MY ENEMY, MY FRIEND

The war had raged on for four years, and there seemed to be no end in sight.

German forces were dug into the area of Belleau Wood, France, and their American counterparts dug shallow foxholes, and attempted to prevent the enemy from crossing the Marne River.

During the course of the battle, the Americans managed to make inroads against the German front, and thousands were killed and wounded during what proved to be the final months of WWI.

Sergeant Scott and his American company of troops fired off round after round, and launched dozens of mortars in an easterly direction, as days turned into weeks; giving and losing ground.

As the darkness gave way to light in June of 1918, Scott stepped gingerly from tree to tree, in an especially dark forest. Suddenly, he heard the sound of what seemed to be an injured animal. It was no animal, but rather, a badly wounded German officer. His right arm was mangled, and as he sat next to a small tree, blood flowed easily down his side, and dripped to the ground; forming a large red puddle.

Sergeant Scott spoke,

“Sir, do you speak English?”

Even in the midst of war, and though he was speaking to an enemy soldier, courtesy prevailed.

Lieutenant Lister managed a weak smile, and responded.

“Yes. I attended the University of Heidelberg. I speak English quite well.”

(and)

“I’m afraid I’m done for, Sergeant. Will you sit with me awhile?”

Not noticing any small arms on or about his newfound friend, nor any sign of malice, Jim took a seat next to the bloody form, and they proceeded to exchange what passed for pleasantries.

“Sergeant, do you believe there’s something or someone waiting for us on the other side of this darkness we call life?”

The American non-commissioned officer was silent for a moment, as if searching for words.

“Well, yes, yes I do, Lieutenant. While I’m not especially outspoken about it, I came to a saving knowledge of the Savior when I was a child.”

Lister nodded his head, and recalled a time when his mother read to him from the “good book” each evening before he retired to his little bed, and set something in motion within him which culminated in a profound and abiding faith.

With each drop of blood, Erick felt his energy waning away proportionately.

“Will you, could you… pray for me, Sergeant?”

Scott’s head jerked backwards slightly, as if he’d been slapped. Such an unusual request from an enemy officer; a man whom he was, at least indirectly, responsible for killing. Fraternization with the enemy? And for a moment, his military demeanor won out.

… But only for a moment.

“Well, yes, Lieutenant. I will pray for you, as I would hope you would pray for me if the shoe was on the other foot.”

And with this, the hardened sergeant’s voice broke with emotion.

“Father, I pray for my brother, Erick. Will you send your holy angels now, and usher him safely into your kingdom? And will you give him light for darkness, and steal away all fear during his transition? Amen.”

A tear rolled down Lt. Lister’s bruised and bloody face, and with this he spoke the last words he would ever speak on this side of the veil.

“Thank you, my friend. We were enemies, but now I call you ‘friend.’”

And with this, Erick’s chest heaved, and he drew a long, deep breath,

… and slowly exhaled.

And then it was over.

My enemy,

… my friend.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 45, Copyright pending

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