The Angel (Part 1)

(This is a work of fiction)

My Grandfather always had a story to tell.

I especially remember those long evenings sipping tea in the veranda, safe from the heavy monsoon rain inches away, as he would tell me of the many strange and often fascinating moments of his life.

'Gramps' as my younger brother and I used to call him, had quite an extraordinary life. Even in his seventies he was a good deal stronger than most men half his age, he was a bodybuilder and wrestler in the old days and collected many a trophy from strongman competitions. I never failed to notice the twinkle in his eyes whenever he recounted his bouts in the akhada or wrestling mud pit where he would wrestle other tough guys in the ancient, traditional fighting styles.

Growing up around this ageing mountain of a man, we always tried to emulate his workouts and join him in chanting the Hanuman Chalisa. He used to say that his strength came directly from the God of strength, Hanuman himself. While everyone seemed to admire his faith and erudite experience most people received his stories with a pinch of salt.

Now it was a well-known fact that Gramps had served in the Second World War as part of the Indian effort against the Nazi threat. I used to help my granny in her monthly rituals dusting and sometimes polishing his post war medals and bravery awards before putting them back in the display case. In between moves of chess, I would notice the far away look in his eyes as he gazed at the medals standing in the glass case nearby. Prodding him to make his move would have been an invasion of his daytime reveries but to a young boy of 10 or 12, beating grandpa at chess or snakes and ladders was much more important.

One particularly memorable September evening, we sat in the veranda watching the late afternoon sun disappear behind a thick blanket of dark nimbus clouds. A cool breeze was gathering momentum, rustling through the leafy branches of trees lining the garden path, swirling mild clouds of dust off the ground signalling the storm that was to follow. Mom and dad were not at home and granny was busy as usual baking a cake or some other delicacy in the oven.

'Why does it rain grandpa?' I asked him.

'Ohh well my boy, maybe God wants to give the Earth a good bath eh?' he chuckled over his thick shell framed glasses. He laughed one of his silent heavy chuckles again and then said- 'maybe there are angels racing each other in the sky and making it rain.'

I liked the thought of that.

But are angels real grandpa? I haven't seen them'. I insisted.

Ahh yes they are..they are he said, a twinkle in his eye as if he knew something.

Where are they, where do they live?'...a little boys questions can go on and on, as I'm sure you are all too aware dear reader.

He put his newspaper down and began playing with his spectacles. I got very excited because he always did that when he was going to tell me a story. What he went on to tell me left its mark on my young mind and in its own way shaped the course of adventures, which I was to face in the years ahead. He told me this story with more detail when I was older and ready to understand it with greater maturity.

This is his story:


Many years ago during the Second World War, I was only 17 years old and very far away from your great-grandparents and home in India. I served in the Maratha Infantry and we were part of the Allied war effort against the Nazis in Italy. Our boys fought side by side with British, French, Polish and Soviet troops at the time.

Italy has some of the most beautiful countryside in the world and it was such a pity to see the land and its people being ravaged by this war. Pristine green meadows contrasted by milky white houses. Chapel bells ringing in the distance with the cool breeze in your ringing in your ears. There were infrequent moments when we did experience a peaceful interlude such as this and one could be forgiven for almost forgetting that we were in the midst of a horrible war. Then the sound of gunshots in the distance would bring us back to the present. The luxury to pause for thought was rare, this was a war and every day was a life and death situation.

Although formidable opponents, the Nazis were retreating into the countryside and using villages, monasteries and farmland as lines of defence. Everyday was a new challenge; we had to deal with landmines strewn just about everywhere. We could not afford to be careless where a misplaced step could mean the loss of our limbs and even our lives.

I remember a day just like this; it was the winter of 1944. We had pushed the Nazi lines some distance away to a small village near the Chapel of Montecassino. There was a severe hailstorm; it felt almost as if God was weeping at the sight of so many of his children destroying each other. I was stationed along with five others by a hill overseeing the enemy lines ahead. There was not going to be an offensive march ahead in these conditions, it made better sense to wait until the downpour abated.

Up ahead in the distance I noticed some movement in the fading light. Using my binoculars I saw some German soldiers marching a line of local villagers away from the village into the forest nearby. My heart melted. I could make out the weeping faces of the people, their hands tied, eyes wide with fear, weeping bitterly, tears shrivelling the skin on their sad faces. I signalled my companions Raj Singh and Zia Khan, who saw the same spectacle but without orders or approval we could not move ahead. It began snowing pretty heavily and the notion of just a few of us going on ahead was most certainly suicidal. I felt helpless watching them go by, it made no difference if we were going to fight to take their village tomorrow, these people would be dead by then. I looked again and saw there were young children among this group, their hands bound as well. I had seen a lot of horrors in the war in my young life thus far but this was too much to bear. I never felt hate and helplessness as much as I felt that moment.

I don’t know what made me do what I did. Perhaps it was irrationality brought about by exhaustion, maybe I hated the Nazi soldiers too much to think clearly or follow command. I took my rifle and ventured out onto the other side of the hill. My comrades noticed and called out to me, their voices muffled in the downpour. I did not look back, all I could see in my minds eye were the terrified faces of the children, I did not care if I lived any further, I wanted to save these poor innocent people or die in the effort.

I followed the group, keeping some distance from them. There were about 35 people prisoners, including women, elderly men and at least 15 children flanked by 10 German soldiers. I wanted them to stop somewhere, before I acted. They couldn’t be going too far away as it was getting dark and they would want to get back to their camp, or so I thought. The forest that we entered was dense with much snow covered foliage to hide behind and remain undetected. It was getting colder.

After a half hour or so, they stopped by a small chapel which may have been uninhabited. Beside the chapel was a large pit in the ground. It couldn’t have been more than 10 feet deep and 20 feet wide. I realised this was one of the thousands of execution pits in which Jews would be shot or sometimes pushed into, while the soldiers shot at their victims almost like a sport to amuse themselves. The soldiers shouted at the people to jump inside the pit. After a warning gunshot they prisoners did as they were told. I wished I had the support of my comrades behind the hill.

As the soldiers readied them selves to fire at their victims in the pit, I took aim as well and fired the first shot at the one who was barking orders to the others. He fell dead in an instant as a result of a clean shot in the head. The others turned frantically looking everywhere unsure from where the bullet was fired. I felt like a ghost in the falling snow and moved a few meters away and fired again, this time shooting another soldier in the chest. He fell into the pit; I heard some screams from the children. A shot was fired at my direction and I ducked behind a large rock. I could not outlast the remaining 8 German soldiers. The shots being fired over my head seemed to bring to light the fruitlessness of my actions, now not only those villagers but even I would meet my doom in the four walls of that muddy pit.

The something very odd happened. The ground began to shake, at first the tremors were mild but then became harsher and more destructive, it barely occurred to me that there was a minor earthquake on this miserable day. However the shooting stopped and I turned again firing a volley of shots at my counterparts, four of whom got hit. Two of them died while the other two fell to the ground. To my horror I saw the ground open up beside the pit and swallow all four of them. I could not see any of the remaining soldiers and to save myself I climbed onto the rock I was hiding behind.

I could make out the people in the pit were still alive, shivering but alive. I almost felt an adrenaline rush to think that the Germans had run away or died by my gun or by the strange earthquake. Suddenly I heard a crack and a jolt of pain in my arm; I fell off the rock and saw one of the remaining soldiers shooting at me from about 10 meters away. I felt it was the end and without my gun, I blindly stumbled ahead, falling into the pit. The last sight I remember was the shocked and frightened faces of the children there and the falling snow. I fell unconscious.