Maybe we would even have been friends - me a jolly backpacker looking for tales to tell the boys back home (Porky, Dorky, Spot, Capper, Mapper, Dick and Spud - great guys), him a rosy-faced local of a town I’d be passing through. Had this not been 1942, and had we not been fighting in one of the bloodiest conflicts in mankind’s history, then perhaps things would have been different.
Rudolph Shultz to give him his full name, a porky butcher’s shop owner from the south side of Berlin.
This morning I was killed by a man called Shultz.
