What happens when your best friend dies? Set in Bastogne.
He’s gone.
My hands are numb from the cold. The dog tags, his dog tags, twirl around and around in my hands aimlessly, absently. A photo is propped up on the edge of the foxhole. Me and him. Him and me. Two best friends, laughing away, looking as if they had not a care in the world, as if they were the happiest friends on earth. We thought the good times would never stop, that we’d be together again, playing baseball in the park after the war.
Now he’s gone. And he’s never coming back.
Someone slides into my foxhole. I barely glance at him. From the way he moves, and from the red cross on his arm, I know without a doubt it’s our medic, Eugene Roe.
“Hey, cap’n, y’alright?” he asks in his Cajun accent, carefully, cautiously. I guess he knows, from bearing the brunt of my multiple outbursts, that I’m rather volatile, especially in this state. I look at him again, properly now. There are black rings under his eyes and blood on his uniform. He looks dead tired, yet still manages to grin crookedly at me.
“Do I look like I’m alright?” I snap back brusquely. I guess I shouldn’t have shouted at him. He took time off just to see me, to see if I was alright. As it is, he looks a little hurt.
“Hey, I was jus’ askin’,” he shrugs. “I mean…” his voice trails off as he realizes his folly.
Enraged, I turn on him. “You don’t need to goddamn remind me.” I spit every word out. “I don’t ever want to hear another damn word about him. I…” I realize I’m rambling, taking it all out of him. Ashamed, I fall silent.
He stares at me, undaunted, unblinking, un-intimidated. (is there such a word? I can’t remember anything anymore.) “Go on,” he says gently, quietly. “Go on and let it all out. Take it all out on me.” He looks into my troubled eyes and smiles encouragingly.
I try to, but I can’t. Eugene’s just not bad enough, horrid enough for me to yell at him. What I need is Dyke. I need Dyke so that I can yell at him, so that I can unleash all my pent up anger on him, so that I can kill him. Eugene’s just too nice to pretend be someone like Dyke.
“That goddamn Dyke,” I curse him bitterly. “Just had to be so goddamn stupid and lead the goddamn patrol straight into the goddamn Krauts. And then he just has to go and…and…” it is just too much. I look away, my eyes suddenly feeling rather watery. Eugene looks at me strangely, almost amusedly.
“Well, I guess I’ll be going, then,” he says at last, as if he thinks I’m upset because he’s there. He slaps me on the shoulder in a friendly manner, grabs his medic pack, and clambers up the side of the foxhole. Suddenly I realize how lonely I’ve been after his death. “Wait!” I call, but he’s already gone, disappearing into the darkness.
A metallic cling. I look down. The dog tags have slipped from my numb hand and fallen to the ground. I pick it up again and run a finger over the protruding letters. How could he have died? How could he have left me here alone, in this cold, godforsaken place, a place with no happiness, just misery?
All I have left is the dog tags and his watch. Which is broken, anyway. And I’ve got that photo. Of him and me, in happier times. I stare at the photo. He was such a great guy, so reliable, so intelligent, always there for you…but now, it’s all gone to waste. He’s gone forever and he’s never coming back.
I have a sudden urge to tear the picture up. All those memories, those happy memories rushing back are just too much for me to bear. I pick up the snapshot and stuff it into my pocket. I can’t look at it anymore. It’s just too…painful, I guess. Too painful for me to stare at his handsome, happy face anymore, too painful to think about it anymore, to think how close I could have been to saving him.
Why couldn’t it have been me instead? Why, God? Why couldn’t you have taken both of us and not just him? Why?
I realize I’ve been sleeping for a long time, with the gruesome details of his last moments on earth playing again and again in my mind. Now it’s morning and some runner has come to find me, to call me to Colonel Sink’s headquarters. I sit in the back of the jeep and stare dazedly into space, lost in my thoughts.
The jeep lurches to a stop and jolts me out of my thoughts. Colonel Sink greets me outside. “G’morning, Captain,” he greets me.
“Nothing good about it,” I mumble, staring at the floor, suddenly finding it rather interesting. Somehow, not even Sink, the funniest man I know, can cheer me up.
He sighs. “Captain, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. Or rather, re-meet.” He says it cautiously, his tone making me look up. Someone steps into the room. My eyes narrow.
Dyke.
The idiot who got him killed. The idiot who just had to go missing and make us search for him. The idiot responsible for his death. Four soldiers went out on that doomed patrol. Four. Why must he, of those four, be the only one to make it back? Suddenly I’m fighting a mad urge to break his neck and tear him from limb to limb.
“Hello, sir,” he says nervously, as if he knows what I’m thinking. When his greeting isn’t acknowledged, he ploughs on. “Well, look, sir, I know I was stupid and all, but I didn’t…really…”
I snap. “DAMN RIGHT YOU WERE STUPID!” I roar, lunging forward and smashing my fist into Dyke’s nose, hearing the satisfying snap. “You goddamn fool!” I punctuate each word with a blow to his ugly face. “Captain, no!” yells Sink, he and Eugene Roe (who had since come in) rushing forward to restrain me. I get a couple of good blows in before they succeed in dragging me out of the room. While Gene rushes back in to take care of Dyke, Sink looks at me and says seriously, “Y’know, Captain, you can get court-martialed for that sort of thing.”
Something wet and hot slides down my face. Am I crying? Perhaps. Or maybe it’s blood. I don’t care anymore. “I could have saved him,” I choke, trying to hold back my emotions, to hold my temper in check. “I was this close…! I could have gotten to him in time, but I didn’t. I let him down. All these years he’s never let me down and yet I let him down.”
“Calm down,” Sink says firmly. “You couldn’t help him, Captain. There was no way you could. He’s gone, he can’t come back.” He sighs. “I’m going to overlook this, since normally you wouldn’t do something so extreme.” He pauses, hesitating. “I just wanted you to know that we all miss him. Not just you. People’ve been coming to me, asking me to help them get over his death, to help them come to terms with it. He was a great man, a great friend, a great commander. We all miss him terribly.” He claps me on the shoulder and walks off.
Later, I hear that Dyke was brought to hospital, with a broken nose and a gunshot wound in the hand. The nose was supposedly from some accident (the walk into the door kind), although I know better. The gunshot wound was supposed to be self inflicted.
My guess is that he met Wild Bill Guarnere.
The war will be over soon, I hope. I don’t think I can bear any of my close friends, any of these men, dying anymore. I have to write a letter to his relatives, since I’m now C.O. of Easy now, to inform them of his…passing, but I don’t know what to write. How can you write a letter informing people of your best friend’s death?
It sounds really clichéd, but I can’t write anything better. The person who reads it will probably think I’m not emotionally affected by his death whatsoever, that I’m just doing it as a necessity, a chore, but I’m not. I mean each and every single word of it.
I fold the letter and pocket it, planning to get it back to his family as soon as possible. On my way to visit his crude grave on the field where we were ambushed, marked by his M1 and his helmet, a single question, one that has been bugging me for so long, pops up again in my mind.
2:40 AM
This one is also crap. And it's not historically accurate. The Americans won the battle of Noville and Foy.
***
Brothers in Arms
“Move out!”
It’s never a nice sound, that order. Whenever we ‘move out’, something bad is bound to happen. This time it was no exception. We packed up our weapons and trudged on through the ankle deep snow.
Our commander, Captain Winters, told me that we’d be heading for Noville. Or was it Foy? I can’t remember much now.
So we marched. All the way until morning we marched. Maybe the cold got to Captain Winter’s head, I don’t know, but quite madly he told us to attack. Right there and then, in broad daylight. I wondered if he was mad, I really did. Never done that before. But he just shrugged his shoulders and smiled slightly.
I had no choice but to tell the men. There were groans; the men obviously didn’t want to go back into combat after all that it had wrought. Still, it was an order, so like good little boys they moved out.
And so we struggled through the snow, in broad daylight, in full view of the Germans. I still don’t know why Winters asked us to do so. In my opinion, we should’ve gone under the cover of darkness, so that the Krauts wouldn’t be able to spot us that easily.
“Rat-a-tat-tat!” the stutter of the German machine guns interrupted my thoughts and made the men dive for cover. Which wasn’t a very good thing to do seeing as they dived into ankle deep snow instead. And diving into snow headfirst, unless intentional, isn’t a very fun thing to do.
Amazingly, miraculously, the whole company made it to the town without a single casualty. Or so I thought. There were two men cut down in the snow. We never recovered their bodies.
The new commander, the one that had replaced Winters as head of E Company, told us to fan out. Which was pretty smart for him, considering the fact that he had never offered a helpful suggestion before. Maybe Winters listened to me after all.
***
The cold, lonely figure jumped suddenly as his ex-commander [looking very Rudolph-y with a red nose] walked past.
“Yes, Sergeant?” asked the Captain, amused at the Sergeant’s sheepish expression.
“Well, sir, I know this is unorthodox and all, but it’s about Dyke.”
Winters’ expression hardened immediately. “What about him?” he asked, perhaps a little too sharply.
The Sergeant shifted uncomfortably under his battalion commander’s intense gaze. “Well, sir, the boys are a bit uncomfortable with him leading us, sir. We’d really like to have you back,” he mumbled, suddenly finding the ground rather interesting.
Winters laughed. “So would I, Sergeant,” he said, smiling crookedly. “So would I.”
The Sergeant looked up hopefully, his face brightening. “Really, sir? So will you be coming back?”
The man’s cynicism returned and he chuckled bitterly. “I wish I could. Field commanders get so much more experience and action. The only thing staff officers do is coop themselves in some dark hole and sign papers.”
“I bet Dyke would like that,” the Sergeant muttered darkly, more to himself than to Winters. “Foxhole Norman’s useless.”
Winters pretended not to hear the remark. “Just keep in mind he’s your superior in rank to you,” he said lightly, although privately he would rather the Sergeant be of a higher rank than Dyke. He sighed. “Tell you what. I’ll try and drill it into that noggin of his what he’s supposed to do tomorrow.
His Sergeant smiled happily, the bright expression on his face returning. “Thanks a lot, sir!” he hurried off, presumably to tell the others. The Captain watched him go, smiling a little sadly.
***
“Sergeant! Hey, Sarge!” a voice shook me from my reverie. To my horror I realized I had been standing there, stock still, in the middle of the road for a few minutes. It was a miracle the Krauts hadn’t gunned me down yet. Quickly I ran zig-zag towards the nearest cover, avoiding the shells and machine guns as best as I could.
Maybe Winters didn’t succeed with the briefing. Dyke had gone completely insane and was telling the men to stop their advance. Incredulously I yelled at him, “But we’ve got to keep moving!”
He was in a state of shell shock, I think, because he didn’t dare move. There were people all around him, a radioman telling him Winters was on the line, a Corporal urging him to move…I looked him in the eye and shook him hard. “Sir! We can’t just stay here! We’re sitting ducks!”
He didn’t even reply. Can you believe that? The nerve of the idiot! Our men were getting slaughtered in the snow, hiding there like big bright targets for the Krauts to shoot, and Dyke here was telling us to stay where we were?
Later, I heard about how angry Winters was. He was watching us and was yelling, “You’ve got to keep moving, damnit! Go forward!” My sentiments exactly. He even grabbed a weapon and started out for us. But he was Battalion X.O. and he couldn’t risk his life like that, as Colonel Sink reminded him.
And so, this was where Speirs came in.
***
Ronald Speirs was a nice guy…as long as you didn’t get on his bad side, that was. He was your typical company commander – brazen, smart, rugged. Respected and yet feared because of his ‘exploits’.
There were rumors going around, see. Speirs expected iron discipline from his men, like all parachute infantry commanders. He once issued an order for his men to “ignore every drink along the way”. Nothing happened…until he met a drunken N.C.O. Rumor has it that he court-martialed him on the spot. And if you thought that was bad, think again. The N.C.O. talked back to him. Without a word, without hesitation, Speirs drew his pistol and put a bullet between his eyes.
Scoff if you will, but from that day no one ever saw the N.C.O. again.
Another time, when we dropped into Normandy, Speirs grabbed a pack of cigarettes from our old platoon leader, Buck Compton. He then set off towards the nearby POW “camp”; it was, apparently, his turn to guard. According to the soldier who had been there, Speirs told him to “run along” while he distributed cigarettes to the POWs. He even offered to light their cigarettes. As the soldier was walking away, he heard a burst of machine gun fire. Intrigued, yet dreading what he would see, the soldier turned around. Speirs was striding towards him, mouth set in a grim smile, gun smoking.
The soldier couldn’t see any movement from the camp anymore.
***
As it was, Winters now saw Lieutenant Speirs right in front of him. “Speirs! Get yourself over here!” he bellowed, feeling rather angry at Dyke. “Get into that mess, relieve Dyke, take over the company.” Without saying anything, he gave an obedient nod and ran towards us.
The boys were amazed to see him running, dodging artillery shells, missing Kraut bullets, just running towards us. An artillery shell landed right in front of him and we feared the worst. By God, were we amazed as he jumped right past the hole and continued. He never got hit once – it was as if his life was blessed.
Soon he reached us. Breathless, he managed to tell Dyke, “I’m taking over,” before doubling over and catching his breath. Once he did that, he yelled at the astonished soldiers, “KEEP MOVING, BOYS! YOU AREN’T GONNA TAKE FOY JUST STANDING THERE!”
The boys seemed amused, almost relieved at having a good commander again. They immediately tried to press on, struggling through the tightly packed snow. Speirs and I, being the senior officer and N.C.O. respectively, continued yelling encouragements as we trudged towards the next house.
“Where’s Item?” Speirs yelled at me over the din.
“I think they’re over there, sir!” I yelled back, gesturing vaguely towards our north. “But we can’t get there. 1st platoon’s already stretched out and they’re being pinned down by a sniper, along with second. I think he’s in that building over there, the one with the roof caved in.”
Speirs looked at the direction in which my finger was pointing. “Right. I want mortar fire on that building until he’s gone, and when he’s gone, I want the platoons to move.” Turning to the boys he yelled, “Hurry up, then! We haven’t got all day!”
We raced towards yet another building. Item was a long way off, about the same distance we were from HQ. The sniper had been annihilated but the men were still taking a lot of time to get there.
“I think Item’s behind that low wall, sir,” I said, pointing into the distance. “We need to link up with them.”
“You’re right, stay here,” Speirs said in one breath, slapped me on the shoulder and before I knew what he was doing, ran. He started running towards that wall far, far away.
At first the Germans didn't shoot at him. I think they couldn't quite believe what they were seeing. But that wasn't the really amazing thing. The amazing thing was that, after he hooked up with I Company…
He came back.
***
The orders were to pull back. The idiot Germans were just too strong. We would attack again tomorrow, they said. But no excuse would excuse what we were doing – retreating.
“I don’t like retreating,” I told my friend later. “Never retreated before.” Besides during one little Operation called Market-Garden, anyway.
He shrugged. “Hey, first time for everything.”
Although we were told to retreat, I still did something stupid. The day’s events couldn’t get any worse than what it already was, what with all the retreating. But I was wrong. It got all but worse after that. Especially since I was almost left to die in the snow.
See, as we were
retreating, a sniper shot three men. I decided to try and draw him out, to kill him once and for all. With a rookie sniper [just shipped in two months ago] I set off towards the building.
“On the count of three, I’ll start running, and he’ll probably aim for me. When he does, aim and snipe him. Got it?”
The replacement, looking rather scared at being in the company of such a mad man.
“Right. Ready? 1…2…3!”
Perhaps he was too slow. Perhaps I was too fast. But whatever the case, I was shot by the sniper. Right in the throat. I was gagging, choking on my own blood. The recruit was still there, standing stock still, staring at me as I reached out towards him, trying to say something. Then he took off, leaving me behind, lying on the ground, the snow around me turning red with my blood.
I don’t know how I survived. The rookie never came back. Maybe he was too shocked by the sight of me with my throat all shot up, I don’t know. The fact remained that he never came back.
I guess I was just plain stupid. I mean, we were already pulling out. All the soldiers were gone, so the sniper didn’t pose any threat. But those three men he shot had been good men. What’s more, they had been retreating. He had shot three good men in cold blood. And that didn’t seem fair.
So I stupidly got a rookie sniper to go along with me. That was my second mistake. I should’ve taken a veteran, an excellent shot, like Shifty Powers. He wouldn’t have let me down. Best crackshot in the regiment, he was. But no, I had to be stupid and grab the rookie. I guess I thought it would be a good experience for him…which is rubbish thinking.
The world started to spin slowly. The sunlight started to grow dimmer. Or was it my eyes? I must’ve been there for ages. My hands were numb from the cold.
The last thing I saw before I blacked out was a figure standing over me, saying in a very familiar voice, “Are you crazy?”
***
Somehow, they carted me off to hospital. Two weeks after I was brought in, I was evacuated to England to recuperate. Thankfully I made a fast recovery and was back with the boys by March 1945.
By God, it has never felt so good to be with your friends again. The boys were absolutely delighted to have me back. On the first day, I don’t know how many excited shouts of “Look, it’s the First Sergeant!” I heard.
One night, we were sitting around in the bedroom of a house in Germany. We were reminiscing, and the inevitable subject of my rescue came up.
“Say, boys, who brought me back?” I inquired, desperate to know who my mysterious rescuer was. I could’ve sworn I knew from the voice, but I had to be sure.
The men looked around carefully before replying in unison, “Speirs.”
I knew it. I just knew it. But I was as good as dead then. Why did he risk incurring the wrath of his seniors for going against orders, risk the chances of getting shot before he could reach me, just to save me?
“Sergeant? A word?”
The voice appeared out of nowhere, making us jump. It was Speirs, skulking in the shadow of the doorway. The boys made hasty excuses and left us alone.
Suddenly, the fact that I was alone with Ronald Speirs made me think of the rumors again. Was he going to shoot me? Apprehensively I inched away just a bit.
Speirs, noting this, sat down where Bill Guarnere had been sitting a few moments ago. He sighed. “You want to know, don’t you.” Not a question, a statement. “Know what, sir?” I asked carefully, knowing full well that both of us knew what he was talking about.
“The rumors about me. You want to know if they’re true. Tell you what. These stories…the guy who tells you says they heard it from someone who was there. But then when you ask that person, they say that they heard it from someone who was there. I bet a few hundred years ago you’d hear French troops gossiping about how Napoleon supposedly poisoned French soldiers suffering from the plague.”
To tell the truth, I was a bit intrigued. “Well, maybe they kept talking about it because they never heard Napoleon deny it.”
Speirs winked at me. “Well, maybe that's because Napoleon knew there was some value to the men thinking he was the meanest, toughest son of a bitch in the whole French Army.”
He had a point there. I quickly changed the topic, not wanting to be embarrassed. “Sir, those rumors…we – the boys – aren’t really concerned about them. We’re just glad to have you as our C.O., to have a good leader again.”
Speirs then did something strange. He laughed. His laughter echoed around the small room as he offered me a small smile.
“Actually, from what I've heard, they've always had one. I've been told there's always been one man they could count on. He led them into the Bois Jacques, held them together during the Kraut shelling, encouraged them to keep going. Every day, he kept their spirits up, kept the men focused, gave 'em direction. Boy, do I respect that guy.”
I was absolutely confused. Who was he? I mean, Winters fit the bill perfectly, but he was in battalion HQ now. He couldn’t have lead the men no matter how much he wanted to. So if it wasn’t Winters, who was it?
Speirs took one look at my dazed expression and chuckled. “You have no idea who I’m talking about, do you?”
I shook my head. “No, sir.”
“You,” he said simply. “I’m talking about you. You’ve always given the men support, held them together in dire moments, stuck with them through thick and thin, kept them going regardless of everything, helped them succeed against all odds. You’ve done an excellent job, First Sergeant, a better job than any man could ever hope to do. Speaking of which, that reminds me. You’re not going to be a first sergeant anymore, I’m afraid.”
I was shocked. Was Speirs demoting me? “Why’s that, sir?” I asked.
“Well, we had a battlefield commission thing coming our way. Winters put you through and Colonel Sink agreed immediately. You’ll get official notice in a few days time.” He looked at his watch. “Well, I had best get back to Battalion before it disappears.” He sighed theatrically, forcing a small smile from me. “With all this Kraut shelling, you never know. See you around, Lieutenant.” He clapped me on the shoulder and walked off, leaving me stunned.
Later, I got my commission. As a 2nd Lieutenant I was officially discharged from the Army. And not a moment too soon, I might add. The war was ending and I wanted nothing more but to go home.
But even though I went home, even though I didn’t see my men until 10 years down the road, even though we were no longer together as a unit, we still remained bonded, bonded by a strong bond that would withstand everything, including the test of time. And we always remained together, no matter what. We were always supporting each other, helping one another through everything.
And above all, although we weren’t blood related, the bond we had forged during the years, the bond that had kept us together, the bond that had withstood everything through all these years, would bring us closer than anyone ever could be. It made us, in every sense of the word…
Brothers.
Finis
2:38 AM
This one is...plain crap.
***
Alone
“How could you?”
The words rang around the small room as the Corporal stared accusingly at the man sitting opposite him. The man shifted uncomfortably, trying to maintain a blank, unconcerned gaze.
It didn’t seem to be working. The Corporal’s eyes sparkled with emotion – what was it, despair? Betrayal? – as he jumped up and jabbed a finger into the man’s chest.
“All these years we’ve been together, all the battles we fought, all the ups and downs we’ve been through…” the Corporal’s voice cracked and he looked away. “How could you?” he repeated in a small voice.
The man looked down, ashen-faced. The Corporal was right. How could he? The Corporal had trusted him and he had manipulated his trust. That wasn’t the actions of an honorable man. But he had to do it, hadn’t he? To survive. He had to.
As the man battled with his inner conscience, the Corporal turned back and walked over to him. Before anyone saw, he deftly slipped his hand into the man’s pocket and stole a gleaming, metal object. He swiftly hid it in his paratrooper jacket before anyone noticed.
“Take him away!” the man said suddenly and two guards appeared. They grabbed the Corporal’s arms and dragged him off before he could utter a word of protest.
But as he was dragged away, the man saw something in his eyes. And this time, there was no mistaking what it was.
Triumph.
***
The Corporal slammed his fist onto the floor in frustration. How could this be possible? He and the man – he refused to call him by his name anymore – had made a pact never to be captured. And looked what had happened now! Betrayed by him, betrayed by his best friend, betrayed by the man he once knew and liked. Preposterous! Impossible! Ridiculous!
And yet…
The Corporal sat down and buried his face in his hands. Never, never in a million years did he expect this to happen. He gripped the object he had stolen from the man tightly. This would not go unheeded.
A sudden, overwhelming sense of fatigue came over him and he lay down on his side, on the hard bed they had provided.
At least I still have a bed, he thought as his mind drifted.
***
It seemed an eternity ago when they had been trapped in that little outpost. They had been the best of friends then, joking and laughing with each other, huddling together when the shells came. Although there had only been twelve men, they had held out well. Until they lost contact with the main division and were surrounded by the Krauts, anyway.
Suddenly the shelling had intensified; the skirmishes had become more frequent. Yet still they had held out, driven by sheer desperation and determination. And the Corporal and that…
man had made their pact to remain steadfast friends, to never be captured, and to sacrifice their lives rather than surrender. And, as the Corporal thought, they always would. Until that one day.
That day, the Germans had launched a furious, full-scale attack, smashing through their defenses like a tidal wave. They had been anything but overwhelmed. Amidst the massive onslaught, the Corporal and the man had run, run as far as they could, attempting to live and fight another day.
But this was not to be. They had found a safe, secure hiding place – a dark cave in a small patch of trees. The man had left, promising to find help. Some help he had brought back. He had been gone for a long time when the Corporal was just about to go out and search for him. Suddenly, a torch had been shone into his eyes and he had fallen back, hands blocking his face. Two hands had roughly pulled him out. He could hear voices in German, speaking quickly. What was going on?
Suddenly there had been a voice speaking to him, a voice the Corporal knew rather well. His heart lifted, then sank again.
“Corp! Corp, can you hear me?” it was him, the man. But what was he doing with – if the Corporal was not mistaken – Krauts?
The man was speaking again. “Corp, these guys are here to help us get out of here. We have to do what they want us to do, right? Good. Leave your gun behind. It’ll slow us down.”
And what had the Corporal done? Surely he must have noticed there was something fishy about the request. But like a blind fool, absolutely sure the man would never do anything to harm him, the Corporal had followed willingly, his gun and only line of defense left in the hole. They had been roughly bundled into the back of a vehicle. The ride went on for hours…just as the Corporal began to think they would never get there, the vehicle had stopped. He had heard voices up front, talking, chatting in German. German. There it was again. Why would helpers of Allied forces be talking in German? The Corporal had had a sinking feeling as a stony, silent face appeared at the back of the truck and barked in English, “Get down. Now!”
Quickly they had jumped down, only to be searched by the stony-faced man. As he was patted down the Corporal looked at the man worriedly. But what worried him more was that the man did not look at him, choosing instead to avoid his gaze.
They were herded into a small, nearby shack, where the Kraut – if that was what he was – started to fire rapid questions in German at them. The man replied equally quickly, making the Corporal glance at him in amazement. How did the man speak so fluently in a language he had once said he never spoke?
The Kraut now turned to the young soldier. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he had said, grinning cruelly. “Thanks to this young man here – “the Corporal watched in wide-eyed amazement as he gestured to the man (who was currently finding the floor rather interesting). “I have caught yet another soldier for my yet to be complete collection.” The Corporal grimaced at the way he thought of Allied soldiers as collectable toys. As if sensing this, the Kraut threw back his head and laughed, a booming, loud, laugh that was full of malice, making the Corporal cringe.
He stopped suddenly and shoved his face close to the Corporal’s. “Where are you from, kiddo?” he asked, adopting a fake, exaggerated American accent that made the Corporal wince. Tight-lipped, he refused to reply.
The Kraut smiled, displaying a mouth full of yellow, crooked teeth. “Aha! A silent one, eh? What an excellent addition! Those who are brought in are usually too shaken by their friends’ betrayal to keep silent.”
At the moment, the Corporal really wanted to do that, to talk and blab all he could. But he knew it wouldn’t do anything to help his situation. He had to bloody the Kraut’s nose as much as he could before he went down.
Without warning he struck, his fist smashing into the Kraut’s face and snapping his nose. The Kraut howled in agony as he deftly dodged the other guards and made for the door. He had barely taken three steps outside when a football tackle brought him to the ground. He struggled with his opponent for awhile, managing to jab him right below the eye, but got a vicious backhand in return. Ultimately his opponent was too strong and he was brought back into the shack, still struggling.
The Kraut was livid. He hurled anything he could get his hands on at the Corporal while shouting curses in German. Thankfully for the Corporal his aim was off and every single cup and plate missed. He would have been too occupied to dodge, though, for he was busy staring at the man responsible for bringing him back into the shack. His once best friend stood there, holding him firmly, a bruise spreading under his right eye.
Finally the Kraut calmed down enough to draw his pistol and aim it at the Corporal’s head. He closed his eyes and prepared to die.
“NO!” The man startled everyone by grabbing the gun and wrenching it away. “Don’t kill him! We need to question him first!”
The Kraut glowered, but he saw the sense in it. “Fine.” He took the gun and holstered it. “But if he doesn’t give useful information, you’ll make up the firing squad.” He signaled his guards and they dragged the silently protesting Corporal out.
The last thing he saw before the door close was the man looking at him, straight into his eyes, and mouthing, “I’m sorry.”
***
So he had been here for three days now, cooped up in this dark little place. Every day, they took him for questioning and if he refused to reply, they would beat him up. Imagine, his best friend beating him up! His best friend being a Kraut, an enemy!
Something small and wet fell onto his knee. He stared at it wonderingly. Was he, a grown man, a paratrooper with the “Battered Bastards of Bastogne” at that, crying?
Perhaps. He didn’t care anymore. Four of five days earlier, he would have scoffed at the idea of him crying and giving in. But then again, four or five days earlier he did not know that his best friend would betray him.
How could he? Those three words again. The Corporal smiled, a rather watery smile. If only his friends, his mates, his fellow soldiers could see him now! How they would laugh. Of course, now that the Germans had slaughtered them, that would never happen. Oh, how he wished they were here!
The door creaked open, shaking him from his reverie. “Corp?” a low voice muttered. Immediately the Corporal leapt up and had the man in a stranglehold. “What d’you want?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Corp! Relax! I’m helping you escape!” although his tone was jovial, it held a sort of sadness, a sort of deadness to it. The Corporal stepped back. So the man knew. So he had found out after all. And he knew he deserved it.
They crept out in the cover of darkness and stole the vehicle, the very vehicle they had come in. All along the journey back to the woods they were silent, immersed in their own thoughts. Soon, they reached the edge of the forest, and disembarked. The Corporal looked at the man and the man evenly returned the gaze. Without speaking a word to each other, the two men squared their shoulders and walked in. Soon they were swallowed up, enveloped by the darkness.
***
Dawn broke. A solitary, desolate figure walked out of the woods, towards the nearby town. He was clutching a gleaming metal object, although now that it was covered with a dark red liquid it was no longer gleaming. The two stripes on his battered, bloody American uniform identified him as a Corporal. He turned around, as if waiting for something, or someone. Finally, he turned back, never looking back, and walked away…
Alone.
Finis
2:33 AM
The story of the 101st Airborne Division in Bastogne...sorta. Loosely based on Lyle Bouck's I&R Platoon of the 99th Infantry.
***
Waiting
They never came.
We waited and waited for them. Fighting day after day, enduring shelling after shelling, battling the biting cold, holding our position, waiting for them to come.
Yet, they never came.
Every day the same routine occurred. We climbed out of our foxholes, had a piece of cold, stale bread – or anything we could find for breakfast, really, climbed back in again and waited. Waited for the German shelling to begin. Waited for
them. Waited…and waited…and waited.
Of course, they never came.
But the German shelling started. It came, when they didn’t. Even the Krauts are more reliable than they are.
Whzzz…BOOM! Shells flew in everywhere, bringing down trees, blowing up men. One guy tried to have a picnic right in the middle of the shelling the other day. I think he was slightly insane, gone mad from the shelling. Just suddenly…snapped, broke. There he was, a lone figure happily munching on five cold white beans and half a bottle of frozen wine, with shells and trees falling all around him. Suddenly a shell came in and he scrambled.
BOOM! A piece of white bean landed on my face.
So much for the guy’s picnic.
***
It’s Christmas Eve. Patton’s just sent some message, Battalion S2 tells me, something about a Christmas Eve present. A glimmer of hope ignites. Does he mean that they would be here soon?
Of course, now I realize it’s just an empty promise, like all the other promises they had made. They never would come. We’re all alone, and we always will be, even to the end. All we have is each other.
We are still in this cold, god forsaken place on Christmas. Imagine, being in this hellhole on Christmas! I think we deserve a better holiday than this.
Me and Sergeant Hastings find a small, undernourished Christmas tree. We bring it back to camp and decorate it. It isn’t much, but I think the boys really appreciate it.
We get a copy of McAuliffe’s Christmas message, or something like that. The only part I recall is the part where he told the Germans “NUTS!” in response to their asking us to surrender. Damn right, he is. We’ll never surrender, never ever. Even if they never come.
***
“I SURRENDER!” the call rings through my ears, making me cringe. So much for never surrendering. I think it came from one of the privates, those fresh replacements that joined us before this stupid “Battle of the Bulge”. I’m right. From my hideout in the trees I can see the Private crashing through the snow, with a couple’a Germans chasing after him. Finally he slows down and lets the Krauts take him. I snort derisively – but quietly, of course, can’t risk the Germans hearing me – and scowl. Who does this rookie think he is, shaming the name of the regiment and the division?
The Krauts are laughing now, chatting. From what I can remember from my high school German, I gather that they’re think the 101st isn’t very good, and we’re only holdin’ out ‘cause of a lucky fluke or something like that. And to add insult to, well, insult, they thing we give up easily, that we’re cowards.
My eyes narrow. No one, especially not some measly goddamn Krauts, calls the division cowards.
With a guttural roar of rage I fling myself at the idiot Germans. Don’t know why I do it, I just do it. I realize my folly now; I get the first guy in a football-like tackle, but the second guy is already pointing a gun at me. Darn. I duck as the first bullet whizzes past me, and tackle him to the ground. You can tell I like football a lot. I manage to whack the gun out of his hand…only for the other guy who had since gotten up to take it and fire it at me. Thankfully the idiot’s a lousy shot and hits his friend instead! Who in the world’s such a lousy shot that he can kill his friend? His mate’s brains are all over me. Bleaugh. I wipe as much off as I can, spitting some out, and tackle the remaining Kraut, who simply drops the gun. All the fight seems to have gone out of him. I guess shooting your enemy is one thing – shooting a friend is another. I look at him contemptuously. “Think the 101st is crap, huh? Think again, pal.” I step on his face, lightly at first. “The – 101st – is – the – best – damn – division – in – the – world!” I yell, punctuating each word with a blow to his face, getting progressively harder until I hear the satisfactory
snap! of his nose. Blood spurts everywhere. He howls agonizingly. “And we’ll never surrender,” I continue coldly. “Don’t you ever forget that.”
I walk away from the German. The replacement is watching me, wide-eyed. As I walk he falls into step besides me. “I would’ve done that as well, y’know,” he says quickly, trying to redeem himself. He’s staring at me as if I’m a God or something. “I just wanted to see how you fight.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. What a liar! He’s just another of those rookies with that “let-me-at-‘em!” attitude, always eager to prove himself, especially to his superiors. Trying to make excuses to save face, as usual. Trying to win bragging rights. I can imagine him now, telling his friends about
he, and not
me, fought the two Germans off single-handedly.
I look at him and grin absently, unexpectedly. “’Course ya did.”
***
The shelling never ceases. It’s a part of our life now, a daily routine. It’s constantly there. See, it’s beginning again, now. Not that it really ever stopped. The whole time I was fighting the Krauts it was there, according to Sergeant Hastings. To think it’s Christmas! We should get a break. If not from holding this outpost, a stop in the shelling would be as good. Can’t they even give us a nice Christmas present?
As if they hear me, the shells suddenly stop coming. Men begin to crawl out of their foxholes carefully, looking around in wonder and amazement.
“It’s a damn Christmas present!” a trooper says, voicing my thoughts. They laugh. I don’t. What if it’s a trick? They get us to think it’s stopping then they start again. Or maybe they’re just reloading. Don’t they ever run out of ammo?
Of course, it could be another Christmas of 1914, when all the soldiers got out of their trenches, played soccer, sang songs together. Somehow, though, I can’t imagine us and the Germans playing soccer together. Heck, I can’t even imagine playing football in this snow.
Night falls. Still no German shells. Maybe it’s half a 1914 Christmas, just without the soccer. There are definitely songs; the men are singing Christmas carols. In my opinion, they’re a helluva lot better at fighting than singing. Still, it’s a nice gesture. Makes me feel like I’m back home again, with my family and the big roast chicken – or was it duck or turkey? – and not in some cold, bitter hellhole.
I don’t suppose the shells will be coming anymore, at least for tonight. Finally, a good time to catch up on long awaited sleep. Sergeant Hastings walks by. “Merry Christmas,” he tells me warmly.
“Merry Christmas too, sir,” I reply. I crawl back to my foxhole – imagine, today was the first day I spent without a single moment in a foxhole! – and snuggle down, my rifle in my hands. I fall asleep to the tune of “Silent Night”…sung in German.
***
Tuesday, December 26, 1944. We’ve been here for ten days now. What little food and ammo we had before is fast disappearing. Plenty of water, of course; all you have to do is stuff snow in your mouth.
Looks like we were right about the Christmas present thing – the artillery has resumed fire. On our position, anyway. We’re so far from Bastogne, where the others are. I don’t know about the others, if the shelling has resumed…or if it even stopped at all.
BOOM! CRASH! BAM! I hate the trees. They kill almost as many people as the shells. Sure, they’re supposed to give us cover, but when the shells hit the trees they’ll fall and crush us. I saw one tree smash a trooper just yesterday. Poor guy.
Sergeant Hastings is running around, telling the troopers to “stay low!” in their foxholes. As if we need reminders. The replacements are already one step ahead, cowering inside. Ha.
Some troopers are caught in the open. I see little Jimmy Cook scrambling towards a foxhole. He takes a tumble and does a perfect somersault straight into the hole while a shell bursts right behind him. A tree, hit by the blast, falls directly over the foxhole, deterring him from getting out. Guess we’ll have to help him out after the shelling.
A Private, the replacement I saved yesterday, is scurrying towards another foxhole. The shells seem like they’re zeroing in, getting closer and closer. “C’mon!” I yell at him, encouraging him, telling him not to give up. He can get there, he can, he can, he can, he can, he can, he –
He can’t.
BOOM! Bits of what used to be a Private rained everywhere. What a way to go.
Everything’s quiet again. I rush to Jimmy Cook’s foxhole and attempt to pull him out. With help from Sergeant Hastings, I manage to get him from under the tree. And the first thing he does is looks up and grins at me.
“Like my foxhole decorations?” he asks.
***
“They’ve got us surrounded, the poor bastards,” says the medic, grinning sadly and shaking his head.
“Bastards? Them or us?” I say, looking a little surprised at his remark.
“Them, o’course,” replies the medic, jerking a thumb at the general direction of the Krauts. “Who in their right mind would want to surround us? It’s all over for them now.”
I offer him a wide smile. I like this guy’s attitude. Never give up, never surrender.
***
The Krauts are going to attack any moment now, desperate for one last charge. We’re as good as dead now. They’re all around us, and when they attack from all sides we’ll never be able to survive. Plus, we only have twelve men. This is, after all, only supposed to be an outpost.
They still haven’t come. And now, I have a sinking feeling they never will.
The shells have stopped. They must be preparing to attack, conserving their ammo. Or maybe they’ve run out. I hope they’ve run out.
Suddenly, without warning, they pounce. Shells, grenades, bullets, rain down on us as they attack from all four sides. One by one we fall; the Krauts are just too strong. We’re running out of ammo now. Our medic, the man I admired so much for having the “never say die” attitude, is dead. Soon we’ll have to go down boots and bayonets into the merciless German fire.
But not without a fight.
We’ll go down with as many of the Krauts as we can take along with us. Can’t waste our lives now. We can’t wait for them anymore, either. They’re never going to get here. It’s exactly the same, time and again. Reinforcements will never arrive. We always have to rely on ourselves to get out of skirmishes – and this looks like one skirmish we won’t be getting out of. We’ll just have to go down fighting. I see Sergeant Hastings going down. Suddenly I’m the only one left. Bodies of my men, my friends, all around me, but I continue fighting. Suddenly, I’m hit. A dark stain spreads across my chest, but I feel no pain. I fall in slow motion, the world spinning around me. What a waste, to die now, with half the Germans still not dead. But I’ve got one consolation.
At least I’ll die together with my mates. At least we’re still a band. At least we’ll still be together. We were, we are, and we will always be standing alone…
Together.
Finis
2:29 AM
Total ripoff, yes, I know. Story of the Airborne on D-Day.
***
War and Peace
The drone of the planes resounded in the Lieutenant’s ears, but they were not loud enough to drown out the sound of his beating heart. A folded piece of paper sat in his front pocket like a dull weight. His men had explicit instructions to post it back to his mother to America if he died. He just hoped the letter would never have to be sent.
Flak, in the form of distant explosions, was nearing now, and the men were starting to get anxious. He glanced at his soldiers’ faces, a reassuring smile on his face – or at least what looked like a smile. It was a far cry from what he was feeling.
A few feeble jokes were made [anyone want to buy a good watch?], trying to lighten the morose mood. A few men chuckled, but not for long.
Was there anything that would make them happier? Thought the Lieutenant, almost desperately.
The planes were flying faster now, and they were slowly beginning to lose altitude. The Drop Zone must have been close for the red light had come on and the flak had reached them. Struggling to his feet, no easy feat for his equipment weighed almost as much as he did, the Lieutenant shouted, “STAND UP AND HOOK UP!” It was hard to be heard over the planes – and the fact that the plane was being tossed around like salad did not help. The men stood up and hooked up quietly, each lost in their own world of thought.
“SOUND OFF FOR EQUIPMENT CHECK!” the Lieutenant yelled as loudly as he could, the ack ack and planes almost drowning him out. Obediently the men slapped each other on the shoulder and sounded off. ’17 OK!...16 OK!...15 OK!...” and so it continued down the line until it was the Lieutenant’s turn to say “1 OK!”
The deathly silence resumed as they waited for the green light, not helped in any way by the flak now booming close to the planes. The Lieutenant struggled towards the open door, only to be forced back when flak burst right outside their plane. Looking out of the window, he saw that the wing had caught fire.
Just great.Someone shouted, “If we’re flying any lower we won’t need any chutes!” this forced a few smiles from the men. Not from the Lieutenant, though. On the contrary, he felt that the soldier had a very good point. The planes were flying so low now that they could probably climb down with a ladder.
A piece of flak smashed through the bottom of the plane and one trooper cried out in anguish. The piece had gone right through his leg, coming out at his thigh. Quickly the Lieutenant ordered him to go right to the back. The trooper was really pissed – he had been training for this moment for two years and now this just had to happen. Masking a slight smile at the man’s attitude, the Lieutenant struggled to the door again and peeked out.
Shrapnel scraped his cheek, leaving a dark gash. Blood dripped onto his uniform, spreading, as the Lieutenant fumbled with his pocket, trying to find bandages. The green light came on at that moment. He was too busy taking care of his injury to notice it, however, until the second man tapped him on the shoulder tentatively. He looked around wildly before noticing the green light. Smiling sheepishly, he yelled, “GERONIMO!” before launching himself into space.
The Lieutenant landed roughly, in a dark field. He hastened to take his Mae West vest off and searched for his leg bag, which had somehow disappeared along with all his equipment. All he found was a broken piece of rope – and even that was a miracle in itself, seeing as it was pitch dark. Cursing, the Lieutenant moved off in the direction his leg bag was most likely to have snapped off – only to be met by a German machine gun.
To hell with that! He thought privately as he set off in the opposite direction.
The silence was unsettling as he trekked through the dense foliage and hedgerows, alone, armed with nothing but a knife he had hidden in his boot and a cricket used to identify himself. A movement in front startled him. “Flash!” he whispered the code word quickly, clicking his cricket once just to be sure.
No answer. Creeping up silently, the Lieutenant walked closer and clicked the cricket again. Still no reply. He moved closer and tapped the man on the shoulder, knife in his hand.
The man whirled around and they recognized each other instantly. “Jeez, sir, don’t kill me!” the man held up his arms. He stood up and walked towards him, followed by a few others.
“You dense sod! Why didn’t you answer?!” hissed the Lieutenant furiously, although as angry as he may have seemed, he was really glad for the appearance of one of the best men in the company and his trusted friend, Sergeant Hastings.
“Didn’t hear you,” he replied by way of explanation.
“Then why didn’t you click the stupid cricket?”
Hastings shrugged. “Lost the clicking part,” he said.
***
The men had managed to salvage a map from a German the soldiers had killed. The Lieutenant dug around, searching for something, until he gave a triumphant smile and produced a miniscule compass. Squinting at the map in what little moonlight there was, aided by the fact that Hastings had seen a signboard about one mile down the road saying “Ste. Mere Eglise”, the Lieutenant figured out where they were. There was just one little problem.
“Well, base is that way,” he said at last. “But, we’re a good way off. As in a very,
very long way off. For heaven’s sakes, this is the 82nd’s drop zone!”
Hastings cursed. “Still think we’ll get there on time, sir?” he asked softly.
“As long as we set off immediately, we hurry, and we march through the night,” was the reply.
Hastings grinned. “Well, we’ve nothing else to do
but march, right? There’s no time or place to sleep, and we can’t go around killing Germans all night.”
“Who says we can’t?” asked another soldier indignantly. Hastings offered him a smile. “Me. Now, let’s get going!”
***
They trekked all night, and by the time they neared base they were pretty beat. The moment they stepped inside a messenger came running. “Sir,” he panted, “Lieutenant Lewis wants to see you, sir. I think you’re needed up front.”
Obediently the Lieutenant trotted forward, inwardly laughing with relief that his best friend, Lt. Ron Lewis, was alive and well. A big smile was plastered on his face at the thought of seeing him again.
The smile was no longer there when the meeting was over, however. He was fuming as he gathered the soldiers to tell them what they had to do.
“We’ve got to destroy four 105mm canons firing down on Utah,” he said, grimacing. The soldiers looked stunned as they protested.
“With ten men? Are you friggin’ kiddin’?” exploded Hastings incredulously. “155mm guns and god knows how many Krauts against ten of US?”
The Lieutenant grinned mirthlessly. “Couldn’t have put it better myself,” he said tersely, before beginning to outline the plan.
The men listened in shocked silence. Finally, when the Lieutenant came to the end of the briefing and asked, “Any questions?” Hastings raised a hand. “Sir,” he drawled, “Can we just surrender instead? Seems a helluva lot more easier than what you’ve just told us.”
***
The Germans might have had the advantage in numbers and armor, but they had surprise. The Lieutenant reckoned that they probably wouldn’t expect anyone to attack them, least of all a ten man paratrooper team. He had made sure that everyone knew their jobs before moving out. If this didn’t work, he didn’t know what would.
They moved out quickly, silently. The guns were relatively easy to find, seeing as they knew their exact location. Soon they had fanned out and were in their exact positions before the attack started.
At the count of three the men attacking through the trenches threw their grenades. At the same time, the two machine guns opened fire, making Krauts dive for cover. The Germans were absolutely confused. That was good. The Lieutenant had been banking on that. They now charged through the first trench, hiding around the corners, shooting the Krauts and withdrawing slightly after every Kraut killed. Using this “shoot and withdraw” tactic they managed to take the first gun, losing one man killed. Unfortunately there was no TNT to blow it up.
“Never mind,” said the Lieutenant. “We’ve no time. Secure this gun and we’ll go get the next one.”
A hail of bullets interrupted his words. The Germans were regrouping now, and were starting to fight back. They too had MG42s, and to top it all off mortars as well. The Lieutenant peeked out and took a look.
Ping! A bullet shot his helmet off. He fell back, a dazed expression on his face. “NO!” hollered Hastings, rushing to his side.
The Lieutenant looked at the expression on Hastings’ face and said hesitantly, “I’m alright! I’m alright…am I alright?”
Hastings continued to stare at him concernedly. The Lieutenant shoved his helmet back on. “Stop looking at me like that!” he exclaimed, annoyed with Hastings for no particular reason.
The battle resumed ferociously – not that it stopped, anyway. The mortars – both German and American – were exploding all around them as they ran through the trenches, guns blazing. It was a miracle that no more Americans were killed, seeing as the German MG42s were ferociously firing non-stop. Hastings found a young sapling and climbed it, firing at the Germans in the other trenches. Grenades were lobbed, bullets were fired, mortars were shot, and with that the second gun was taken.
The demolition “team” – a man carrying blocks of TNT – arrived. The Lieutenant directed him to blow the first and second guns. This he did, and pretty efficiently. The loud explosions gave the men reason to cheer, and boosted their morale immensely.
Turning the corner the Lieutenant stopped abruptly. An MG42 was pointed directly at him. Without thinking, he ducked, rolled, and opened fire. The two men manning the machine gun keeled over, dead, with shocked expressions still etched on their faces.
But the MG42 had gotten him thinking. If there were these men and machine guns suddenly appearing out of nowhere, then there had to be replacements. And if there were replacements…
Damn. Grabbing his M1 – that he had borrowed from a dead soldier the night before – tightly, the Lieutenant crawled cautiously through the extending trench behind the two machine gunners. What he saw shocked him.
It was a whole, dozing company of Germans. Without really thinking, the Lieutenant dropped to one knee and fired into the midst of the Krauts, at the same time yelling, “Hastings! Turner! Gerard! On me!”
The three men in question raced towards the direction of the Lieutenant’s voice, Hastings jumping off his precarious perch in the process. They were, however, also stunned at what they saw; the Lieutenant, discharging round after round into a huge German unit in a widened trench. Hastings, true to his name, hastened to help the young officer, with the other two on his heels. Pulling pins, they lobbed grenades into the Germans, Hastings watching in satisfaction as his grenade landed squarely on a Kraut’s head and blew him to bits.
They were armed and dangerous, and nothing seemed to be able to stop them. Although the Lieutenant was hit in the leg and Hastings in the cheek, they still managed to keep on firing. Mortar fire started coming in, bombarding the helpless Krauts, most of whom were unarmed. Soon the entire company had almost been annihilated and they had taken 11 prisoners.
Not bad for three guys and a few mortars, the Lieutenant thought proudly. “Back to the battle now,” he told his men, who nodded grimly and trekked out again, but not before Hastings said, “But weren’t we already in the battle?”
Outside, the battle was raging in full force. The third gun had been taken and blown, but the fourth gun was being well-defended by troops desperate not to lose the entire battery. Just when the battle seemed to be tilting to the German’s favor, the cavalry arrived.
“Matt!” called the Lieutenant delightedly. Lt. Matthew Spears was the commander of the 1st Platoon, D Company, and he’d arrived with four men. Matt, in his typical “shoot first, talk later” trigger happy style, directly charged the gun, losing one man killed. After the sight reinforcements, coupled with a crazy figure charging straight for them, the Germans didn’t seem that keen on fighting anymore. “Funny bunch,” Matt remarked as he gunned down the German mercilessly. “You would’ve thought 5 reinforcements wouldn’t have scared them.”
“Although,” Hastings quipped, “They seemed pretty scared of you more than anything else.”
***
The celebrations that night were marred by bad news. A runner came looking for the Lieutenant, looking rather solemn. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, passing the Lieutenant a letter, which he in turn opened, biting his lip. The truck they were in had gone deathly quiet. The Lieutenant read through briefly and turned away, climbing out of the truck silently. The letter had “regretted” informing him that his mother had died. Now he had no one – his father had died a long time ago and he was an only child.
The letter in his pocket was still there. He pulled it out of its residing spot and sliced it open.
Dear mom, it read,
If you’re reading this, if you have received this, it means I would be dead. Not that this letter would be necessary, since you would have received a telegram as well. I just wanted to tell you not to be sad, since I’m already gone. The hugest amount of grief wouldn’t get me back from the dead. Don’t try to cry or to be sad too much. Get on with your life and don’t worry about me. I’m in a better place now. I’ve seen too much of war and depression. Don’t worry. Just take heart in remembering that your son died for his men, for his country…and for you.
Your loving son…His name had smudged, becoming one dark splotch of ink. Not that it mattered now. His mom was dead. There was now no one to send it to.
Closing his eyes, he tore the note into half, then into quarters, and crumpled the pieces. Tossing it over his shoulder, he put his hands in his pockets and walked away slowly.
As he walked, he made a silent vow to himself. He prayed to God, asking him to guide him safely, to let him survive the war, to let him go home, and to let him find the one thing he had been searching for all his life.
Peace.
Finis
