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George made eye contact, eye contact with a man on the other side of no man’s land. He assumes a German soldier. They were at least 250 yards apart. He doesn’t know how he did it but it happened. He poked his head out at the same time as this man and somehow both of them didn’t get shot. It must have been fate, this moment, just for the two of them.
When it happened, George felt human again. Not just a gear in the machine to help move America’s hero complex along. He no longer smelt the must and waste of his fellow gears, the mud and rot. He was looking at another human, not a gear that needed to be taken out so the opposing machine will start to slow down. A real breathing human with feelings and a life he needs to get back to.
George couldn’t make out his face, his features. To George, he had none, but that man on the other side of no man’s land was real. So he didn’t shoot, why would he? Why would he shoot a living being, just like him.
That was a person and for some reason, that person didn’t shoot when he had the chance. Gave him the same small mercy that George gave to him. They would never meet, he would never learn his named. George would ether die or his feet would fall off before the end of this war. He doesn’t even know the point of this war, not really. Some Duke from another country was killed so all hell broke loose. It felt like children squabbling over a broken toy and now people are dying because of it. He was expected to kill this man like he killed many others before.
George knew what would happen if he pulled the trigger, he’s seen it before, on both sides. That living, breathing man would drop like a ragdoll if his shot was accurate enough. Instead, he made eye contact and stared into what he could just barely make out as eyes.
George wanted to know what color those eyes were, he wanted to shake this man’s hand at the end of the war and tell him “Thank you, thank you sir, for surviving in those hell holes.” He probably wouldn’t understand George, with the assumption he speaks a different language but it doesn’t matter if he can’t understand him. He is on the other side of no man’s land and one or both of them are going to end up dead.
Four days later, white flags were seen on the other side of no man’s land. The war was over.
When George walked across the barren land that was nothing but dead bodies, mud and rubble, he made eye contact. The man’s eyes were blue, George was certain that this man is the one he was so desperate to know. He took a moment to observe his face. It looked kind, handsome perhaps, maybe gentle even, but George didn’t want to get too presumptuous. He had a grown-out beard and greasy brown looking hair, although George doesn’t think brown was his actual hair color. There was blood splattered on his kind face.
He took a knee in the blood coated mud next to the man and reached out for his dog tag hidden under the uniform he was wearing. George tried to take in all the information he could, all of it was in German. While doing this he found his eyes drifting back to those cold lifeless blues. George thinks their pretty, he would bet they were even prettier once upon a time, before the life was snuffed out of them. Eyes full of kindness, kindness that would spare a man from the other side of no man’s land even though he probably had a clear shot. This man was not fighting because he wanted to, he was fighting because he was given no choice otherwise.
The body was fresh, he probably died right before Germany surrendered. A gear taken out of a machine that was already going to be shut down. This man died in vain. Klaus, his dog tag said.
Klaus died in vain.