The brief peace and quiet did not last long. It was as if the Germans had been waiting for this opportunity to catch them off guard. They heard the deep booms of artillery from the forested hills beyond Bastogne and then the sound of shells screeching in.
“Take cover!” Lieutenant Mulholland shouted, although the men were already scrambling to get out of the street.
Cole dove for a shell hole and landed alongside Vaccaro, who muttered, “Those goddamn Krauts must not have gotten any mail. I’d say they’re jealous.”
“Why don’t you write them and tell them to go to hell?”
“That’s not a bad idea.”
Then the screeching reached a crescendo, and the artillery shells rained down on Bastogne.
The deafening sound of explosions and the continuous whistle of the shells filled the soldiers’ ears, drowning out any other noise. The ground beneath them rumbled and shook like a giant’s hungry belly. Through the roar of the barrage, they could hear screams of men who had been caught out in the open.
“Medic!” someone shouted. “Medic!”
Incredibly, some brave bastard of a medic dashed through the chaos to answer the cry for help.
Through it all, Cole stayed hunkered down in the hole while bits of rock and debris clattered onto his helmet. He prayed that a bomb didn’t land on his head. With some amusement, he recalled the old saying that there was no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole.
If you’re up there, Lord, spare me from these bombs, he prayed. While you’re at it, Lord, damn these Krauts to hell.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As the latest bombardment rained down on Bastogne, a paratrooper from the 101st Airborne was risking his life on a highly unusual mission. The nineteen-year-old private ran down the street, dodging the bomb blasts, finally ducking into the shattered remains of a tavern.
It was a favor for a friend who had brought him there. Just minutes ago, he had been visiting a buddy at the hospital.
His friend had made a simple request. “Listen, won’t you do me a favor? I’m dying for a drink. Can’t you find me some booze?”
“Gee, I don’t know—”
“Come on, won’t you at least try?”
How could he refuse the wishes of a wounded buddy? He patted his friend’s shoulder in reassurance and minutes later found himself outside on the streets of Bastogne.
Looking around at the bomb-blasted buildings, he wondered, Now what?
It couldn’t be that hard to find some booze. He had to give it a try, at least.
From time to time a German shell whistled in and exploded, adding more rubble to the ruins. The air was heavy with the acrid smell of smoke and gunpowder, mixed with the stench of death and destruction. The earth rumbled and buildings collapsed. He felt the impact reverberating through his bones. He swallowed back the coppery taste of fear that he had become all too used to since the Battle of the Bulge had begun.
Through the smoke, he could see other soldiers running for cover. Only an idiot would be out on the streets by choice — and yet here he was.
The easiest thing would have been to give up — but that was not how he was wired. If he said he was going to do something, then he did it.
The young paratrooper thought back to when his father had seen him off at the train station. His father was an Italian immigrant and a proud American. Standing there on the station platform, his father had simply said, “Don’t do anything to embarrass the family.”
He hadn’t so far, and he wasn’t about to now.
He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, then headed down the street. He was looking for a bar or tavern that hadn’t been smashed to bits. It wasn’t easy to find. Building after building that he passed bore the telltale scars of the intermittent bombardments that Bastogne had endured. He passed the entrance to one bar whose shattered sign proclaimed it as une taverne. Glancing inside at the fallen timbers scattered every which way like a game of pick-up sticks, he realized that the place would be a death trap to enter. He kept going.
Halfway down the next block, he found a more promising watering hole. The taverne sign hung crookedly above the door like a broken wing, but the interior was more or less intact.
Might be something, he thought.
However, he was disappointed to discover that most of the bottles behind the bar had been smashed where they stood by some nearby bomb blast. Any intact bottles had long since been liberated by thirsty GIs.
He noticed that the beer tap appeared unscathed. When he pulled the lever, beer ran out and spattered on the floor. This discovery delighted the paratrooper, who couldn’t wait to bring some back to his wounded friend. The question was, How was he going to do that? He looked behind the bar and around the floor for anything that might serve as a container for carrying the beer, but he gave up in futility. Everything was broken and smashed. He might have to hunt through the ruins of nearby buildings until he found a suitable container, costing him precious time. As a reminder that the bar might be reduced to rubble at any moment — and him along with it — a shell smashed into the street not more than a hundred feet away. The shock wave carried dust and the smell of cordite into the bar.
Rubble rained down and hit his helmet. That was when he got the idea.
Quickly, he took off his helmet and held it under the tap, filling it with beer. Once it was nearly overflowing, he started his return trip to the hospital. Mercifully, he seemed to have picked a time when the Germans were busy shelling another part of the city.
He reached the hospital and ducked inside, quickly locating his friend. No one bothered to question why a soldier was carrying a helmet slopping over with beer.
When his buddy spotted him, his eyes got big. “Is that helmet full of beer?”
“You said you wanted a drink.”
“Boy, do I ever.”
Kneeling beside the man, he helped him take a few gulps. He’d soon had his fill. That was no problem, because other wounded nearby had seen what he carried in his helmet, and they all wanted a drink from it. The helmet was soon empty.
“We need more!” the men cried. “Get more!”
The paratrooper found himself with no choice but to head back to the ruined tavern and fill up his helmet once again.
Coming back, he wasn’t as lucky about the bombardment as he had been on his first trip. A couple of shells landed nearby, one so close that the blast knocked him off his feet. Still, he cradled the helmet as he went down, managing to keep most of the beer from spilling.
He was surprised to find himself being helped to his feet by a couple of soldiers.
“You all right, buddy?” one of the soldiers asked in a strong Brooklyn accent. “It’s just a suggestion, but a helmet works a whole lot better when you wear it on your head.”
The other soldier didn’t speak right away. He was lean as a whip but strong, easily helping to pull the stunned paratrooper upright. “Why, I do believe this boy has got beer right here in his helmet. Sure smells like it.”
The second soldier had a strong country accent, with the words right here sounding like rye cheer. The paratrooper was still swaying a little, so the soldier didn’t let go.
The paratrooper could see right away that they were snipers, because both carried rifles with telescopic sights and they wore bedsheets over their uniforms in an attempt at winter camouflage. Both looked like tough customers, and he worried that they would help themselves to his beer.
“Listen, it’s not for me,” the paratrooper blurted. “It’s for my buddies in the hospital.”