It’s different in Europe. Not just the food and drinks, it’s the people. They have been under the stress of war for so long they hurry around like scared chickens. Remember that hen we had who would never come out of the coop, even when it was time to eat? A lot of people here are like that.
But they are also friendly, and treat us with respect. They call our names, call us liberators. I’ve tried to tell those I’ve talked with that I haven’t done anything, but they just smile and touch me. They shake my hands and they act like I’m kind of star.
Some of the people threw us some fruit. I don’t think they were throwing the fruit at us, but throwing it for us. I sure was appreciative.
How is Louise? I’m going to write her next, but if anything happens to the mail please tell her that she is in my thoughts every day. Tell her I miss her and I love her. I wish she knew just how much I miss her. I haven’t been gone more than three months but sometimes it seems like three years.
Tell father that I’m thinking of him as well. He was always a hard man, but he looked at me differently when I came home in my new Army uniform. I hope he’s proud of me.
I love you both and I’ll write again as soon as I have a chance.
PRIVATE GRILLO PERCHED next to a tree and finished scratching out his letter home with a stub of a pencil, on paper that was already worn.
Around him the world was relatively quiet in that there were no gunshots, no falling mortars, and no diving for foxholes as 88mm shells screamed in and shattered foliage, pounded earth, and killed or wounded his fellow soldiers in Able Company.
Two days in the cold and he was already cursing his decision to join the Army. He was also cursing whoever had fouled up his orders and sent him to this company as an infantryman instead of his specialization in demolitions.
Bare tree branches hung overhead, covered in snow and ice. Wood popped as a little bit of heat seeped into what had been a miserably cold night. Many of the trees were cut off about twenty feet off the ground, the splintered ends blackened thanks to tree burst mortars.
He hadn’t needed to be be warned to find a foxhole as soon as shelling started. That was part of basic, and after being with the 101st for a few days, he’d grown used to spending a lot of time prone, on the ground with his ass in the air. Standing around in shock as a rounds fell around you was a good way to get peppered with shrapnel.
Not that taking cover was any guarantee of safety. The first day, he and the other fresh recruit, Billings, had arrived to assist Baker Company. They’d come across a former hole where several soldiers had been caught as they’d huddled together. There was no way to tell if the red-colored snow was from flesh or scraps of clothing. The splatter of blood around the mortar blast told the whole story.
Grillo had slept in a shallow hole next to Private Fahey, a man who managed to snore like a freight train. He’d spent most of the night huddled next to his new friend, and shivered under a thin blanket.
When the 101st had been called in to support the 28th infantry from the German counter-offensive near the Belgium city of Bastogne, they’d been unprepared for the weather in more than one way. They were short on supplies, dressing for wounds, food, and of worst of all, ammo.
He’d been sitting in a barracks for weeks after his, waiting for orders. When they’d arrived, he and several other men had been hustled through processing, issued weapons, and put on a truck heading toward Germany. The day they’d departed had been bitterly cold, but somehow rain had fallen instead of snow.
The truck was fine for now. While he’d signed on to jump out of perfectly good airplanes, the reality was that it scared him to death. He’d never been good with heights, and there was something about falling that didn’t agree with his gut or constitution.
Too late to lament it now. He was here in Europe, on the border of Germany, and instead of marching in with guns blazing he was cowering with a few men, waiting for a German counter-assault.
His and Billings’ uniforms were newer than anyone else’s in the platoon, but that didn’t make them any warmer. His jacket felt threadbare, and his boots felt like they were frozen to his feet. The company’s doc had advised him to loosen the laces every hour and walk around, so he didn’t get a case of trench foot.
Grillo had spent a week in Great Lakes a few years ago while visiting his Uncle Steve, but that hadn’t prepared him for this biting chill. The wind had roared off the water and hit fifteen below one morning. Still, they’d gone out ice fishing, hadn’t caught a damn thing, and spent the rest of the weekend sitting around a fire playing cards and drinking beer.
The Ardennes was a different kind of cold. Everywhere he looked was snow. Tufts of plants poked up from the white here and there, but so did tree roots and chunks of earth. Under the light snow was ice that had to be broken through to reach the earth beneath so you could dig a hole to cower in.
He thought of his friend Eddie Elgin and wondered how the man was faring. He looked like a matinee idol, but those looks wouldn’t help him in the war. He’d be just another young soldier looking to put a bullet into an enemy.
Grillo would never say it out loud, but he missed the training base. He missed having a warm bed, even if he was tossed out of it at all hours of the morning for maneuvers, or just to do some PT.
Paths had been worn into the snow-covered ground the night before, but they were covered now by a fresh dusting of white. There was a fresh winter smell in the air thanks to the cold, but it was undercut by hints of exploded shells.
Fahey let out an epic fart, then rolled over and tugged the blanket up around his neck.
“Gonna give away our position with that kind of gas,” Grillo said. They were the first words he’d spoken since last night.
“It’s the Krations,” Fahey said. “Fill ya up, sure, but then you gotta deal with the other issues, like how that lousy food sits in your guts. I never missed home so much, even when we were rolling up on the beach at Normandy. Wait, I take that back. I missed home a lot that day.”
He was from Boston, and had the heavy accent to go with it. Fahey liked to talk about his father’s ‘cah’—a six-year-old Chrysler that burned through oil at an enormous rate—and how he wished he was at a ‘bah’ while a girl in a little red dress—whose name changed on a regular basis—talked to him about going back to her place.
“Krations aren’t so bad,” Grillo said, trying to convince himself it was true. “I like pork. I don’t like it every day, but I like it. Chocolate’s the best.”
“If we ever get on top of the enemy, Sergeant Pierce over there,” he said, gesturing toward one of the many holes in the ground, “knows how to mix up a couple of cans of meat over a cooking fire and make it taste a like a four-course meal. At least we got warm guts last night. Thought I was going to starve in the damn forest.”
Grillo nodded.
Fahey dug out a four pack of Chesterfields and shook one loose. He lit it with a match and sucked in smoke, but kept the glowing end cupped in his hand so he didn’t give away their position.
Grillo shivered, and thought about moving around. He’d been sitting here for over an hour, and the chill had sunk in. His clothes felt damp thanks to the cold, and he was pretty sure his jacket was frozen to the tree.
He held his M1 Garand to his chest like it was his best friend. It was loaded with a full-eight round clip and he had a few extra in his pouch. Not enough if they came under heavy fire, but the rest of the squad’s ammo was spread thin. Him being the new guy, they’d stripped most of his rounds when he’d arrived and passed them out among the other men.
Along with some ribbing, the guys had generally let him settle in. There were the usual shenanigans as they regulars broke him in, like asking him to walk the perimeter until he found his gig line. After the joking died down, him laughing it up with three others including Sergeant Pierce, they’d left him alone, because a mortar had exploded nearby.