by Dean Hughes
For Brad and Amy Russell, Michael and David
Chapter 1
Snow had fallen again. It lay glistening over the field of battle. To Alex Thomas it seemed that nature had chosen to purify this patch of Belgium, to hide the bomb craters and desiccated villages. But the elegance of the snow-covered fields, the fences and barns, couldn’t change the truth: frozen bodies—both American and German—lay under all that beauty. Of course, every soldier, at times, felt a certain envy: at least the dead had been delivered from the torturous cold.
The clouds had cleared now, and the night temperatures were fierce. Alex had told the men in his squad to dig in deep, but they had marched in heavy snow all day, taken a pounding from mortars and artillery, and the effort to hack away at the frozen earth had been more than they could summon. They had penetrated the ground only far enough to get out of the wind, and now they lay huddled against one another in pairs. They were wrapped in blankets, but they were mostly defenseless against the brittle air, and the sweat they had worked up while digging had turned to ice in their clothes.
Alex and his partner—Private Myron Davis—had not dug much deeper than the others. Out of exhaustion they had fallen asleep—but not for long. Alex had awakened, trembling and suddenly frightened by what he felt from Davis, next to him. Davis was a strongly built young man, not yet twenty, but there was no fat on him, and the cold seemed to reach him more than the other men. He was shaking so badly that Alex thought he was convulsing.
Alex reached around Davis and pulled the blanket tighter against his wool coat. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“No, I’m not. How could I be all right?”
Alex, of course, wasn’t surprised by the bitterness in Davis’s voice. The troops of the 101st Airborne Division had spent a month out in this cold, almost constantly. They had been transported to Bastogne without winter clothes or adequate supplies, and they had been greatly outnumbered by German Wehrmacht and SS troops. Surrounded and cut off from supplies, they had held their ground, held Bastogne, and now, with other Allied forces, had stopped the “bulge” that the Germans had created in the defense line. The Americans had been battered by heavy artillery, and more than half their men had been killed or seriously wounded, but they had refused to retreat, and now they were pushing back.
It was all the stuff of legend, and it made great headlines in American newspapers, but the men knew little about and felt nothing of the glory they had gained for themselves. They had suffered enough and they wanted out, and yet the word kept coming down that there was no one to replace them; the Allies had to cut off the escape routes before too many Germans retreated behind the Siegfried Line. So E Company of the 506th Regiment was on the march. The company, with the rest of the Second Battalion, had cleared the little village of Foy and was now preparing to attack Noville, which was still held by German troops and tanks.
“This is the coldest night yet,” Davis whispered.
“If we get through this one, we can handle anything,” Alex told him. He thought of Howie Douglas, the young soldier he had befriended and tried to help during their time in Holland and, later, here in Belgium. Alex had told the boy the same thing a few times, and Howie had made it through. But then, in the attack on Foy, Howie had taken a bullet in the chest and died. Davis was a little older, smarter, and more self-willed than Howie. He wasn’t someone Alex could be big brother to in quite the same way. Davis’s resentment also ran deeper. He had come into the war idealistic, if not as naive as some, but a month on the front had shaken him, diminished his enthusiasm for abstractions. Life had become a battle with self—with the cold and dirt and hunger as much as with Nazis. And to some degree, the enemy seemed the army itself: those distant generals who kept telling the men to continue when it seemed they couldn’t.
Davis had grown up on a farm in Illinois. From what he had told Alex, his life had been rather simple. For fun, he had driven into town to see a picture show, or maybe gone to a dance at the roller-skating rink on a Saturday night. He might have had a beer or two on those nights, or even a snort of whiskey, but most of his days had been sober and full of work. On Sunday mornings he had usually put on a white shirt and tie and gone to hear a sermon at his Methodist church. But if the weather was right, in harvest time, Sabbath or not, he had run a thresher from sunup until sundown. He was stone-hard from the work, and he could, ultimately, survive the deprivation of war; what made no sense to him was the arbitrary way his life was controlled by others. Foot soldiers were never consulted. They rarely knew exactly where they were or what their larger objectives were. They carried out orders, and then they waited. “I feel like a piece of equipment,” he had told Alex. “Just not as valuable as a jeep or an artillery piece.”
Alex felt all the same things, but he was beyond that first stage of disillusionment. He assumed, every day, that more hardships, more traumas, more losses would come. On the previous morning his friend Jim Gourley had been caught with machine-gun fire as he had tried to jump across a little stream. He had been carrying a heavy load of ammunition and had slipped in the snow. Because of that, he had climbed up the stream bank slower than the others, and two bullets had struck him, one in the groin and the other in the hip.
Tony Pozernac had put his own life on the line, had dragged Gourley through the snow and into the woods. And he had done what he could to stop the bleeding. A medic had helped, had sprinkled sulfa powder in the wound and bandaged him. “He’ll make it,” the medic had promised, but since then Alex had heard nothing more, and he had wondered how damaged Gourley was, whether he would be able to walk all right when he healed.
Alex had more than that on his mind. In Foy, he and his men had had a chance to get inside for a few nights, and there his mail had caught up with them. Alex had learned from Anna, his wife, that he was going to be a father. It was January, 1945, and the baby was due in June. Sitting by a fire, with friends around him, he had felt the power of this news, and he had cried. But now, back out in the cold, back in the battle, a numbness had returned, filling his head and chest, seeming to rob him of the things he wanted to feel. He told himself every day that he had to be careful, had to stay alive for his child, for Anna, but he knew that there was no real way to protect himself. His end could come at any time, and it would be as unsurprising as any of the other deaths he saw every day.
Alex knew he wouldn’t sleep the rest of the night, but sleep was a luxury, not something he ever counted on. He longed for the escape it would provide, but mostly he just wanted to get this night over, to get up and go so his heart would pump some heat into his body. The night before, Lieutenant Owen, Second Platoon leader, had talked to the squad leaders. He had told Alex and the others that the company would attack Noville at first light. “It’s supposed to be about 800 meters into town. We’ll probably catch hell all the way in there. The Germans have some tanks, and they know we’re coming. We need to get down that open road just as fast as we can. Once we get to the houses, we’ll have some cover, but up until then, it could be bad.”
All the same, Alex wanted the attack to come. It would mean the end of this night, and if he and his men made it into town, maybe they could sleep inside for a night or two. If he—or some of the others—were going to go down, at least they would find out. Waiting and freezing was worse than anything.
Alex kept his arm around Davis and neither spoke again. But the hours ticked away one slow second at a time. Alex felt a kind of disassociation at times, as though he were floating outside himself, but he never entered the blankness of sleep. When Lieutenant Owen finally began to move about and tell the men it was time to get up, Alex felt only relief.
Some of the men tried to eat a little, but most of the canned K-ration food they carried was frozen solid. No one was allowed to smoke, and that only added to the crankiness. Alex wasn’t hungry. He knew that if he made it across this open land and into Noville without getting shot or hit with shrapnel, he would feel more like eating. And maybe, in the town, he would find a
stove he could use.
“Thomas, where are you?” It was Owen, coming out of the dark, his big body a gray hulk.
“Right over here.”
Owen stepped closer. “I went up to Noville to look around last night,” he said. “I saw some of our own tanks and thought maybe we had taken the place, but they were knocked-out tanks from when this whole thing started a month ago. Some of our boys were lying around in the snow, all frozen solid, and the Jerries hadn’t even drug ’em off somewhere.”
“Do you think the Germans have withdrawn?”
“No. They’re still in there. I just wanted you to know about those tanks. You’ll see ’em as you come into town, right on the main road.”
“We need to push off just as soon as we can,” Alex said. “I’d like to make it to those buildings on the edge of town before they open up on us.”
“Yeah. But we gotta be able to see each other.”
“That won’t be much longer now.”
“I know. Did your boys get through the night all right?”
“They’re beaten down, Lieutenant. I don’t know how much more we can ask of them.”
“Maybe so. But don’t let ’em bellyache and cry on your shoulder. It don’t do no good for them to feel sorry for themselves.”
When Owen left, Corporal Duncan walked over to Alex. “I don’t like this one,” he said. “Eight hundred meters is a long ol’ haul.” He cursed softly.
“It’s all about speed,” Alex said. “We’ve got to hit fast. That’s only half a mile. We can cover it in a few minutes if we keep moving.”
“Maybe you can. I ain’t no track star.”
“You might be today.”
Duncan laughed. “Yeah. I just might.” But then he put his hand on Alex’s shoulder and said, “Good luck, Deacon.”
“You, too,” Alex said. Something like a prayer passed through Alex’s mind, but he didn’t try to formulate the words. He had become too fatalistic. God’s will was coming, one way or the other, it seemed to him. He and Duncan had been through so many of these attacks together. It was hard not to believe that their luck would run out one of these times.
Dawn was nothing more than a gray hint off to the right of the soldiers when the command came down, whispered along the line. “Move out.” Second Platoon—Alex’s unit—was heading straight down the road, with Third Platoon on the right, east of the road. Alex watched as the first squad led out, and then he waved for his own men to follow him in a file. He doubted the Germans could see them yet, but he was anxious, and he wished the first squad would move faster. Every second was important to make a good, long thrust forward before the firing started.
Everything went well for a time. The men kept moving ahead, and the half-mile was quickly being cut in half. Alex told himself that this might not turn out to be so bad after all. But then a flare burst overhead, a bright white flash that spread out gray overhead. Almost instantly the first explosion sounded. It seemed to be mortar fire, muffled by the snow, and targeted at Third Platoon, off to the right.
“Go hard. Don’t stop. Get to the houses,” Alex shouted to his squad.
The men picked up the pace, running now, tromping down the snow-packed road, their gear clattering. A few more seconds passed and all the fire was still to the right, but then a searing light flashed in Alex’s eyes and he went down. The concussion slammed against his steel helmet as he fell. He felt the breath suck from him, his ears crackle. He didn’t know whether he had been hit or not. He expected pain—something specific—and yet he was already struggling to his feet. “Keep going, men. Keep going!” he screamed, but he couldn’t see anything straight in front of him, his eyes still blinded from the flash.
In his peripheral vision he could see where the road was, so he pushed forward, but another explosion sounded to his left. It bowled him over, and this time a sharp pain, biting hot, was in his shoulder, seeming to burrow on through. He grabbed at the pain and rolled onto his side. But he knew instinctively that he wasn’t hurt badly, and once again he worked to get his feet under him. This time, though, he heard coughing, choking, next to him on the ground.
Alex grabbed for the man next to him, tried to see him. His vision was beginning to clear, and when another explosion lit the sky, he saw that it was Duncan and that he had blood on the side of his face and on his throat. “Dunc,” he yelled, “hang on.” And then he screamed, “Medic! Get up here. Now!”
Duncan was still choking and sputtering, and Alex didn’t know what to do. “You’re all right, Dunc. You’ll be okay.” He jumped up. “Medic! Come help this man.” Someone was running toward him in the dark. “Help this man. He’s hit in the throat.”
Alex had to go. He couldn’t stop to deal with this, not even for Duncan. “Let’s go. Let’s go,” he shouted, and he no longer knew who was where. He took off, running hard. The explosions were striking beyond him now, but the pounding of a machine gun, the whiz of bullets, was in the air around him. He dove to the ground, rolled over, and then crawled forward. But that was no good. He had to get into the cover of the buildings that were still a couple of hundred meters ahead, looming in the dull light.
Alex had abandoned the road when he hit the ground. Now he angled away from it—since that’s where the German fire was concentrated. He charged toward a house on the edge of town. It was a hard run in the deep snow, and every second he expected to be hit, but nothing came his way, and he made it to a little shed outside the house. He dove behind it, lay in the snow, and for a time simply gasped for all the air he could get. Then he got up and looked around the shed, trying to see what was happening. He fired his M-1 at a window in a nearby house where muzzle fire was erupting from a machine gun. He had no idea whether he struck home, but others were firing too, and the machine gun stopped. When it did, Alex burst around the shed and ran to the house. He flattened himself against the outside wall, waited a few seconds, and then looked around the corner.
Up ahead, he could see the Sherman tanks—the damaged ones Owen had told him about. They were just inside the town, on the main road. He ran for them and then dropped down next to one. Just then he heard the rumble and screech of a tank track as it crawled over cobblestones. It had to be a German tank, and it was coming toward him. He rolled under the big Sherman and lay on his back.
Just then another man dove down and also jammed himself under the tank. As he did, he knocked his rifle against Alex’s shoulder. Alex felt the pain shoot down his arm and remembered his wound, but he had no time to do anything about it now.
“There’s a Kraut tank coming,” the other soldier said, and Alex recognized the voice. It was Irv Johnston.
“I know. I—”
But suddenly the Sherman took a resounding hit. The noise slammed through Alex’s head as though he had been hit with a flatiron. He couldn’t think what had happened for a moment, but then he realized that the German tank had fired into the Sherman, probably to make sure it was disabled.
“Get out,” Alex screamed, and he pushed against Johnston. He was afraid the tank might explode.
But when the men slid out from under the tank, they found themselves trapped against a wall. There was no escape route. “Stay here for a minute,” Alex told Johnston, but he couldn’t believe how badly he had handled all of this. After Duncan had gone down, he hadn’t thought right. He had lost his men, and now he had gotten himself pinned down where he couldn’t do anybody any good.
Another terrific noise sounded as the German tank took a hit. Someone—from some position Alex couldn’t see—had fired a bazooka and struck the big Tiger. It was still operating, but the driver was backing away fast. By then, Alex could see more men streaming into the main street.
“Let’s go,” Alex called. “We’ve got to clear these houses.”
Alex ran down the street, but when he tried to hold his rifle in front of him, the pain in his left shoulder was much worse than it had been before. He kept running all the same, saw that a number of men were taking t
he first house on the left, and crossed to the one on the right. Johnston, who was at his side, already had a grenade ready. “Look out, Sarge,” he yelled, and then he pulled the pin and rolled the grenade against the front door. Alex and Johnston threw their backs against the wall of the house on either side of the door. The crash sounded and debris flew. Alex waited a couple of seconds and then spun toward the door. Johnston burst inside ahead of him. Alex followed, but all was silent and dark inside. Then, from up the stairs, someone shouted, “Please, no. No shoot.”
The accent was French, not German, and it was a woman. Johnston ran to the foot of the stairs and pointed his rifle up the staircase. “Come down. Hands up.”
A light came on upstairs, and then, in a moment, two bare feet appeared on the steps. A woman in a nightdress came out of the dark. “No shoot,” she said again, and she walked carefully down the stairs.
She was a woman in her fifties perhaps, a thin woman with graying hair tied up in a bun. “Are there Germans here?” Johnston shouted at her.
“No,” she said. “They go.”
“When did they leave?” Alex asked her. She looked puzzled, and so he asked the question in German. Most people who lived this close to the border spoke both languages.
“This morning,” she said. “Two officers slept here for a few nights. But now they are gone.”
“We must look through your house,” Alex said, again in German.
“Ja. That is fine. But someone must take care of your shoulder. I can do it if you like.”
Outside, Alex could hear firefights—machine guns and rifle fire, the blast of grenades. He knew what had to be done. “It’s not so bad,” he said, but he glanced at his shoulder, saw the rip in his field jacket and blood soaking through.
“It’s bleeding a lot,” Johnston said. “You’d better let her take care of it.”
“I can’t do that,” Alex said. He was thinking that a lot of men were dead. Duncan was down on the road with his throat torn open. Alex couldn’t sit down in this warm house and be fussed over, not until everything was over. He stepped toward the door, but just then he heard a click, and his eyes darted to the stairway. He could see the toe of a black boot sticking out from around the wall at the head of the stairs.
