t three o’clock on the morning of June 22, 1941, the rumors came true. Hitler launched the invasion of Russia along its Polish border. The Russians, lulled into a false security by the German-Russian peace treaty, offered no resistance. Totally surprised by the attack, they didn’t even have time to dynamite the bridges.

Yet in spite of this auspicious beginning, Franz had a pre-sentiment that unlike the earlier, easier conquests of the west, this battle would be long and bloody. He recommitted his life to God, and felt reassured that he was in God’s care.

“One more thing to do now,” Franz said to himself. “I’ve put it off long enough. Now there’s no time to waste.”

He hurried into town to the carpenter shop.

“Give me a piece of paper, would you?” he asked the owner. On it he carefully drew a shape, which looked like a bracket used to support a wall shelf. “Could you cut me a piece of wood to that shape? And would you take this soap and chocolate in trade for it?”

The edges of the craftsman’s eyes crinkled with delight. “Sure.”

As the man began to work, Franz stationed himself by the window and watched the people passing on the sidewalk. He’d planned this moment for a long time, and he couldn’t afford to be found out now.

Hurry, hurry, hurry . . . He found himself mentally repeating the words again and again.

“Here you are,” said the carpenter finally.

Franz thanked him, and slipped the crudely-made gadget into his inside pocket. After glancing both ways, he left the shop.

Franz Hasel's army unit

Back in his office, he took out his pocketknife and began whittling the angled piece of wood until the corners were rounded. Then he opened a tin of boot polish and blackened it till it gleamed. He opened his desk drawer, buried the device under a pile of papers, and made his way to the company cobbler.

“Walter,” he said, “I have the feeling that we will be ordered into Russia soon. I’m finding it a little inconvenient to carry my revolver in my belt. Do you think you could make me a standard-issue holster?”

“No problem, Franz,” Walter said. “Come back tomorrow. I’ll have it ready for you.”

Close Encounter
The next day Franz picked up his revolver holster expertly crafted out of black leather. Only one task remained. Late that night, under the cover of darkness, he slipped his military-issue revolver into his holster and made his way to the edge of town where he had noticed a small lake. Once there, he reached into his holster and took out the gun.

At that exact moment he heard German voices—soldiers on guard duty. In all his careful planning he had forgotten about the guards. Beads of sweat ran down his face as he crouched behind some bushes.

His thoughts and his prayers mingled. Lord, don’t let me be caught. Why is it taking them so long to get here? Here they come. Be still, stop breathing. Lord, be with me now. They’re stopping. They’ve spotted me. No, one of them is just lighting a cigarette.

“Wolfgang,” said one of the soldiers. “Did you hear something just now?”

“Ah, it’s just a rabbit. Don’t be so jumpy, man!”

They passed on. Franz waited a few minutes, then stood up. He took a firm grip on the revolver barrel, and with one mighty swing of his arm threw it far into the pond. The splash sounded deafening.

“Wolfgang. What was that noise?”

“I don’t know. It’s in the water, I think.” The guards came running back, their flashlight beams playing over the ground.

If they find me now, I’m lost.

While Franz was lying flat on his stomach not daring to breathe, the guards walked within an arm’s length of him. Wolfgang shouted, “Who goes there?”

They waited in silence for a while. Then the other guard chuckled. “Must have been a fish jumping.”

“I don’t know,” Wolfgang said dubiously. “I thought I saw something move.”

An eternity later, the men moved on, and finally disappeared in the distance.

A Harmless Weapon
Trembling and whispering prayers of gratitude, Franz ran back to camp and into his office. There he took the black-polished “bracket” out of his drawer, thrust it into his holster, and buttoned the flap. This would be the only weapon he carried in the war.

Franz Hasel

“Lord,” he prayed, “this is my way of showing You that I am serious about not wanting to kill anyone. I evidently have some natural marksmanship skills, so I don’t trust myself with a weapon. Yet now, with this piece of wood, if I am attacked I will have no way to defend myself. I must trust in You to be my protector. My life is in Your hands.”

Uneasily, Franz lay down on his cot. Fear would not let him sleep—not fear of facing a potential enemy, but fear of reprisals.

He remembered sobering news he had heard several days ago. Ludwig Klein, a private in another company, had strolled into the kitchen of his unit carrying a bundle wrapped in burlap.

“What have you got there?” asked the cook.

“A lump of butter.”

“A lump! How much?”

“Fifty pounds.”

The cook stared at him. “I haven’t received any butter rations in months. How could you come up with fifty pounds of butter in a starving country? Don’t you know the orders against looting? You’re crazy to take a risk like that!”

“Don’t worry,” Ludwig chuckled. “I didn’t steal it. It’s all above board. I traded for it.”

“Traded what?”

“A pistol.”

“Gott im Himmel! A weapon?”

“Don’t worry about it. The locals are good people. They only shoot at targets on shooting ranges.”

But that wasn’t the end. The major got wind of it, and Ludwig Klein was summarily executed the same evening. To give a weapon to the enemy was treason against the fatherland and punishable with death. How terrible that a German soldier had to perish by the hands of other Germans! Franz knew that if he were found out, he would meet the same fate. Crying out to God again, he finally fell asleep.

On June 30 the awaited order arrived: The Pioneers were to enter Russia the following day.

_________________________
The youngest daughter of Franz Hasel, Susi Hasel Mundy has taught German and behavioral science, and spent 10 years in private practice as a license marriage, family, and child therapist. Currently she is the registrar of Pacific Union College in Angwin, California.

Maylan Schurch, a pastor in Bothell, Washington, has authored or coauthored a dozen books.