. “Sarge gave strict orders to take no prisoners and where I come from, no matter how hard, orders are orders.”

           Ray retrieved his carbine. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

           Martin pressed the photograph of Julia, Romy and Lily to his chest and closed his eyes.

           A single shot echoed through the wounded trees of the Ardennes.

About the author: A former prison psychologist, Michael Braswell taught ethics and justice issues at East Tennessee State University. He has published books on moral issues, ethics, human relations and counseling as well as four short story collections. His most recent books are Seeds of Change and The Light That Remains: Stories of War and Consequence. His website is michaelcbraswell.com.