American born, that’s right, I am one of the few to come out of America. I say few and know that few is a subjective term, but based on how many of us were born, it makes sense to use few in this case. We were the exceptional, the elite, and we were good at what we did. I was born in the great steel belt of America. A child that was smelted in the great forges of the American Stainless Steel Corporation. With a pedigree like that, it is no surprise that I found myself on the front lines. Once our nation decided that war was inevitable, my kin and I were shipped to Britain, split up, and prepped for the impending invasion.
Everyone who came from that factory was strong, rigid, and unbending. Perhaps it was the environment or fate that led me and my family down the path of conflict. On the first day of the war, I was following an American into battle. His feet constantly splashed me as we assaulted the beach. He ran, and ran, but was cut down by the German machine gunners. I was hit, a piece of my side was taken out but I remained intact as the man fell backwards. I was trapped beneath his body, a bag over my head; I laid in that salty brine for some time. The cries for moms, the moans of the dead, and the harsh concussion of bullets escaping barrels would come and go as I dipped in and out of the sea. These things failed to affect me and, ultimately, the wails went silent. I felt the American’s body get pulled off of me by a British soldier. He reached down and pulled me from the amalgam of salt water, blood, and viscera. These foreign entities failed to stain my body.
My exterior had remained smooth except for the piece of me that was missing. The war continued, and I heard stories. These stories focused on the various other camps that were bombed or incinerated. Every time I heard that, I knew that I had lost another brother or sister; even we weren’t invincible. I was passed from chef to chef. As the war continued, I was dipped in and out of hearty soups, stews made from leather boots, and – of course – bloody water that was used to boil old bandages clean. I remained unaffected.
My handle was stepped on once; I survived. Another time, we were attacked in the night. They left the pots and pans but took me because I was light. Those that were similar to me, were often left behind when the soldiers left in a rush. I called them my cousins. Their unfortunate weight made them obsolete during war. For a long time, I was far from the front lines feeding the populous until a general came to my chef.
“Mr. Anderson”—I went into the stew and missed some of the conversation—“soldiers will need good food as they fight on the fron”—again, I went in and out—“we could use a chef of your caliber with this elite—“
I was under for a long time. When I was brought out, my master set me across the top of the pot, gave a salute, and said, “Sir, you can count on me to keep their bellies full!”
We traveled for twenty days, threading our way into position. On our first day, the chef was shot and killed. From then on, I only got to taste the most disgusting soups. The chef before had been alright, but the people they kept trying in the kitchen were beyond pitiable. Until one day, a hungry German soldier crawled – literally crawled – into the kitchen. The man didn’t have a single weapon. I had been left atop the top of the pot as the concoction of crud roared away. He used me to get a ladle of repulsive water from the pot. I was set to the side as he blew on his… soup. Suddenly, I was lifted into the air and slammed into his head by an American soldier, and alerted the rest of the soldiers.
Lucky for my new German master, he spoke flawless English and had tasted the soup. When he came too, he berated the Americans, “How do you eat such garbage.” I expected that from a Frenchman, not a German.
“Are you a chef?”
“Of course, and more!” He was also a writer which he told them later. As his eyes darted between them, they murmured to one another.
Eventually the sergeant stepped forward and spoke, “Prove it.” He grabbed me and thrust me into the hands of the German and continued, “Fix that stew.”
That was how I became an American utensil in the hands of a German chef. The soup was corrected and the German was given special privileges to cook. He was always under guard but they tended to relax as time went on. We were on the front lines or behind enemy lines for a year. By that time, Niclas had been given enough liberty to run his kitchen the way he wanted.
Then came the news, the war was over and the American’s were to pull out. It was our last day with Niclas, the soldiers were going to drop him off on their way to Normandy. I kept getting dipped into the delicious stew that had been on the fire for eight hours. If I could have had emotions, I would have been happy.
Once done, I was pulled and set on the ground as Niclas took the soup to the Sergeant who asked, “So Nickolas”—he couldn’t pronounce Niclas—“the war is done and we are safe. How would you have ended our squad’s story?”
Niclas responded, “I would have killed you all.” He smiled and looked down at the soup.
The Sergeant looked at the soup and smiled as he carried it out to the men.