Where the Sun Meets the Earth

The red Nebraska sun had dipped down to kiss the tops of the corn stalk sentinels, silhouetting them against the burnt orange sky as they marched off to the horizon. Howard slowly meandered back to the farm house, a rivulet of sweat slipped down his neck under the collar of his work shirt and his muscles ached from a long day of working the fields with his brother. As he neared the rickety old porch he spotted his sister bent over a bucket shucking fresh picked ears of corn. A soft breeze floated past, carrying the sound of Lorna Belle’s gentle voice.

“You are my sunshine…”

Howard joined in, singing the next line in German, “mein einziger Sonnenschein.” His rich baritone voice wrapped around the sometimes harsh sounding dialect, smoothing it out as if coated in a deep, dark chocolate.

Lorna Belle looked up at the sound of his voice, a radiant smile outshining the setting sun. “Howard! You're back just in time to help me.” She patted the wooden step twice in invitation for him to sit.

Though his muscles cried for a break and the skin on his fingers stung with the fury of hundreds of tiny cracks and cuts, Howard graciously obliged his little sister. Together they freed the golden kernels from their rough green robes and continued to sing her favorite song, she in English and he in German. After a time, Lorna Belle paused and looked at her brother with deep consternation.

“Hey Howard, how come you decided to learn German? I thought they were our enemies in the Great War and Len says they're making trouble again in Europe.”

“They were and they are,” Howard nodded, “But as I see it, just ‘cause someone was our enemy once, doesn't mean they always will be. I'm going to be a chemist one day and there have been a lot of important scientists from Germany. And, if we end up going to war with the Germans again, I figure I'd be better off being able to talk to the people I'm fighting.”

Lorna Belle scrunched her nose the way that made Howard laugh. “I guess that makes sense. But, Howard…” She got a very serious look on her young face, “I sure hope you never have to go to war against the Germans, or anyone else.”

“Why's that?”

“You have too good a heart, Howard. I'm afraid it would never survive having to kill another man and I couldn't bear it if you never came home.”

“Don't worry Lil’ Belle, I'm sure you won't have to worry about me going off to war anytime soon.”

Lorna Belle began singing again, this time her voice full of sadness that dripped from each melodic word, culminating in the final line, “Please don't take my sunshine away.”

Howard looked over the rows of corn and watched their silhouettes morph in the fading light into crosses and half moons. He looked down at the cornhusk in his hand and realized it had become his crisp military hat. Lorna Belle's voice faded into a far off memory and he looked down at the stone marker that bore her name.

“Well Lil’ Belle, I sure hope I don't disappoint you. I'm headed out tomorrow. We'll be joining a regiment in France in a few weeks. I really hope I never have to find out whether or not you were right about me killing a man. But I promise, I'll do my best to make it home. Maybe knowing German will save my life over there. If all else fails, I'll sing to them.

Du bist mein Sonnenschein, mein einziger Sonnenschein. Du machst mich glücklich, wenn der Himmel grau ist. Du wirst nie wissen, Liebes, wie sehr ich dich liebe. Bitte nimm mir nicht meinen Sonnenschein."

Deep down Howard knew Lorna Belle had been right. Every time he shot his rifle in practice, his heart stung uncomfortably. He tried to push it down, as his regiment arrived in France. He tried to tell himself he had to do what was necessary to make it home. But deep in his most secret thoughts he wondered what he cared so much about going home to. Since Lorna Belle had passed it just wasn't the same.

In the long days and endless nights that they waited to finally get to the front, his fellow soldiers talked with eagerness at the prospect of proving themselves in battle. But Howard knew he wouldn't be the soldier to be remembered as a hero. There would be no medals draped on his neck at his return from war. He was just an ordinary man masquerading in the guise of a soldier. The closer they got the quieter the others became. The final march came in deafening silence but for the rhythm of their synchronized footsteps.

Then, suddenly, they were met with a violent barrage of blasts and shrieks. Men fell to the right and left, some to move no more, others to cower in fear. Before Howard had a moment to think a searing heat sliced through his right knee. Instinctively, he brought his rifle up, ready to defend himself. But a heartbeat later the rifle fell uselessly at his feet, something warm oozed over his right shoulder just as he felt the sharp twinge in his left thigh that knocked his feet from beneath him.

He lay there, floating in and out of consciousness, as dirt rained down, men screamed in pain, and bright flashes filled the sky. Slowly the cacophony surrounding him moved away fading to a low rumble. Around him he heard sobs and muffled moans that became fewer the closer the sun sank toward the horizon. He blinked his eyes against the blood red sun that glared angrily over the silhouettes of soldiers engaged in endless battle in the far distance. A soft breeze swept over the desolate battlefield, kissing Howard’s cheeks and carrying the haunting memory of a song he once sang.

Lorna Belle's voice came to him, “I couldn't bear it if you never came home.”

He felt himself slipping into a deep sleep and wondered if it was really death. But another breeze ruffled his hair and brought his sister's voice again, “Howard, it isn't time for you to join me. You've still got so much to do.”

Again, he heard the memory of her song and together they sang, she in English and he in German.

Somewhere in the distance he could hear voices.

"Tot…Tot….Tot….Sani er ist Deutsch! ….Tot…Tot… Das hier ist amerikanisch, mach ihn fertig….Tot…Tot."

Dead…Dead…. Dead…Medic he's German!... Dead…Dead…This one's American, finish him…. Dead…. Dead…

The voices drew nearer but Howard was only vaguely aware that it should bother him. Lorna Belle's soft voice swept around him and he was back on the worn rickety porch, singing their old duet.

"Sani er ist Deutsch! ...Nein, er ist Amerikaner, mach ihn fertig…"

Medic he’s German! No, he is American, finish him.

"Warte, er ist nicht bewaffnet und singt auf Deutsch. Er ist nicht unser Feind. Er kann gerettet werden."

Wait, he isn't armed and he's singing in German. He isn't our enemy. He can be saved.

“You're safe now, Howard. Sleep,” Lorna Belle whispered in his ear and darkness pulled him down into a dreamless sleep.

The pain in his shoulder almost drowned out the gut wrenching ache that radiated up his legs. He still wanted to sleep, but the nausea from the intense pain refused to let him be. Despite the searing that shot through him, he managed to roll on his left side just before retching all over the floor. His vision filled with starbursts of bright white and red so he couldn't focus on his surroundings. Yet, he could see just enough to know he wasn't outside anymore. Barely softer than the ground he'd fallen on, he now lay on a thin mattress atop a metal cot. He could hear moaning far to his left and the gentle voice of a woman whispering. Further away still, he could hear rhythmic chanting coming from somewhere below him, muffled but definitely in German.

Finished expelling the remnants of his stomach contents, Howard rolled onto his back and tried to get his bearings. He was in a building, his vision slowly cleared and he could see the steeped peaked roof of a very large attic. Sunlight streamed in from the dormer window across from his bed. There were over two dozen beds, most of which were occupied by men wrapped in blood soaked bandages. Two women wearing blue striped dresses and white aprons bent over separate beds, tending the wounds of the occupants. The bed on Howard's left was empty but on his right lay a dark haired man who watched him with piercing green eyes full of curiosity and fear. He looked to be about the same age and perhaps in another life they could have been schoolmates.

Noticing the folded German uniform at the foot of the bed Howard introduced himself in the man's native tongue and apologized for getting sick.

“Howard, I'm Kurt. Your German is almost as bad as my English!” He laughed, “I also sorry you get sick. But it okay. Nurse say they pull out three bullets!”

“Three bullets? That sounds right. I definitely remember getting hit three times,” as if wanting to confirm, each of his wounds groaned deep into the bones of both legs and his shoulder. Another wave of nausea washed over him, threatening to overwhelm him once more. Without realizing he was doing it, he began humming to soothe his nerves.

“You keep humming that song while you sleep.” Kurt observed. “It remind you of special girl from home?”

“I suppose it does," Howard smiled. "My little sister. I miss her so. How long have I been here?”

“Two days,” Kurt replied. “When they brought you they say they got you in France the day before. I shocked you have anything left to be sick on.” Again he laughed. Howard liked his laugh, it was a full belly rumble that made his eyes twinkle.

“So we're in Germany,” Howard mused. “What do they keep chanting below us?”

“The alphabet!” Kurt laughed as realization dawned on Howard's face. “School’s still in session. When I came, the kinders were playing in the yard. One poked bloody bandage on my foot and lehrerin yell and swat his rump!”

“So we're in a schoolhouse?” It struck Howard how different the war was for those who lived in Europe than it was back home in Nebraska.

Over the next weeks, Howard and Kurt became fast friends as they both slowly healed from their wounds. Their conversations were a mix of English and German and frequently included light-hearted pranks on the nurses attending them. Often they each forgot that they had stood on opposite sides of the battlefield. But the guards who watched over Howard and the other American patients glared angrily at the two, offended by the notion they could see and appreciate each other's humanity. Some of the other Americans scolded Howard for being a Nazi-lover. But Kurt wasn't a Nazi or an enemy. He was just another twenty year old caught up in a war he didn't choose or understand.

The war took its toll on the little schoolhouse hospital. The health of all the patients began to decline as their rations dwindled to nothing more than turnip broth. Even the nurses and guards grew gaunt and their eyes sunk into dark circles. Finally, the chanting of the children ceased, draping the building in eerie silence.

Then the day came, Howard heard the guards whispering in German which patients they should shoot to save themselves. But one shook his head emphatically, “No, we can't kill them. It's wrong. Besides, we're losing. The Allies are coming. If we keep the Americans alive maybe they'll take us with them.”

“Would you?” Another soldier looked pleadingly at Howard. “Would you please take us with you when they come to save you? Please!”

When the Americans arrived, Howard pleaded for his former captors. “They were always fair to us. Even when we all started to starve, they did their best to keep us alive. Please, treat them with the same kindness.” He then pointed to Kurt, “And this is my friend. I need him to come with me.”

Howard eventually returned home, then found a truly special girl, and raised four children in New Mexico where he worked as a Chemist. For years, he carried the memory of the war in the limp of his shattered right knee. His weeks of starvation took a permanent toll, a probable catalyst to his severe Diabetes that routinely sent him to the hospital. But he spoke little of the war. He moved forward in life, not focused on the darkness of his past, rather the hope of the future. It led him to the moment his nineteen year old son sat beside him on the back porch.

“Hey Dad, I'm really excited the church is sending me on a mission. But…” he sighed heavily, “I'm worried Dad. How do you feel about me going to Germany to serve the people who held you prisoner?”

“Kurt, my son, never judge a people for what they do in a time of war. Just because they were our enemies once doesn't mean they always will be. Serve them with love. I will be eternally grateful to the Germans who chose to save me when they just as easily could have snuffed out my life.”

Howard gazed toward the horizon where the sun was just touching the far off peaks of the Jemez. Against the deep red sun they almost looked like rows of cornstalks marching off to a long past war. He began to sing, "Du bist mein Sonnenschein, mein einziger Sonnenschein…"

“Dad,” Kurt asked, “Why do you always sing that song?”

“No reason really, son. No reason at all.”

Warren “Howard” Adams was my Grandfather. His sister, Lorna Belle, died suddenly in 1939 at 13. He rarely spoke of her or his experience in war. He served his country without ever firing his weapon. He was shot and taken prisoner then held in a makeshift hospital in a schoolhouse. There he befriended a German Soldier from Austria named Kurt. They ate nothing but turnip broth for weeks and the guards begged to be taken with as the Allies got closer. Howard named his third child after Kurt and later sent that son to serve a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints in Germany.

Grandpa wasn't a war hero by the world's standards. But he is my hero, an example of unconditional love and forgiveness, proof we can heal from the horrors of war.

And he often sang “You are my Sunshine” in German for no reason at all.