They went with songs to the battle, they were young.
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
— Laurence Binyon
98 years ago today, Hans Fritz Scholl was born to Robert and Magdalena Scholl in Ingersheim, Germany. He grew up to be a passionate, impulsive, loyal young man who sacrificed his life for a cause he believed in; enlightening his people of the horrors Germany was committing during WWII. He was executed in 1943 at the age of 24.
When I was a boy, I dreamt of forging my mark into the world. Perhaps I’ve done that, but not in the way my younger self would ever have contemplated in a million years.
Yes, I’ve forged my way to twenty-four years. I sit in a prison cell, dubbed a treasonous criminal of my homeland. I don’t want to be a hero by any means, but I long to be respected.