Do Not Fiddle.

“Nicht kleckern, klotzen!” Do not fiddle. Smash. A decisive action at all times. This is what they told us, and this is what history will speak of when they record the meaning of Blitzkrieg.

Fall Weiß began with the first day of September, 1939 - and I, a junior officer of the SS-VT with combat training and no practical experience, attached to the 14th army division who had final objective to destroy the Polish troops near Krakow. No command power, but enough rank that they expected of me a stellar performance. Poland had attacked us on 29th August - and we were now to return the favor.

I recall that I expected of battle to be like a chess game - where logical moves are made to capture territory, to battle for supremacy in an organized fashion. Poland advanced, made their move. Now it was our turn. Civilized like that.

I did not expect the utter chaos of it all - the acrid smells of sweat, blood, firepower and death. I did not expect the shouting, the crying, the hiss and shriek of artillery. I do not recall if I realized this was the beginning of war, or only thought of it as a military action - but I remember the excitement that spread through the ranks when we learned we were at war. Like a party.

I was raised Catholic. I do not recall if I have told you this before, but I did believe what I had been raised to believe -the commandant "Thou Shall Not Kill." Was it killing, though- this anonymous aggression that seemed nothing akin to murder? We fired across the battlefield; our enemy fell or did not fall. They may have survived or perished. It may have been your bullet that hit; or perhaps the bullet of the man next to you. There was a safety in that distance - a deniability that maybe this was not a violation, but a provisionary clause. "Thou Shall Not Kill - except in case of war, in which case it is not personal." God will forgive you, Hans - this I told myself. And were we not the chosen people, righting the injustice of the Great War, bringing about a fate that was preordained? Are we not? So they speak, so they tell us to believe. It is easier to believe this at a distance.

There came a day when it became less than distance. The fighting had grown close-quartered. A Pole faced me - a desperate face - younger than my own. More a boy than a soldier. He shouted something in his tongue that I did not understand. It may have been a prayer, but it was likely a curse. Nicht kleckern, klotzen! my brain shouted in return, blood rushing through my ears in a deafening roar that drowned out any further thought. I raised the butt of my rifle, and struck him down. He moved. I struck him again. I kept striking him. Down, down, down... there was a sickening sound, a splatter... the sticky wetness hitting my face, in my eyes - I rubbed them with my hands. It seemed to cling. It would not be removed, would no longer be denied.

There were more battles. None so close, none so personal. How many other men I may have killed, I do not know. How many more I will kill, I do not know. The young Pole is the face I see in my nightmares when I dream about this war. Sometimes, in that strange surreality of dreams, we are playing chess. We make our moves in a civilized fashion for a while, but it always ends the same.

Here in Paris there are churches, and I have considered this. Going to mass, or confession, but no - I do not belong there. I do not think that God will forgive me until I have forgiven myself.