Jackson blacks out

I figured I’d wake up in some dark and cold place, so when I woke up in a dark and cold place, I wasn't surprised. What I was surprised by was the smell of hay and farm animals. Standing beside me was a horse. It was large, muscular, and brown. I wasn’t familiar with horse breeds, so I didn’t know what kind it was.

I moved, feeling sore and a vague throbbing pain from my arm. My jumpsuit had its right sleeve sliced away. My cut was stitched, and a thick bandage was taped to my head.

Nightlife chirped outside my humble confinement, and the milky blue light of the moon bled through the open doors, giving every object and animal a very ghost-like appearance.

I worked myself up to lean against the wall and exhaled. A cloudless night like this would be a nightmare to fly in, but I guess that’s why there’s nothing metal flying about. Instead, I see the moon, head the insects, and smell the surroundings. It was surreal and oddly peaceful. The havoc of the daytime bombing run could have been years ago now.

In the distance, I heard the pig-Latin language being spoken nearby as if in an argument. I tensed when the language became more apparent and heard footsteps rapidly approaching me.

I fished for my 1911, but I couldn’t feel that or the survival tin on my person anymore. So I attempted to get up but found my leg tied to a post with thick rope.

My mind raced to blank conclusions, so I sat straight with my hands on my lap, watching the place where I heard the footsteps approaching. Then, finally, a short figure materialized from the shadows. All the features are dipped in dark blue, but I could see a tray with two glasses and a plate full of food.

“Hi,” I said in a whisper.

The figure gasped and dropped the tray. “Du bist wach?”

My mind spun. I didn’t understand. “Where am I?”

We stared at each other, the contents of the tray either in pieces or lying on the ground. “Du solltest nicht wach sein.”

“Listen, I can’t speak German. Can you speak any English?”

“Ich spreche kein Englisch,” the figure said. I knew that they were a girl from the tone of their voice. They sounded young and couldn’t have been older than me. “Sprichst du Deutsch?“

“Sprichst— what? No? I clearly don’t.”

“Schiße…“ the girl said, coming into the stable with me. I recognized the hair and the uniform. This was the same bitch that knocked my head with a shovel. “Why can’t you Americans speak different languages?”

“Germans,” I spit. “Creerse la última coca-cola en el desierto.”

“Hah?”

“It’s Spanish, el stupido.”

“Why did you learn Spanish?”

“My grandpa served in the Spanish-American war– he was an interpreter for the Rough Rider— Why am I here?” I didn’t want to become personal with this girl, and I didn’t think she wanted to either, but her expression softened when she saw the mostly wasted food and spilled water. She knelt down and started to clean up the mess.

“I was going to let the Gestapo take you, but when I went through your belongings, I saw you had Schmitt as your surname.” The girl’s slender fingers plucked remains of sliced potatoes and scrapes of dirt-covered meat. “Jackson Schmitt, more precisely.”

“So?”

“You’re an Aryan,” she says bluntly. “You have blonde hair, blue eyes, fair skin. You’re fighting for the wrong side, idiot.”

I swallowed, feeling awkward. I’ve been called many nasty things before, but an Aryan marks the worst. “I’m no German.”

“One of your great ascendants was, though. Believe me. I’ve been studying a lot about this.”

She inches closer. “I’m Franziska Benzschawel. Please, let me talk to you so you can see the faults in your country and your allies. Turn away from them and fight for the Fatherland.”

I didn’t want to admit it, but I sensed that “Franziska” was my best bet for survival. If anyone else caught me, I’m sure I would have either been a POW by now or had been stabbed to **** with a pitchfork. We didn’t always bomb factories, so I figured I had assisted in 1 or 2 deaths of her friends. I silently thanked Jesus Christ for blessing my surname and my born characteristics at that moment.

“Sure,” I said.

“Danke, Herr Schmitt.” She tells me. “My mother suspects I’m taking out the trash, so I should probably return.”

She regards the tray and the food. “Ent—sorry for the dirty food. Pick around it.”

Only one of the glasses of water remained, and it was no longer full. “I’ll be back in the morning to check on you.”

“Wait,” I say as Franziska moves away. “Did you do all of this?”

“Ja. Anything for an Aryan.” She moves away, but I stop her again.

“Aren’t you…how old are you even?”

“18. Now please, let me leave!” She says, her accent getting heavier by the second. “Guten Nacht, Schmitt!”

I mutter, watching my undesirable hero vanish. I look at my food and wish I hadn’t scared her. I was so hungry I could have eaten the horse in front of me. I picked up the dirt, drank carefully, and buried myself in the hay.