Sometimes, being older had its perks. Tom had not felt tempted to party away their break, though he could well understand their revelry.
He’d observed that war was an unnatural intruder onto the linear path of boy to man. Most of these boys weren’t even old enough to vote or buy a beer. But here they were tasked with saving the whole damn world.
They should be seeing movies with girls on Friday nights. Stopping into hardware stores to pick up supplies for weekend projects. Enjoying their new driver’s licenses.
Tom thought their temporary debauchery was completely understandable given the opposing expectations of their age versus their circumstance. Their baby faces told one story. The weariness etched in their faces told another.
Every day, younger recruits joined them. Fresh out of boot camp. Wide-eyed and ready for the adventure of battle that would prove their manhood and worth. Tom and Malarky and Winters and Muck could warn them that they wouldn’t feel like men, let alone human beings, when they were hungry and exhausted, and they’d just seen the limbs of a fellow soldier shot off as his blood watered the desolate ground.
But they kept silent. The boys would find out soon enough.
The time for champagne was over.
Because winter had arrived.
Captain Winters was being called away from Easy Company for a regimental job.
And they were heading to Belgium.
* * *
“It’s Christmas Eve.”
“What even is Christmas? Birth of a savior? We need a savior now. In this icebox.”
Disagreements had replaced discourse.
The truck on the war-torn Belgian road hit a divot and they all lurched forward. They were blinded by the starless dark of the sky, clouds hovering from an earlier rainstorm. Mud kicked up, slipping under the canvas cover whose ropes had loosened, exposing them to the elements. Tom barely noticed. They were dirty enough to begin with.
Malarky hummed “Silent Night” under his breath, but the man next to him slapped his face and told him to shut up.
Tom watched—weary, cold, as the men unraveled. The temperature outside was far more frigid than any Virginia winter he’d ever known. It was mitigated briefly by their sardine-like tightness—which brought its own discomfort—but soon they would step out into the bitter winter winds.
He was worried. Would they even be able to fight if they were frozen? It was difficult enough to hoist a grenade launcher onto your shoulders in the best of circumstances.
When they arrived at their camp, they rolled out into foxholes, wiping snow from their eyes as they dug in. Tom’s gloves bore holes in the fingers, and he had to be careful to hold the metal barrel of his rifle with his palm, lest his skin freeze to it. They were fired upon almost immediately, two bombs hitting nearby, and the men had to take cover to avoid shrapnel. The smell of gunpowder permeated the air, its metallic tinge almost suffocating.
It was over almost as quickly as it had begun—friendly fire. Americans in P-47s who thought they were Germans. But the actual Germans advanced, and they were soon surrounded.
Death seemed certain as night arrived early and the cold almost made it welcome.
General McAulliffe sent what he likely hoped were encouraging words to the troops: “We are giving our country and our loved ones at home a worthy Christmas present, and being privileged to take part in this gallant feat of arms is truly making for ourselves a Merry Christmas.”
Tom felt numb. They didn’t need words. They needed reinforcements.
They lay still on Christmas morning, submerged in darkness, afraid to light much-needed fires because doing so would give away their positions. Tom roused himself from the stupor that had descended on all of them. He turned his thoughts to how, in a few hours, his mother would clip candles to the tree and light them. And Margaret. Whatever her traditions were, he hoped that she was joyful.
He clenched his hands and tightened his body and willed himself to get warmer by tensing up.
“Powell,” whispered Malarky as they dug into a foxhole. “You got anything in that canteen?”
Tom opened it up, unworried about the musty smell that emanated from it. He’d had a little water, but it was ice now. He held it upside down over his mouth, but nothing came out.
“We’ll have to drink snow.”
“I gotta drink something,” said Malarky. “My piss is yellower than a rapeseed field. What about yours?”
Tom hadn’t bothered to notice. When he’d gone into the woods, he could barely open his eyes since his lashes were stuck together. Let alone look at the color below.
He shrugged and formed a snowball with a small clean patch of snow that had fallen into their hold.
“Man, don’t you throw that at me. We’ve got enough with the bullets flying over our head.”
“I’m not going to throw it. Here.” Tom handed it to him and then made another for himself. “Take some bites of this. Warm it in your mouth before swallowing so your esophagus doesn’t freeze.”
“Where did you pick that trick up?”
“Just something I learned taking care of farm animals.”
“Thanks, man,” Malarky said as he took a bite. “This helps.”
They jumped at gunfire in the distance. Discordant, like some jazz music he’d heard. The bullets made a high-pitched sound as they breezed by that might have been music in a different circumstance.
He tried to wiggle his fingers as a piano player might, but they were stiff and black and had no feeling. He stretched his legs, but they, too, felt as if they might crack with movement.
He heard the rumble of tanks in the distance. Someone was coming and they had to find safety.
He and Malarky grabbed some branches and covered themselves, leaving just enough space to point their rifles out when the enemy came closer.
The roar became louder and louder as it neared. Engines grinding. Brittle tree branches snapping as the treads rolled over them.
Then—an American flag. Tom wanted to yelp with relief, but his paralyzed lungs could hardly muster breath, and what little he had crystalized as soon as it hit the air. The capillaries in his face warmed with anticipation, and he thought he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.
Forty-eight stars. Home.
The 37th Tank Battalion had broken through the German lines and were there to relieve them.
Soldiers hopped out of the tanks carrying sacks of food, clothes, cigarettes, and ammunition. Newspapers too.
Never again would there be a better Christmas present than this!
There were no mail sacks, but Tom was too starved of the basics to give that much thought. Besides, he’d had no opportunity to write the letter to Margaret that he knew he needed to write.
So it was just as well that he hadn’t received anything to respond to.
He did, however, grab a few pages of air mail paper and jot notes on everything he wanted to tell her. He didn’t trust that in this exhausted state, he would remember.
Dearest Margaret, he started.
The headlines are ringing with Allied victories across the continent. I’m sure you’re hearing about them too. Metz and Strasbourg were liberated by French troops and Albania was freed by local partisans. Americans have driven Himmler to dismantle the gas chambers at Auschwitz and Hitler has retreated to Berlin.
We soldiers are warmed by victory in our reach even as our extremities are frozen solid.