He was not eager to join the war. Not that he was afraid of fighting. Or at least he did not think that he was afraid of fighting. Rather, he knew that his talents lay elsewhere and the Reich, in its brilliance, soon recognized those talents. Specifically, his aptitude for personal detachment. He could write of death and suffering without giving pause to think of those reading his words, or those he wrote of. He was therefore given the task of composing telegrams bearing news of sons lost in battle or soldiers robbed of their limbs. His first posting was in a Battalion command in Western Poland. Each morning, he would receive a list of casualties and, true to the military’s template, would offer families little information about how their sons died.

Dear Madam Berthold,

I regret to inform you that your son, Fritz, died in battle on September 10^th, 1939. Rest assured that his death was not in vain, but part of our nation’s struggle for independence.

Yours,

Ellois Goering,

Commander, 6^th Infantry Battalion.

By week’s end, he comprised 100 telegrams. By the month’s end, he had comprised 500. His fast typing was music to the commander’s ears as he was, by far, the fastest typist in the steno pool. Not that he was counting. In the evenings he would retreat to the canteen and eat a bowl of soup with dry bread. The other soldiers did not converse with him, which was not surprising. His detachment had often resulted in seclusion. Little did he know that he was referred to by all as the ‘Grin Reaper’, owing to the perpetual grin on his face.

In 1940 he was dispatched to Denmark and then Norway. There he began smoking, not out of style but out of boredom. Like typing, he excelled at smoking and with a cigarette hanging from his lower lip he continued to write dozens of telegram. Later, he was sent to Belgium. While some of his peers had been seconded to fighting units, he remained in place averaging 100 telegrams per day pausing only for his dry bread and his lonely bed.

He did not see Brussels or stroll down the streets of Copenhagen. He did not marvel at the speed of the Panzers or rejoice in the victories of the Luftwaffe. He did his duty, and payed little attention to the world.

With the commencement of operation Barbarossa, he was dispatched to the Eastern Front. At first there were few telegrams to write and over the course of several weeks a certain levity entered his heart. The steno pool was quiet in those first few days. Sitting in front of his silenced typewriter, awaiting grim news, he had time to think. This was a strange sensation as he had usually kept himself busy. At home, he delved into books, or read academic journals in preparation for his law degree. Yet Russia offered little books or open universities. And so he sat and pondered. First, he wondered if Germans could ever acclimate to the Russian weather. Next, he thought of the horses enlisted to war, facing the same artillery shells as humans yet without choosing to do so or understanding why they were fighting.

He then delved into a potent day dream about a horse rebellion that crippled the German offense. It begun with Black Shadow, a fiery steed responsible for carrying large cannons from one village to the next. Haunted by the images of death and mayhem around him, Black Shadow broke free of his reigns, and under heavy fire, escaped to a nearby forest. Refusing to leave his compatriots behind, Black Shadow used the cover of darkness to approach other horses carrying tank shells, or food or the bodies of dead Germans. Fearing their masters’ whips, the horses initially refused to join Black Shadow. Yet the tales of his exploits, and the dream of freedom, soon turned Black Shadow to legend. Racing faster than steno poll typists, Black Shadow visited units spread across the European frontier amassing an army of black and white horses. At first, they were ten, then they were twenty and eventually, Black Shadow was leading the largest revolt in military history, eclipsing that of Spartacus. Midway through another daring horse rescue by Black Shadow, a soldier entered the steno pool with a short causality list.

Ready to pounce at the keys in front of him he suddenly drew back. If horses and slaves could rebel, maybe he could as well.

Dear Madam Frank,

I regret to inform you that your son, Alfred, died in battle on July 6^th, 1941. Trapped within a forested area, and surrounded by Bolshevik tanks, Alfred stormed the enemy’s position killing three soldiers and single handedly demolishing a Bolshevik armored vehicle. Alas, Alfred was then struck by a bolt of lightning killing him instantly. Please rest assured that your son’s death was not in vain as his heroic exploits saved the lives of many of his counterparts.

Germany remains forever in your debt.

Yours,

Arthur Frick,

Commander, 5^th Infantry Battalion

As smoke rose from the ashtray, he inspected the telegram and placed in the pile of outgoing mail. Evening came with little warning. In the canteen, he ate a bowl of soup but passed on the dry bread. Exalted, he exited the barracks and sat under the night’s sky. A rare moment of silence followed and grinning, he dozed off.

He awoke to sound of nearby explosions. Unphased, as these had become part of daily life, he entered the steno pool where a list of causalities was awaiting.

Dear Frau Rosenberg,

I regret to inform you that your son, Joachim, died on the night of July 7^th, 1941. Tasked with conquering a radio station, Joachim led a detachment of soldiers into enemy territory, with only his personal weapon to protect him. Storming the radio station, Joachim heroically took the life of a Bolshevik General and his mistress, a Prima Ballerina in the Bolshoi. It is hard to imagine that the Bolshoi will ever recover from this loss, especially this late in the ballet season. Regrettably, that same night, Joachim contracted a violent cold and was put to death by his unit’s physician. Rest assured that your son’s actions have saved the lives of countless Germans.

I remain forever in your debt,

Arthur Fink,

Commander, 5^th Infantry Battalion

He reviewed the telegram, nodded and quickly moved on.

Dear Frau Funk,

It is with a heavy heart that I write to inform of your son’s death on this July 7^th, 1941. Although Alfred did not die on the battlefield his death has struck a devastating blow to the enemy. When visiting a small Ukrainian village, Alfred drew the attention of a young Ukrainian women named Mila. Faced with death, and the prospects of winter, Alfred and Mila made passionate love to one another. Just as they were climaxing, Mila’s father entered her room to find his one and only daughter being deflowered by a German officer. Mila’s father reached for his pistol and shot his daughter, your son and finally, himself. What your son did not know was that Mila’s father was high-ranking operative in the Russian security services. In his death, Alfred has all but ensured the collapse of the Russian front.

I hope you find solace in the knowledge that your son met his death in the arms of a beautiful woman; albeit a Slav.

We all remain in your debt,

Arthur Fink,

Commander, 5^th Infantry Battalion

P.S. Attached to this telegram please find your son’s personal belongings, including a packet of unused prophylactics.

Over the next few weeks, he advanced further and further into Russia and the recess of his mind. By August of 1941 he had perfected his writing skills.

Dear Frau Bormann,

It is with a heavy heart that I write to inform you of your son Hermann’s death on this day, August 11^th, 1941. Hermann was beloved by his soldiers and commanders alike, not least because of his massive phallus. Late last night, Hermann’s unit came under intensive artillery fire. With little regard for his own safety, Hermann seized the enemy’s cannon and stuck his large phallus into its barrel. Soon, the cannon exploded killing several enemy soldiers as well as Hermann. Rest assured that Hermann’s actions have crippled the enemy’s front lines and allowed our own forces to advance towards Moscow.

Germany will not soon forget your son’s phallus.

On behalf of a grateful nation,

Franz Kietel,

Commander, 5^th Infantry Battalion

By November of 1941, the causality lists began to grow as his daily average of telegrams declined. There were not enough hours in the day to describe the daring exploits of fallen German soldiers. On December 6^th, he started new a telegram. Yet when he noticed the soldier’s name, and the woman he was addressing he turned white. They matched those of his own brother and mother. He left his desk and entered his superior’s office. Placing the causality list on the table, he quietly asked whether the 4^th Panzer Unit had sustained any casualties. He then learned that the entire unit was destroyed when accidentally entering a minefield. “It was pure carnage”, uttered the superior. “Wherever they turned they met mines. Not one of them survived”.

He was not close to his brother. He was glued to him. They were made of the same tissue. His brother was the one person that he cared for, the one person that he loved. They had shared the same womb, entered the world at the same time, slept in the same room and attended the same class. When his brother hurt, he would feel pain, and when he retreated into his world, his brother would accompany him.

He placed a small piece of paper into his typewriter and wrote:

Dear Faru Streicher,

I regret to inform you that you have failed your son. You have neglected your most sacred duty as a mother- to protect the fruit of your loins. Early yesterday morning, your son’s tank exploded after mistakenly entering a minefield. The explosion was so severe, that there are no remains to fill his grave. He died in a Russian field of no importance and no distinction. His grave will forever be marked by your dereliction.

Yours,

Your reaming son,

Black Shadow