A Bird's Blood on the SS Man's Breath

Helmut, the ugliest SS man of the ones assigned to our group, was eating a duck as we trudged along. This was not simply a cut or a generous hunk of a duck, mind you, no; it was not merely a breast or a wing, but a whole, squirming duck that Helmut had seized from a pond by the side of the road along which we marched at flesh-crusted bayonet-point. The duck had been wounded through its head by a piece of shrapnel and swam lopsidedly in the gore-polluted water, easy prey for the hungry Helmut who waded into the pond and grabbed it, biting into its tender throat. Being one of the nicer Nazis I encountered during the Shoah, Helmut approached and offered me a bite of the plaintively flailing, still-quacking duck. Helmut's mouth, as he spoke, emitted a blast of bloody stench as glistening pieces of duck entrails wriggled and trailed from his lips and chin onto the Jew-murdering medals that adorned his soggy uniform. "No!" I cried, starving though I was, distended though my belly was beginning to get; "I shun your extermination not only of my Chosen People, but also our brother-fellows the fowl!" Stunned at the sentiment, Helmut reeled and fell into a ditch at the side of the road as the disemboweled duck dragged itself to safety in the brush.