Cold Determination

by Jennifer Lyons

  It wasn’t long before we found the fight. It turned out Nazis were fine fighters who also wanted to live. There were three young men before us and training took over before I realized what I was doing or what I was capable of when the first man went down. I had slit his throat. He knew it, he felt himself die. He reached for his throat, then out to me. I was already turning on the next. He looked me in the eye as I stabbed him with my bayonet. He hung there causing me to drop my rifle with his weight. A look of pain crossed over his face, a look like I had never seen. I felt his ribs crack. Years of trapping, freeing animals from pain caused an instinctive reaction from me. I shot, ending his pain. Taylor shot the third twice: Once in the chest and once in the head.

  My bayonet was stuck in the young man. I hadn’t expected that; it was hung up on his ribs, then muscle, and, as I pulled it free, strings of tissue came with the blade. It made me sick, and I threw up on the ground near him, splashing his tangled remains with my vomit. His left eye was closed but his right eye stayed open. I knew it wouldn’t shut, so I put his arm over his face and turned away. Taylor was watching me.

  I had no idea who the men were. They were German Nazis, that was all, I told myself but I knew better. They were sons, brothers, and schoolmates who would be forgotten. At least it isn’t cold, I thought as we walked away.

  Our push northward kept us so busy, we forgot to be tired. Locals moved out of our way, afraid we were the dangerous men. I couldn’t see us that way. We were young men simply doing the job we had ardently trained for. As we cleared our way forward, we easily returned to being us; we were just young men, joking around, always ready for the next meal, and trying to find our way in a world gone mad.

  Southern Italy turned difficult and as we moved north, closer to Europe, the fighting increased and grew tougher with each passing day. Our reputation preceded us, which was helpful. Once in a while, there were more surrendering than we killed.

  Taylor told me the only good German was a dead one, and, at least during the war, it was true. The first group we let go quickly returned to fight. There were four and we had nowhere to detain them. Two days later, we lived to regret that.

  Taylor and I found ourselves alone one day. We were walking through a small field when we were ambushed. We never even heard them.

  I noticed the similarities we shared. They were young, about our sizes and scarred shitless. They wanted to survive. We recognized each other from the day before, when we’d released them. I saw it in their eyes and though they spoke no English, I knew they understood when I shouted, “Hey!” They forced Taylor and I onto our knees, but when they went to take my weapon, my training kicked in.

  I held onto my rifle and kicked out with my right leg, knocking one to the ground. Taylor hit another in the knees with his own weapon. Before the other two even registered that their buddies were on their backs, we had knocked them down, too. Taylor shot three of them, while I wrestled with the other and driving my hand into his throat, cutting off his air supply. I felt his throat in my hand a long time after the fight. Taylor and I never let anyone go again.

  That same night, we got mail. I was tired. More tired than I had ever been. Training seemed a long time ago and even those hard days hadn’t taken my energy like that day did. I found myself, laying on the ground as comfortably as if it was my own bed; I was that exhausted. My arm rested on my helmet and my other arm held onto my rifle. I let my eyes close but woke when I felt the pile of mail hit my midsection. There were three letters. I was too tired to even read them. I tucked them carefully into my shirt and went into a dreamless sleep.

  We had a few hours respite the next morning. I took my much-needed shower and shaved. I ate breakfast as quickly as I’d been trained and read my letters. All of them were much longer than anything I’d sent out.

  Peter was still in Colorado, ready to join the fight and bored even with all the repelling and climbing. I think he was stone sober and couldn’t believe he liked that either.

  Aunt Anya wrote a touching letter filled with summer news. She gardened with Mama and said she enjoyed it. She told me about a few changes throughout town. Miss Fink had finally married and would no longer be teaching. Juliet, Aunt Anya’s youngest, was thinking of learning to teach and was a strong supporter of the war effort. She policed the family on rationing and blackouts, ever vigilant to do more than their part. Aunt Anya sounded proud of her. At the end, she instructed me to care for myself and watch out for the enemy. It made me smile—she was bossy as normal.

  I saved Mama’s letter for last. It even smelled like home. She always wrote a lot and today was no exception—there were three pages filled. She started by asking me how I was. I found the second page most interesting. She ran into Miss Kate who, as usual, told her all the gossip from our old home. Mr. Joclav was dead.

  Miss Kate told Mama how it all happened. Apparently, he had been ill for quite a while with the most unsurprising diagnosis of syphilis. He nearly lost his business through his suffering and finally, Miss Vicki had taken over the running of everything. Miss Kate was proud to tell Mama how they all contributed to the war effort and helped “their boys.” I could almost hear her New York accent.

  She told Mama, Mr. Joclav had slipped into an unreal world of madness. He had spent his final years worsening, walking around the halls muttering to himself. For a while, he was more dangerous than ever, and Miss Kate stayed away from him as much as possible. His screams carried down the hallways late at night, and she told Mama how it unnerved her deep in her soul. She said it was strange to see such a man break.

  Finally, one night, Miss Kate said it was a Thursday he ceased to exist. She heard him scream that night, more than ever before, and carried on for hours. She told Mama she knew it was bad that night and could feel death at her door. Mr. Joclav began running up and down the second-floor hall, right in front of our old door. It was the room with the radiator and he screamed Mama’s name over and over again, mad with rage. He yelled about boys and cats and refused to calm. Then, he backed up against the far wall and ran, head down, straight into the door, breaking his own neck.

  Mama never wrote if she was relieved or any other feelings about him. She and I never talked about him again. I knew we were all relieved though. The world was finally rid of a poison, and everyone knew Miss Vicki would do a better job of running that old building anyway.

  I slept after I read my mother’s words but, this time, I dreamt of trapped animals that evolved into Nazis. I woke, shaking, to see Taylor in front of me, telling me it was time to move out.

  I didn’t want to fight anymore. I had seen enough of war to last me a lifetime, and we had only been in theatre a few weeks. After my dream, though, I knew, without a doubt, we were fighting the good fight and could not lose. No Nazis would ever enter my hometown.

  Anzio

  Italy quickly turned into a terrible fight for survival each and every day. My training is all that saved me. I fought and even killed without second-guessing myself, without thinking what actions needed to come next. I quickly learned that fighting is just one horror of war. War is so much more than hunting and killing the enemy. I was shocked to learn that humans can live subjected to such horrible, demeaning circumstances.

  Soldiers are displaced with no real place to rest. Each day, we faced the elements. We learned to ignore the heat, cold, rain, and snow. Continually being exposed to the elements made our skin calloused and red. Our hair grew longer than standard regulations, and we were generally grimy. Ironically, we tried to shave every day. Everyone battled bugs. They crawled through our clothes and hair. We changed and washed our clothes when we were able, but honestly, I always thought our numbers were doubled as our uniforms could have stood and fought on their own. We smelled so bad, the only thing hiding us from the Nazis was their own stench.

  No one had to teach me to hate or fear the mud. I learned quickly enough that mud was a real enemy. Mud made walking impossible. It got into everything, and I hated its taste
. Mud ruined everything. It held the cold, the wet, and the bugs. Thick mud barred us from any quick successes. Mud was the ever-present and constant threat.

  The beauty of Italy did not escape me. If we hadn’t been fighting, it was a place I thought I would have liked to visit or even live. It was so different from home. Cobblestone streets and old buildings were everywhere, even on the mountainside. Nothing was wild.

  1943 was all war—we fought every single day and as the year deepened, so did our resolve. We were the elite and were proud of it. We fought without thinking, killed without caring, and were feared. They called us the ‘Devils in Baggy Pants.’

  One morning, bright and early, we moved through a tiny village that boasted only a few houses and one small church. As we moved through, I noticed movement to my right. Ever at the ready, I raised my rifle. There was no enemy, instead I noticed a small child, a girl of about seven years, watching us from the shadows of a small doorway. She had big eyes full of fear. No one else seemed to notice or care to notice her.

  We continued on, but that little face haunted me. She was all alone. As I walked through her small village, I saw no other living person. We left her behind even though she was so small and vulnerable. There was nowhere to take her. I reminded myself I was a soldier responsible for killing. That was the harsh truth. We were only responsible for one duty. There was no time or energy to care for children. I was nothing more than a devil, bringing Hell across a war weary land.

  By the end of December, we had dug in and were waiting for orders. As hard as we fought, the Nazis fought back just as hard. The idea we might take Rome fast and easy were sidelined and forgotten. Rome was not going to fall easily. Both sides wanted the victory, and we were nearly stalemated at Anzio.

  Anzio was the Nazi’s last defense, and they were going to keep it at all costs. The fight was horrifying and lasted more than four months. Nothing won that fight but sheer willpower; two American commanders were removed from duty, I thought unfairly, due to our lack of success. Most of us that enlisted resigned ourselves to the fate of painful death.

  It was terrible. It was laborious gaining any ground. Each move was difficult. We gained ground, then dug in. Houses, church towers, and shops all hid our enemy if we weren’t already utilizing those spaces. We, the invaders, fought against the unknown.

  The streets were a mystery and the language unknown. Such obstacles only aided the enemy securing their knowledge of everything we couldn’t know.

  It felt more like World War One than Two. Lines were drawn, sides would be dug in behind them. Small spaces of land were won and new lines drawn, over and over again. We killed, were killed, and, finally in May 1944, we took it. That victory was so hard-won, we hardly called it a victory. There were so many dead and the 504’s so depleted, we were sent to England for a short respite.

  When I left home, I was young, but battle aged me. I wasn’t even sure how to take respite. The Brits welcomed us alright. We drank, smoke, grabbed any girl we could, and did our best to live up to our devilish reputation. A week into the respite, I didn’t feel anymore rested than the first day.

  I looked around. I was surrounded by empty, stuck open eyes focusing on distant spaces. Pretty girls walked around smiling at us, but I barely registered them. I grabbed one and kissed her full on the mouth, ready to somehow end my suffering with her love. Her arms around my neck, her mouth open, I found myself clinging to her, trying to be human again. I was crying into her hair and was so afraid of letting go. She let me hold on and then stepped away. I hadn’t asked her name and I didn’t even watch her go. I grabbed another bottle and drank as deep as I could, praying for a release from my sins. Music played on through the night and more girls came through. Not one of us followed anyone out that night. We sat in a row, our eyes stuck open, staring into the nothingness that had become life.

  Over the next few days, I slowly began to feel human again. I stared less but I hated loud noises. Every time someone laughed too loud or shouted, I jumped. I couldn’t figure it out. I was never jumpy on the battlefield. I couldn’t make sense of why I was so jumpy while it was safe and quiet in England. There were no children in harm’s way, and I wasn’t protecting my comrades, but this was somehow worse. I relentlessly thought of so many others who were in danger. I constantly felt guilty for my hard-earned respite. Every night, I desperately tried to live.

  God, I wanted to live. I wanted to drink every drop of life offered to me. I wanted to taste food, sleep until I was rested, feel every woman, and watch the sun come up every morning. I didn’t want to miss out on anything. I was a soldier, though, in an unstoppable war.

  We were asked to volunteer for more. We weren’t told but we all guessed, the Allies were finally ready to invade France. I wanted no part.

  The moment they began telling us what was needed, that horrible pinching feeling in my stomach returned with such a force, I nearly passed out. Me, a battle-hearted devil wearing baggy pants, nearly fell over. When they asked, I didn’t raise my hand. We were all told it was fine, our unit was one of the hardest hit in Italy and that was why we were being given a choice. In the end, only three guys volunteered. Guilt, that would last a lifetime, washed over me as I walked away.

  I had seen too much, fought too hard, and just killed too many to join. I wanted to live. After these few days off, I wanted it more than anything. I went outside to calm myself and smoke. I found a patch of mostly dry ground, something of a commodity in England, and stood smoking and thinking. I could feel my eyes open, staring past everything.

  Breathing deeply, I stood, waiting to come back. The smoke curled around my face and after a few minutes, I noticed a cat was sitting at my feet.

  She was white, fluffy, and her tail bent at a strange angle. She looked up at me, with piercing blue eyes and reached her paw onto my boot. I blinked, and she was gone.

  Injured

  After that night, the night Rosa appeared, I felt better. I slept, peacefully, I ate, tasting the food, and I met a girl I liked kissing. My eyes weren’t stuck open staring at nothing. I saw England and how green it was with all their rain. Each day, I thanked the good Lord I had somehow survived Anzio and hadn’t volunteered for D-day; the three were not returning.

  I knew missing out on D-day was not going to keep me out of the war for good. I understood we would be called up again, and I was right. We spent the whole summer of 1944 in England, training. It was no vacation, but at least we weren’t fighting. It didn’t last long enough and I realized it could never have lasted long enough, no matter how long it had lasted. No part of me wanted back into the fight.

  By August, our unit was re-supplied with new numbers and we were called up. The pinching feeling in my stomach was back. The entire unit was all glider pilots, paratroopers, or pathfinders. Most of us were at certified in more than two. We were told we were unstoppable; after all, we flew engine-less planes, dropped behind enemy lines, found our way with no maps, and killed with quiet precision. We weren’t invincible but we were damn well unstoppable; we were the Devils.

  After the Normandy invasion, the Allies slowly moved inland. Resistance was as tough as ever. France was still Nazi-controlled and US 504’s had an impossible job ahead of us. We were briefed on rivers and their tributaries throughout France into Germany. Taking the bridges meant an early end to the war and that is all anyone talked about—the end of the war.

  Nearly every conversation began or ended with, “After the war.” All our dreams, all our future and past were wrapped into the end of the war. It was a terrible way to live. We were caught in a violent limbo with no promise of survival. We fought for the end of the war.

  Market Garden was difficult, if not impossible. We would drop in by gliders and chutes, scattered from France to Holland. We would be scattered and possibly miles from our assigned bridge. Our unit was assigned Grave Bridge.

  Each drop was planned with micro precision. They never worked out like they were planned thanks to several issues.
Keeping us from precision were our battles with the elements, poor maps, emotion, and, of course, enemy fire. Most drops scattered gliders and men at least three-five miles off target and units were separated, creating an “every man for himself” situation from the moment they left the planes. It was terrifying.

  The night before, we cut our hair into mohawks and painted our faces. We looked into each other’s faces, admiring our warrior personas. War paint on, we were ready and willing to fight. Looking across the back of that plane, I couldn’t help but admire how fearful we looked.

  Surprisingly, our drop was successful. There was no bad weather and no enemy fire. We were dropped, mostly together, in sight of our bridge. Unlike most units, our personnel landed to each side of Grave Bridge. We only lost two Dakotas from our gliders, and no one was killed during the drop. We met up with some Poles and readied to take our bridge. We seized the bridge with almost no fight. Germans had destroyed two nearby bridges before we even landed. Thankfully, we were not lulled into false security. We took the bridge but we were entirely surrounded by the enemy.

  A terrible fight ensued. The Allies took most of the bridges, sustaining huge losses. Each of us who survived carried man after man on our backs up the banks of the river to safety. There were so many wounded, a short respite was called for each side to care for them. Even after D-Day, after Anzio, this was bad and because the operation was so widespread, casualties were high. I was exhausted after three days of fighting with almost no respite. I wondered how we could continue.

  Leadership argued over the importance of the mission. The Brits wanted to destroy the bridges. They wanted to keep the Germans from gaining any ground that was so hard fought. The Americans wanted to keep the bridges so we could use them. We had to control the bridges to even make such a decision and in the end, we failed. The Germans destroyed the bridges.