by Dean Hughes
All the men in the squad got up early and got some breakfast in themselves, but after that they didn’t want to go back to their foxholes. Howie looked anything but strong, and his face was gray, as though a layer of skin was frozen. Most of the men had moved into the woods, out of sight from the open field in front of the forest, and they were talking, tramping, moving to try to stay warm. Then, without warning, Alex heard the whistle of incoming artillery, and he shouted, “Get to your holes!” He ran for his own foxhole, realized he was too far away, dove into the snow and flattened himself as best he could.
A shell struck a pine tree not twenty yards away and sent limbs and shrapnel flying in all directions. Two more hit quickly after that, each a little farther away from Alex, so he jumped up and ran again, and crashed through the opening in the limbs into the hole. He landed on top of Howie, who had apparently never stopped running, even when the shells had struck.
They squirmed into a better position but remained rolled up, each hugging his own knees. For a solid hour their position took a terrific pounding. The sound of trees ripping apart, exploding, was paralyzing. Alex could feel the suck of the concussion at times, even feel the burst of heat, and with it the whirring sound of shrapnel in the air. He kept watching Howie, who was not complaining, not whimpering, as he’d done in Holland. Instead, he was stone-faced.
“We’re all right,” Alex would say after each round of explosions. “Nothing’s going to get to us in here. The shells are blowing up in the tops of the trees.” But of course that wasn’t always true. Some of the shells were shaking the earth as though a volcano were erupting nearby.
When the shelling finally stopped, Alex told Howie, “We’re okay now. You just stay right here. I’m going to check the men.”
“All right,” Howie said, but nothing more. Alex thought he understood what Howie was doing. He was trying not to think, not to feel. He was following Alex’s advice.
Alex discovered that a shell had broken up a tree almost on top of Pozernac and Gourley. Debris had penetrated their cover, and Gourley had been nicked by a hunk of shrapnel, just above his knee. He had already bandaged it, however, and he said he didn’t need a medic.
Alex got one anyway, and then the men waited and watched for movement in the fields in front of them. Nothing happened for more than an hour, but then the pounding of artillery began again. That pattern continued the rest of the day and into the long evening. It finally let up during the night–and mercifully, the night wasn’t quite as cold–but Alex expected an assault at first light. This bombardment was probably to soften up the sector before an attack.
Alex could see the nervousness in the men now. They ate from their rations again, but they didn’t head into the trees for long, except to hurry to a latrine and back. There was more strain in their voices. Maybe today–Christmas Eve–was the day they would die. But no one talked about what day it was.
Alex took the early watch at the outpost himself, and he took Howie along with him. They scanned the snow for any movement, expecting any second for the attack to come, but it didn’t. Alex could feel his nerves ready to break. The cold, the dread, the constant realization of the trap he and his men were in–all of it was building up.
Nothing happened all morning, however, and even the shelling in their area had stopped. Alex finally got word that he should report to the headquarters tent. When he got there, Lieutenant Owen assigned him to take a patrol out to make contact with the Germans. “We don’t know what we’ve got out there,” Owen told him. “Everything seems quiet, but we could have Krauts moving in on us, maybe even trying to breach our lines. They’re not coming up the road from Foy or across the fields, but they could be infiltrating through these woods on our right flank.” He pointed to a wooded area on a map that extended along the railroad line. The name of the forest, printed on the map, was the Bois Jacques. “We need to go in there and find out what’s happening.”
So Alex walked back to his men and called them away from their holes. “We’re going out to make contact,” he said, trying to sound confident. “We need to find out what’s going on in that stand of trees that runs along the railroad tracks on our flank. That’s the only cover the Germans have in this sector. We can spot them if they come at us any other way.”
Alex looked at Howie, who didn’t nod, didn’t accept. He merely stared straight ahead. But then, no one was excited about a patrol like this. It was always one of the most likely ways to get shot. A couple of the men cursed, and Pozernac said, “That’s a bad spot in there. You can’t see a thing. We’d better not get scattered out to where we can’t see each other.”
“That’s right,” Alex said. “We have to keep each other in sight at all times.” He looked at the three young guys. They nodded, seeming willing, but Alex also saw the anxiety in their eyes. This was their first real action, and he knew the adrenaline had their hearts pumping.
Alex led out, and the men followed, in file. He stayed in the trees until he reached the railroad tracks, then he turned left across a clearing and into the Bois Jacques. As he entered the trees, he could see more clearly why Pozernac had been so concerned about getting scattered. The soft snow stopped sounds from carrying, but the larger problem was that the forest had been cut, the trees replanted, all in rows. They were the same size and shape, so every part of the forest looked alike.
“Let’s move up in a double column,” Alex whispered, “two by two. But keep in visual contact with the men in front of you. We don’t want to get guys lost in here. Campbell, I want you to move ahead of us and scout the area. Bunched up like this, if we walk into something, we could get ourselves into a mess.”
Campbell nodded and then stepped forward.
“It’s your lucky day,” Duncan said, and he laughed. Campbell glanced at him, but he didn’t smile. He looked grim in his muddy field jacket and with his six-day growth of whiskers.
“Don’t move out too far, too fast,” Alex told Campbell. “I want to be able to see you.”
Campbell walked ahead, crouching and moving in short runs, hiding behind a tree each time he stopped. He looked back at times, too, to make sure he could still see Alex.
Slowly the squad worked its way through the woods, following Campbell. There seemed to be no sign of enemy troops, and Alex, working to get through the snow, was warming up, feeling better. And then the sound of machine-gun fire cracked through the air, sending a hail of fire through the trees. Campbell disappeared. Alex hoped he had only dropped into the snow for cover. But silence followed, and nothing moved.
“I’m going up,” Duncan whispered.
“No. Stay put.”
But all was silence. Alex waited and watched, breathed steadily, expecting hell to break loose any moment. Five minutes passed, and Duncan finally said, “I gotta get to Campbell.” He made a quick dash ahead before Alex could say anything.
Duncan drew no fire, and he worked his way forward in quick dashes. Then he crawled under a pine tree. Alex couldn’t see what was happening at that point, and he hated the quiet that followed. He was about to move his men up when he saw Duncan crawl out from under the tree and wave the men back. At the same time, the machine gun fired again, and Duncan dropped onto his face.
Alex waited, unsure what to do. But after a minute or so, he saw that Duncan had begun to crawl, flat on his face in the snow. He worked himself around another pine tree, and then he suddenly jumped up and ran hard. As he approached Alex, he shouted, “Get out. There’s a platoon, maybe a whole company, in the field just beyond these trees. They’re ready to move.”
“What about Campbell?”
“He’s dead.”
Alex and the others fell back quickly, working hard to trudge back to the perimeter they had been protecting, back to their foxholes. Alex headed straight on to the headquarters tent. He told Wells about the German troops, and Wells called in artillery fire. For about twenty minutes the sound was deafening, but heartening, as the position below the trees took a terri
fic barrage of fire.
When it was over, the men waited, still expecting the attack. But it didn’t come, and that meant the artillery had driven the Germans back. So Alex climbed out of his hole and walked to Duncan and Bentley. “Do you want to go with me?” he asked. “I’m going after Campbell.”
“Yeah,” Duncan said. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
He climbed from his hole, and then he added, “He took a bullet in the forehead. He didn’t suffer.”
Alex nodded. “Well . . . that’s good,” he said. And automatically the words ran through his mind: “Don’t think about this.”
Alex and Duncan went after the body, but Alex didn’t look at Campbell any more than he had to. He helped carry the body back behind the line, and then he returned to his foxhole. “How’re you doing?” he asked Howie, who was standing up in the hole, the pine boughs pushed back from over the opening.
“I’m all right,” Howie said, with no emotion.
“Were you okay during that patrol?”
“Yeah. Pretty much.”
Alex looked out across the fields and then to the right, toward the trees where Campbell had died. He wasn’t going to think about that. Couldn’t. But the snow, the pretty scene, seemed to remind him again that it was Christmas Eve.
“At least it’s over for Campbell,” Howie said. “He doesn’t have to do this anymore.”
“Let’s eat something.”
That evening Alex and Howie huddled close and shook. It wasn’t the worst of the nights, but it was bitterly cold, and it promised to last far too long. And then, late in the evening, Alex heard one of the men begin to sing. It took Alex a few seconds to realize that it was Pozernac, who didn’t have much of a voice. He was singing, “Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down Santa Claus lane.”
“Hush up,” Alex called out.
Pozernac hesitated long enough to laugh, and then he started again. “Vixen and Blitzen, and all his reindeer–whatever are their names.”
“Pozernac, that’s enough,” Alex said. And this time the singing did stop. “What’s wrong with you, Sarge?” he yelled. “Don’t you know it’s Christmas Eve? I want Santa to come down my chimney. I asked him for a pretty girl to keep me warm in here. I think I’m going to get Betty Grable.”
“I want the Andrews Sisters–all three,” someone else yelled.
Alex knew the noise wasn’t wise, but he called back to Pozernac, “Cuddle up with Gourley. He’s warmer than a skinny little girl.”
“Yeah. But he’s not a very good kisser.”
Duncan was yelling now. “You would know.”
But all this seemed a little strained, as though the men were trying too hard. Silence returned, and now Alex knew that the men were thinking about the very thing they had refused to mention all day. It was “the night before Christmas,” and everyone had memories of that.
Maybe five minutes went by, and then a better voice, a stronger one, began. It was Duncan. “I’ll be home for Christmas,” he was singing, and Alex didn’t tell him to stop.
By the time he had finished, the silence was almost frightening. But then Duncan began to sing “Silent Night,” and the other men joined in.
Most of the men weren’t particularly good singers, but their voices blended pretty well in this silent night–with no artillery coming in. By the time they were finished, Alex could feel the pain, as though it were hanging in the cold night air. He knew he couldn’t let go. He held on tight, tried to make his mind blank. But his body was rigid from the attempt.
“I keep thinking about Campbell and them sisters of his,” Howie finally said. “He had a girl waiting for him too.”
“Don’t do it,” Alex said. “Don’t talk about it.”
“But he was such a good guy, and I keep wondering when his family will find out–and how they’ll feel about it.”
“Private, listen to me. I don’t want to talk about that. And you shouldn’t either. Let’s try to get some sleep before it gets really cold.”
“Okay. I know what you mean.”
Alex stretched out in the foxhole, next to Howie. His body and mind were spent with exhaustion, but he couldn’t sleep at all. “Silent Night” kept running through his head, the words, the tune. And thoughts of London. Finally he said to Howie, who was obviously awake, “Howie, look at it this way. This could be the worst night of our lives. If we can get through this, we can get through anything.”
“That’s what you told me that one night back in Holland.”
“Well . . . yeah. But this one might be a little worse.”
“No. That one was worse for me. I’ll make it through this one.”
“All right. Good. Me too.”
And so they didn’t try to sleep. They talked about basic training and about jump school–about anything that they had in common. Anything but Christmas.
Chapter 29
Anna Stoltz and her mother received a gift for Christmas. On Christmas Eve, Anna got word at the OSS offices, from one of the agents, that her father had made contact, and he was safe. The man wouldn’t admit where he was, but when she asked, “Is he in Germany?” he didn’t deny it, and his careful reaction told her she was right. She didn’t tell her mother that part, but she did bring home the word that nothing had happened to him; he was merely delayed.
This news was an enormous relief. Over the past few weeks the tension for Anna and Sister Stoltz had constantly increased. It was terrible to wait, but at least they knew Heinrich was all right for the present. What they didn’t know was why he was delayed and how much danger he might be in. And they also knew nothing of Peter, and that continued to be a terrible worry.
In addition, Anna had something new to concern her. She had learned in recent days that the 101st Airborne had been drawn into the fighting in the Ardennes Forest, in Belgium. Because of the bulge in the line created by the German offensive, newspapers were calling the action the “Battle of the Bulge.” And the news was frightening: the Americans in Bastogne–the entire 101st Division–were surrounded by German forces. Supplies were limited, and the cold was punishing. As Christmas approached, all of England and America–all the world–was waiting to know the fate of these soldiers, who could easily be overrun, any day, destroyed or taken as prisoners.
Anna had received word from Alex the week before that he might be able to make it to England for Christmas. She had been excited about that, had thanked the Lord many times, and now it had all been taken away. She had not yet heard any direct word from Alex, but there was no doubt his leave had been canceled. Anna’s disappointment was so intense that she had to fight every second not to despair. But she couldn’t do that. Her mother needed her too much, and even the Dillinghams needed some cheering up. They were missing their home, their former life, so very much. They had hoped to spend Christmas with their son Arthur and their grandchildren in Manchester, but Arthur, who had been wounded in Africa early in the war, had written to say that he was being recalled to the Royal Air Force. England was in desperate need of pilots, and Arthur was considered well enough now to fly again. The Dillinghams, the couple staying with them, hadn’t expected anything like that, and they, too, were very worried. The pilots who were bombing Germany didn’t have a long life expectancy these days.
For Anna, all the anxiety was almost too much. Alex was in more danger than ever before. She lay awake at night and wondered how cold he was, whether he had enough to eat, whether he was in immediate danger. She had seen newsreels of battles, watched the explosions as artillery fire crashed among the soldiers. She hadn’t yet heard anything from Alex, but she had to assume he was living out in the open, in a foxhole, just as he had in Holland, and she wondered how much terror he was living with.
Sometimes Anna had admitted to herself that Alex’s chances of surviving might not be very good. But now, with the newspapers and radio constantly blaring the news that the Americans were in trouble in Bastogne, she knew that bad news could arrive at
any time. She had once told Alex that she would rather be married to him, take the chance of losing him, and at least know that he would be hers in the next life, but all she could think now was that she wanted him back, whole. She wanted him to hold her again. She wanted to go with him to Salt Lake City, to meet his family. She wanted a life with him.
But Anna stayed busy with her work, and she laughed as much as possible. She found humor where she could, and she tried to lift her mother whenever she found a way. True, at night she sometimes lay in bed and cried, but she hated self-pity in others, and she wasn’t about to tolerate it in herself.
Recently Anna and her mother had received a Christmas card from Brother and Sister Thomas. Sister Thomas had written a nice little note, wishing them well and expressing her great desire to meet all the Stoltzes as soon as possible. Another letter had come from Bobbi. Alex had told Anna all about this sister he loved so much. And Sister Thomas had told Anna about Richard, who was missing in action. But Bobbi’s letter was full of gratitude and hope. Richard was safe, she said, and she wished the same for Peter.
Bobbi had written the letter before word had come about Alex being pulled into the battle in Belgium. Nonetheless, the part of the letter Anna kept rereading was the conclusion:
Anna, I’ll never forget the first time Alex told me about you. He said, “She’s so beautiful, it hurts to look at her,” and he told me he felt sure the two of you would end up together–that God had given him that affirmation. I used to think that if I prayed hard enough, nothing bad would ever happen, but now I understand that life is all about surviving hard times. I know these are difficult days for you, but I also believe you and Alex will be back together before too much longer, and then, more than anything, I want to meet you and know you as my dear sister.
