CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "My grandpa served in both World Wars. He died dozens of times" Creepypasta

Episode Date: December 4, 2020

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When I was a kid, I never really knew my grandfather Carl. Not only was he an ocean away, living in his home country while I grew up in America, he had died a few years before I was born, nixing any chance of a meetup. Grandma kept his house and things locked away for a long while, until she too finally kicked the bucket about six years ago. Me managed to get a little money that they had set aside, but more important than that was all the old stuff collected over the years. You see, Grandpa was a fighter through and through.

He'd spent a good portion of his adult life as a soldier in both World War I and two fighting for Germany, collecting a few medals to his name. My mum told me he never liked to talk about it though. Said he always had this vacant, depressed look in his eyes, even when she was a little girl. There was more than one time she would get up in the middle of the night for a cup of water, only to see him sprawled on the living room couch, a bottle in one hand and a week. deeping face cradled by the other. I could only imagine what he went through. Until now.

Like millions of other people in the current circumstances, I found myself stuck at home without a whole lot to do, waiting for college to reopen and life to get back on track. With so many people comparing the current pandemic to past ones, the Spanish flu getting name dropped the most, it got me wondering how my grandfather dealt with it. So, I went up into the attic to go through some of his old things for some kind of clue, not really expecting to find anything.

Pouring through old files and documents, I came across a battered envelope, unmarked. Opening it up, revealed a handwritten note. I still retain enough German from my mother and school lessons to read some of it, so I started without asking for help. The contents of the note were far different from anything I expected. When I finished it, I didn't know

if I should have got someone to make sure I had read it right. Quisily, I took it upon myself to be the sole translator, for I do not know how others would feel, and would not like to be publicly associated with its contents. Thus, I share it here with you folks, in the hopes that someone can make sense of this insanity, and perhaps someone else out there could tell me whether or not they've heard of something like this before.

It read, The first time I remember dying was in the fields of Flanders in September of 1917, But I'm getting ahead of myself. My life was unremarkable before my time in the army. My family used to own a little farm out in the countryside where we grew wheat and potatoes, toiling for hours a day to scrape by. When I was about nine, our father sold the farm

and we moved into an apartment in the city where we took up work in snarling, pollution-ridden factories, melting steel or making textiles. Back in those days, even the small children were expected to work, so I went too. Sometimes I would have vivid, agonising nightmares of heavy machinery, searing my flesh to the bone, or crushing my skull to a bloody pulp, instilling a terror to do my best and make no mistakes. Maybe that's where all this started. I don't know.

When the war first broke out, I was 15 years old. In those days, there were few alive who had seen what war really meant. Most people only had vague notions of our crushing victory over France decades prior are of insurgencies in the African colonies, quick, easy victories. When things stalled out, we were assured that the stored situation was only a set back, even as this dragged on for years and as foodstuffs became more scarce from British pockades. I got called up from service a little after my 18th birthday in August of 1917. Training was expedited, and in September I was shipped to the front of Flanders.

Our train stopped at some French or Belgian town, We were shaken awake and then marched off to the front. We were sent in under the cover of darkness as Artellu strikes in the daylight made things too risky. Immediately I wanted to go back home. Within the first few hours, my ears were ringing painfully from all the artillery shells. Every time a flare shot into the night sky, I and the other new guys could see the long lines of dead and wounded getting carried out from behind the front line trenches. Each time I got a peek, I wanted to vomit.

In some way, though, the darkness was worse, because all you could hear were screaming agonised whales and unheard pleased the god. Arceo sent us to our different positions. I entered my assigned dugout with three or four others, where, by dim candlelight, we were face-to-face with aged veterans. One older man, thin and wrinkly, with jowls hanging down his cheeks, stared at us the same way a normal person would stare at a flea-ridden rat.

So these are the newbies? he said to us. A few hesitant affirmations and the man averted his gaze and took a swig from his cop. These kids are just dead weight. A stocky man, wide-shouldered and tall

with a big black beard hugging his face, stood up and said Don't mind Rudolph. He's been in since the very beginning. I'm Max. He shook all of our hands and gave us a quick rundown on what to expect out there.

He was a kind, funny man and we could tune out the drone of shells blowing chunks out of the landscape while he told us about how he used the box. I think he knew we weren't going to be able to get any sleep that night, even if some of us tried. We were all on edge, sitting around, waiting for something to happen. In the afternoon, the shelling suddenly stopped in our area. Moving further behind the lines and giving our battered ears some respite, Max and the other veterans jerked their heads upwards, listening intently,

the piercing sound of a simple order filling all of us with dread. It's an attack, assumed defensive formation. We rushed out of our dugout and filed into our firing positions. I didn't think I had any adrenaline left to expend at that point, yet my racing pulse informed me otherwise. Some mortars were still going off all around us, where we could see British troops, bug-sized at our distance, steaming towards us. Thousands of rifles all went off at once, and machine guns rattled away.

If my hearing wasn't damaged before, it certainly was now. Despite the firepower we could muster, the British advanced further on, which shook me to the core. I didn't think it would be possible to live through a barrage so deadly. What before appeared as cockroaches slowly crawling along the ground now looked like men, and they were starting to shoot back. I heard a couple people cry out in pain as bullets hit them, and under the corner of my eyes I saw a man collapse, dead. Frantically, I fired, worked at the bolt, inserted more clips. the more I fired, the more I felt like I was doing something, even if I wasn't aiming near half the time.

In a split second, I saw one of them toss something, and it landed right behind me. I spun around recklessly, seeing it only seconds before a white-hot flash enveloped me. Just enough time for my brain to think, grenade. And then I felt myself getting shaken awake again, back on the train. Startled, I jolted upright, blurting out, where am I? What kind of hostile? I promptly shut up, taken in all my surroundings. It was the train car, alright, and everyone I had disembarked with.

The asylum's further down the tracks, buddy, someone joked, prompting some cruel chuckles. I had no idea what was happening. Touching my face and the rest of my body, I couldn't feel any wounds, so I reasoned the blast must have knocked me out somehow, but my head didn't hurt either. Had I been comatose? I pushed the whirlwind of confusion down into the back of my mind and domine proceeded as our CEO has told us. We marched again, went down the same trench again,

and went to the same exact dugout. Rudolph was waiting for us just as before and recited word for word what he had said to us the first time. So, these are the new kids, he said. Even though he was older and a veteran, I was still mad. How could it be so stupid as to not recognize me? What are you talking about? I was with you just yesterday, I think.

Nobody told me what happened. I spotted Max and pointed at him. Max, you remember me, right? The farm boy. You told me about your days as a boxer. I stopped because everyone was looking at me with wide open eyes or cocked eyebrows. Max had practically turned white.

He visibly swallowed, like there was something stuck in his throat. And he asked me, How do you know all this? Nervous energy sending waves of static through my body. I told him plainly. You told me all this, before the attack in the afternoon. What the hell is this? What the hell are you trying to pull on us?

Rudolph shouted, frantic movement sloshing the beer around his cup. Screw this. I'm getting out of here before you bring bad luck to me. He pushed his way past all of us, muttering about witchcraft and dark magic. Stunded, I slumped into a corner while everyone else just stared, like I was a filthy beggar

trembling into a noble ballroom. All of us spent the night in relative silence. Just as before, we were ordered to take our positions in the afternoon. Everyone was spooked, especially me. Why was everything the exact same way? I couldn't dwell on such matters for long

as the British came forward. I hammered away, once again, spraying lead into the air with reckless abandon. As before, I caught a split-second glimpse of a soldier tossing a grenade at my position. Having more awareness of the initial threat, I tossed myself to the side, but regrettably it wasn't enough. After a deafening boom, I was thrown hard to the ground, rendered into bloody mulch scattered across the trench walls. Disoriented, I could also feel a stinging pain in my right arm and my stomach. Shrapnel aggressively lodged in.

As the chaotic sound of battle raged around me, I could only moan in pain. hoping that someone would take me out of my misery. I do not know how long I had laid there, my perception of time and space getting hazy from blood loss and agony, until mercifully the darkness impelled me. And I ended up right back where I started, at the train again. If I hadn't been disturbed before, I certainly was now. When they shook me awake, I came up screaming and grabbed my rifle.

Calm down, boy, calm, you're not at the front yet. An officer said, With shaky hands, I lowered my rifle and slung it over my shoulder. I'm sorry, I said. I just had a nightmare, and that's all. The officer walked away, shaking his head. No doubt they all thought I was crazy. It certainly felt like it, the more I went on,

going down the same exact path to the same dugout I'd been to twice now, to meet the same people I'd already met. So, these are the new kids. Rudolf said, This time I kept my mouth shut while the other new guys nodded their heads. He took a drink from his cup and said, These kids are just dead weight. Right on cue, Max got up, saying,

Don't mind Rudolph. He's been in since the very beginning. I'm Max, I finished. You're Max, and used the box back in Cherbourg. I know. I felt everyone's eyes on me again, but no longer cared. frustrated after having such a horrible death I turned towards Rudolph and angrily told him

I'm not a damn witch you ought prune so I don't even think about pulling that with me again While everyone else was visibly shocked Rudolf's face turned beet red and his grip over the cup tightened You don't get to talk to me that way He shouted getting out of his chair and spilling his beer in the process He made a bee line towards me but was stopped just in time by Max The larger man held the skinnier one back

while the former tried to temper the latter's rage. I just stared right back into Rudolph's mean, peedy brown eyes with silent contempt. Eventually, he settled down, and Max turned to me, a bit angry himself. Listen, he said to me, I don't know what's going on here, but whatever it is, you've got no right-mouthing off like that. Max pulled up a chair and crossed his meaty arms. Tell us what the problem is, he said. I obliged. I went through everything as best I could

try not to miss any important details while Max stared me down, Stoic. The others, Sans Rudolph, who sulked with a new cup of beer, staring in wide-eyed wonder. When I finished, Max led out a long sigh and asked, So, why is this happening to you? I don't know, I said, exasperated.

I've never gone through anything like this before. It only started after I came to the front. God damn chips. he curse, I tell you, Rudolph sneered. Those boggers collect grudges the same way little kids collect bottle caps or tin men. I bet you or yours did something to tick one of them off, and now you're screwed. He finished this cup, then got up to leave. Well, Mack said, can you think of any strangers you might have aggrieved,

or has anyone in your family done something? I can't think of anything, I said, deflated. Oh God, I don't want to keep going through this. I don't want to get my legs ripped off again. my legs trembled at the thought and I struggled to keep my breathing under control Max stood up and grabbed my shoulders with his huge hands

Hey now, don't think like that he said Continuing with The more panic you get The more likely you are to make mistakes And the more likely you are to die And so he told me a few things He'd already taught before my first death

About taking cover and taking carefully play shots I listened as intently as I could Mentally went over it until it was all I could think of. The other new guys listened to him too, and a couple of the older guys there supplied their own knowledge. By the afternoon's attack, I took everything he said to heart.

With newfound resolve, I found my nerves cooled, my he'm steady. Everything I touched felt more real. The air smelled sharper, the sounds of the dead, injured, explosives and gunfire, just background noise. Despite my second wind, the British managed to reach our trench anyway. A man to my right was crouched over, about to jump in, when, without skipping a beat, I shot him in the hip. He half groaned, half screamed when he fell in ungracefully.

Without thinking, I ran over to him and slammed the business end of my boot into his face until I was satisfied he had been subdued. Unfortunately, my victory was short-lived, as another Brit had climbed him behind me in the melee, and I felt a bullet painfully tear its way from my back to my chest. I fell against the trench wall and pain, just in time for a second bullet to hit me. and so went a third life on that day. But when I returned to this earth again, I didn't lose my composure or my resolve, as I had before.

This time I knew for a fact that the course of events could be changed, that even if by some cosmic force of nature I didn't understand had stacked the deck against me, there was still a potential way out, and I was determined to find it. This time, upon entering the dugout, I chose not to reveal my secret, and instead presented and a fellow,

facade that had the rest of them convinced that there wasn't anything troubling or unusual about me. I even decided to hold out my hand for that cantankerous asshole, Rudolph, which he reluctantly shook. Events proceeded along the same lines as they had before. I successfully picked off several of them before they started a stream in like usual. One of them had pounced on a young man, Lars, who had come in with me off the train. The Brit was older and sturdier than the skinny Lars, the latter bleeding from a cut on his head or the former punched the kid's face over and over. In a split second I got off one shot of the Brit

hitting him on the side of the face and eviscerating his head in a slurry of brain matter. Lars looked at me in appreciation only for his eyes to widen with shock and for him to quickly point off to my side. I twisted my head around and saw another Brit who had jumped in, readying his rifle against me, but determined not to keep reliving the same day forever

and signed the butt over my cavier right into the other man's face, hitting him at least twice more before eyeing the top of the trench again, anticipating another one coming in. Instead, a half-dazed, walking wounded Brit stumbled in from another part of our trench and jabbed his knife into my left arm. Crying out in agony, I battered the enemy on the head with my rifle stock, which he grabbed.

Withdrawing the knife from my arm, the red-black inner liquid dripped down the blade and onto my uniform as the Brit shoved me against the wall and directed the knife towards my face. Before the man could fillet me, Lars shot him in the back. I threw the Brit to the ground where he simply laid there, breathing laboured,

then turned and nodded to Lars. Just then, the reserve unit started to pour into the trench, providing us with reinforcements. Near immediately, the British raid collapsed in our sector. An officer took one look at us and told us to go get some medical treatment behind the lines.

While the two of us waited in the procession of screaming, blooded men, Lars spoke up. I want to say thank you for saving me back there. I should have been more careful. Don't mention it, I told him. You're... We're new here. I think we should just be grateful to still be alive. As soon as that last part slipped out, I had a smile from ear to ear. I had made it. My fate was not inevitable after all. Do you drink, Lars? I asked. Still a bit lightheaded with jubilence. He shook his head, no.

And I said, well, you do now. Where's Max? I'm going to buy everyone a drink tonight to commemorate our survival. From here and out, we enjoy every moment like it's our last. Lars' face turned pale, and he opened his mouth but closed it quickly, biting down on his lower lip. What? What's the matter? I asked. A sinking feeling rolled around in my gut, and my prior joy was fully torpedoed when Lars spoke next. Max is dead, he said. When I just stood there, glued to the ground in horror, he went on.

Some British guy threw a grenade into our section. He got killed. Some of the shrapnel gave me a head wound. Chewing on his bottom lip again, he offered a small apology while my mind just stayed blank. Our wounds weren't serious compared to so many others, so we got stitched and bandaged and sent back the same day. Sitting in the corner of a dugout, I stared at the ground in uncomprehension. the man who had done more to keep me alive than anything else was gone,

and I was on my own. I got up to grab some rations to wheat when my cavier fell to the ground. I'd accidentally dropped it. I stared at that rifle for a good few minutes. I could go back, I thought to myself. I could save him. I grabbed the rifle in both hands, remove the bayonet from the top,

and placed the barrel against my forehead. It was just then that last came back from getting his own food, He shouted, No, don't! Which caused the others inside who hadn't noticed what I was doing to look over. They grabbed me just before I could reach the trigger. Wait, you don't understand, I pleaded. I have to go back.

For hours they sat there, restraining me, and all I could do is weep. They did let me go eventually, to rest, and I was only allowed my weapon back after repeated assurances that it wasn't going to try anything like that again. I lied, of course, and when I found a much more suitable spot to die alone, I took the opportunity. But rather than finding

myself back in the train car where my journey had started, I rewoke back in the area I'd slept last, and a mattress in our dugout, watched over by one of our guys who had volunteered to watch me. That put an end to my suicidal inclinations, at least for the time being.

But the idea that I could make sure things go their proper course was too alluring to be disregarded. Whenever we went on an offensive or counter-offensive, I'd purposely diced several times in a row in order to get a proper feel for the layout, then charge a course of progress that went through the path of least resistance. I was always the one to find the thinnest section of wire, the least guided section of the

enemy's trench. I could tell where all the snipers and machine gun nest were in perfect accuracy. Defensive operations were different. The trick that took me a long while to learn was to always let events proceed in a very specific way. If I changed my behavior too much, then the enemy soldiers would change their behavior in turn. However, if I stuck to a rigid pattern, I retraced my steps exactly, then the enemy would never deviate too much. With time and patience, I got good at leading them into ambushes like chess pieces.

Every time I saved a man from a sniper's bullet, or perfectly predicted when artillery or mortar shell would land, people took notice. Rumours were whispered in the nights that I had an angel watching over me, and by extension the rest of them. men who I had seen die or get maimed in one of my prior lives would come up to me and jokingly ask if they were going to make it try as a might though casualties were inevitable and despite my best efforts I could not save everyone it was haunting at some point or another someone in the higher-ups

must have noticed my actions on the battlefield because once the worst of the fighting around Iepriss had stopped I was selected to become a stern truppen It was a mixed blessing, as while I could more readily utilize my ability in their ranks, I'd have to go through even more lives and expose myself to greater danger than ever before. It was easier to forget how much I'd endured when fighting was happening, because I could disconnect from it, feeling perfectly hollow and empty. In the spring of 1918, the trepidation I held within me was finally realized.

We were to go on the offensive, with our stern trodop and naturally taking the lead. my unit still stationed in Flanders took to offensive operations in April at first we did stunningly well I hadn't even needed to throw many lives away in the first few days maybe only two or three in total and only to perfect our already good margin of victory it felt like we could take the whole world but the more the offensive continued the more I realized something was going wrong we kept outrunning our supply lines having to wait for the rest of the army to catch up with

us. The British kept regrouping every time we had to go through a delay, and it was starting to show. Resistance to our attacks only increased more and more, and Osterndrippen, were the ones who had to deal with it. One day, my friend at the time, Walker, prided me awake. Carl, he said, we've got the order to move up again, grab everything. I'd only managed to get a couple hours' worth of sleep, having decided to take a nap in between assault, so upon getting up, I was still exhausted. My limbs felt heavy. My mind was foggy and scattershot. My eyes were dried out and stung. With all this weighing me down more than my equipment, I advanced. Immediately, things went bad. Running straight through the battlefield, as I usually did, in order to cover as much ground as I

could, and memorized the layout quicker failed, as each and every time I was riddled with bullets. I decided to take a more measured approach in subsequent attempts. My comrades and I, had to approach at a snail's pace and keep our heads down every step of the way. It felt like the bridges were throwing all they could at us. Even crawling around like a rat had its difficulties, though. I noticed that no matter how far I managed to crawl, I would still get shot.

The first couple times I thought I was the victim of an unlucky ricochet, but I kept getting killed even after some slight changes to my advance, so I deduced that my adversary was a sniper, reasoning that I was never going to get ahead without rat hunting us every step of the way, I subjected myself through multiple deaths in order to find his position. It was no wonder he kept getting us. His nest was hundreds of meters away in a half-destroyed brick house,

thanking her entire company. I sprayed bullets in his general direction with my Bergman MP18, but it was certainly no long-range tool, even in the best of times, and with my body weak and my mind impatient and on edge, it was certainly not the best of times. After about three deaths, foolishly focusing on taking out the sniper, I settled for an occasional burst of gunfire in his general direction to keep him suppressed, but that still left the wall of British guns firing at us.

My exhausted mind couldn't focus on the sniper and the front-line trench at the same time, and I died multiple times to both. Impatience was giving way to rage, and I ended up stupily getting myself killed many times after trying to rustings. In one death, I'd screamed curses at our adventurers. and wildly shooting in their general direction, then took a bullet to the spine and fell face first into a puddle instead of a shellhole. Unable to move my limbs, my lungs filled with muddy water, burning in incredible pain before I died. When I came to again, my anger broke and gave way to pure fear.

I started to wonder if I would ever be able to escape this madness, or I would be doomed to cycle through lives endlessly. Halfway into my next attempt, I hid inside of a shell hole and found out of a shell hole, myself unable to move. The fear had paralysed me utterly. Volker arrived at my side and tried to snap me out of what looked like the onset of shell shock. Carl, come on, he said, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me. We're getting shredded out there. We need you now more than ever. With real desperation in his voice, he said softly, you can't break down now. Please, Carl. That's about when the mortars started hitting us. I hadn't experienced them until now, as I had died too soon in each case. One went off close enough to catch us both. My vision went blank, and I felt waves of pure agony

rolling over me. When I did not come back to the spot of my nap and the pain did not subdue, I came to the horrified conclusion that my face had been blown off by the bomb. Indeed, I found that I couldn't work my mouth anymore. Instead, feeling pain like thousands of glass shards were stuck in me while my tongue tasted the sickening copper taste of blood. I could feel that my right arm still worked, so I retrieved a grenade from my pouch to kill myself with. My left arm was horribly mangled, and my fingers wouldn't work, so I held the grenade down with my left arm while the right pulled a string.

After successfully killing myself this way, I threw up the minute I woke up. Volker was concerned, asking, I assure you're good to keep going. Yes, I assured. I just ate something bad. It'll pass. I'm good to go. Come on.

Sighing, the older man pressed his hand against my head to make sure I wasn't feverish, and upon confirming that I wasn't, we rejoined the others and prepared for our assault. Shamefully, I abandoned my unit when the mortars came down around us again. As I dashed back into our own lines and the perceived safety it would bring, a mortar tossed me into the air. I fell on my arms, which produced an unholy crunching sound, indicating a fracture. As I pushed myself up to continue running, I felt a pulse of pain jolt through my right leg.

A piece of shrapnel had got stuck in there below the knee. I limped the way back and collapsed in front of fellow Germans or paying for help. When I came to next, grogly, I noticed I was in an actual bed. And to my sides were others in mutilated conditions occupying beds of their own. I was in the hospital.

I breathed a sigh of both relief and sorrow. I had failed my friends and abandoned my due to do but at least I would be able to live. I later learned from one of the nurses that out of 67 of us, only 14, all wounded, survived the failed assault. Volker had died too, and I grieved for him

while damning my own cowardice. Indeed, failure hung over the air in a dusty cloud. While I loved around, listening to the whales of those less fortunate than I, I learned how to walk with crutches. My leg wound would never fully heal.

We heard story of, after story about offensives stalling out, then getting pushed back. Correspondence with my family turned sour as well when I learned my youngest brother, Edmund, and my father had both died from an outbreak of influenza. My oldest brother, Fritz, was working tirelessly every day in the factories to support our aging mother, and I could do nothing from my hospital bed. When the war ended in our bitter defeat, and I was discharged from the hospital, I left home right away and started looking for work.

but with everyone else demobilizing and our country and political and economic chaos it was not easy for my part I took to drinking heavily there were times where I'd wake up after a night of slamming back as many whiskers as I could take only to realise that it was still yesterday

and I died from choking my own vomit I'd have intense self-loathing there were times where I stuck my head in a self-made noose and died forlornly hoping that one day I'd stop coming back from death One day during the early twenties When I was busy trying to kill my liver At the local tavern

A couple of red stormed in Comrats They shouted We are looking for revolutionary volunteers For the KPD They went around Passing out flies for the Communist Party And repeating far left phrases

To anyone willing to listen Finally they came over to me And one of them tried to slip a flyer under my elbow Work as literature comrade I remember him saying I grabbed the flyer and crumbled it into a ball, tossing it behind me. The Red took offence to the gesture and said,

If you are a reactionary type, then maybe it's best you get out of town. We don't need another boot heel over the necks of the workers. Rage cooked my body into an inferno, and impulsively I said to him, maybe it's you who should get out of town. If it wasn't for lazy, entitled Dicks like you, maybe we would have won the war.

I gave my money to the tavern keeper for the liquors I had drunk and shoved past the Reds disgusted. Hey, they shouted at me. I was halfway down the street before one of them grabbed me by the shoulder. Before I could tell them off again, I felt a brick slam into my cheek. I felt teeth come loose and blood run down my throat. I was assailed with clubs, fists, kicks when I fell to the floor. After my head was bludgeoned a few more times, I came too in my bed.

My rage from before had turned to pure wrath, to murder me over something as petty. as politics, it defied belief. I wanted revenge. Instead of drinking myself into a stupor, I waited in an alley outside the tavern and waited with a knife in hand. When I saw the two reds coming down, I pounced. I stuck the first one in the stomach and sliced him open. He had just enough time to look at me in wide-eyed shock before he spluttered to the ground, before he spluttered to the ground, clutching his intestines. His partner turned and ran, but I followed. Even though my leg protested vehemently at the strain, I caught up to him, tackling him to the ground and pressing

my knees into his back. I slammed the knife into his neck over and over again. He died gurgling on the crimson tides that flowed from his injury. When I stood up, I looked around, dazed. It's not every day that one commits murder in broad daylight. I looked to my left to see a grinning man on the sidewalk. He came up to me, gently took the knife from my hands, and just as gently pressed the flyer of his zone into my hands. Get out of here before someone sees you, he said. And just like that, he walked away. Fearing prosecution for the murder of two reds, I ran away, fast as I could back home.

Hours later, after frantically trying to wash off all the bloodstains from my clothes, I took a look at the flyer the bystander had handed me. It contained a picture of a blonde-haired man, clad in a brown shirt uniform, holding up a red flag, with a white circle in the middle that held a black shape. Not long after that, I started going to the rallies instead of drinking myself stupid. Fritz and I drifted apart. All I wanted was a confirmation of the torturous deaths I went through and the comrades I failed to save along the way, despite my gift or curse, were not for nothing.

And when they started winning elections and annexing neighbours without a shot fired, I felt vindicated. I was part of the Azatir, Reserve Army, when the Second War began, training others and carrying out administrative tasks on the home front. As things dragged on and millions were swallowed up in the fighting, we all wondered which of us would be next. When I received orders to go to Italy, I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach.

I was stationed in what was supposed to be a quiet sector, leading a small company of men in an Italian backwater hamlet. We were third-rate replacements for people sent to more pressing fronts, and I knew it. locals stared at us with daggers in their eyes and hate in their hearts discipline among the men was poor everyone knew the war would be ending soon so many took the drinking oogling women and what have you it was under these conditions that a private went missing

after a fifteen minute search we found his body covered in bruises and stabbed dozens of times dumped in a ditch like garbage after i heard the news i excuse myself found a quiet spot from prying eyes and blew my brains out. When I came to again, I frantically shouted to the men to do a headcount. They didn't understand my urgency until they noticed the missing man. Just as frantically, I had them run to the spot where I found him last. Unfortunately, he was still dead.

I cauldron of anger bubbled inside me. I was done losing people needlessly. As was standard procedure back then, we took hostages, 23 in all, and demanded that the partisans who killed our man revealed themselves. When none came out, we filled this screaming, crying, begging hostages with lead. When it was all over and I had the chance of the calm, my throat tasted bitter, and I felt self-contempt. I ramped of security and instilled a sense of discipline into the men under my command.

The tip-pat-tat were the local partisans continued, and so did our hostage taken. We must have killed well over a hundred from our reprisals. My insides felt like they were churning knives, so I started taking to the bottle again. I had to dull the pain. Things were getting terrible going to 1945. The partisans had become bolder than ever, and the skies were dominated by American planes. One night I couldn't sleep well and decided to get through some paperwork via candlelight. An hour and a half later, I heard frantic shouting and gunfire.

Grabbing my coat and sidearm, I dashed out there, asking anyone who could hear what was happening. Partisans, I was told, there must be dozens of them. I tried my best to lead a proper defence, but events were chaotic in the darkness. A bullet hit me in the stomach, and I dropped to the ground in agony, and familiar dance. Returning to this mortal coil, I remembered which direction the partisans struck us from. Accordingly, I had a platoon set up well-hidden firing positions and booby traps. When the wannabe freedom fighters came into the killbox, they didn't know what hit him. Some were killed running into our traps, but most were simply shot.

They were rooted without a single casualty in our side. When it was over and we inspected the battlefield, we counted 12 bodies and 8 prisoners. Five of whom were injured. Darkly energized by victory, I had all the prisoners stripped naked. The wounded ones, those two crippled to walk, were doused with water and we left them to freeze. That left 6. We took them to the cellar of some farms' house and we interrogated them. We wanted names, locations, everything.

They spat in our faces and called us names, fascist pigs, butchers, sons of whores. We unleashed our hatred upon those young men, whipping them raw, burning their skin with hot iron pokers, and gave out old-fashioned beatings with fists, clubs and boots. We had them execute the next morning, hung to death. God, it makes me sick now, thinking about it. The last partisan attack I went through, a sniper shot me right in the front of the first. ribcage. I ended up having to go to an actual hospital to get the bullet out. When I was sent back, the war was in its last months. The company I led was a shadow of its former strength, at only 44 men,

and we were getting put near the front. Artillery hit us everywhere. There were no German cannons left to contest them. Likewise, American planes flew unimpeded, bombing and strafing whenever they liked. Under these conditions, one of our soldiers tried to desert. We, we, captured in, though, and the men asked me what should be done. At this stage, desertion could be punishable by summary execution, and after having put myself through hell to make sure everyone got back home safely, this man's attempted desertion felt like a slap to the face. Despite my anger, I couldn't bring myself to punish him.

I knew all too well what it was like to lose one's cool under fire, and showed mercy to the poor man. Had my more fanatical superiors found out, it could have meant my job. but I was prepared to take the risk. I felt as though that moment made me realize that there was a way of making sure those under my command could come home. When Americans advanced in opposition

and demanded our surrender, I had the men disarm. Not long after the war ended and we slowly got repatriated back to Germany. There was occupation, rebuilding, restructuring. The post-war years for me felt unreal at first. I feared, constantly,

that the next war was right around the corner that I'd relive yet more deaths again and when West Berlin was blockaded and the Korean War broke out I felt like I was counting down the seconds but it never came in 54 when things looked calmer

I decided that I could not live in fear forever I married had a child raised a family and though I always had fear of a new conflict I didn't let it dominate my life I do often think about my gift or curse or whatever you want to call it. Looking back in my life, I wonder if perhaps there was some higher purpose that I was supposed to fulfill that I did not, or if it was supposed to function as penance of a sort.

I researched precognition to the interwar years and after, but records of anyone with quite the same experiences as me are scarce, much less a meaning to it all. here at age 92 with a Germany now reunited I have hope for peace in future generations and while I can't say for certain I have a feeling that the next death will be my last