The K-Rations

Silent Night...

         'Silent Night' filters into the forest.

         Its faint sounds drifting over the huddled figures in their foxholes as they wait. All around them, winter is evident in its startling beauty, the naked trees barely able to stand as branches snap from the pressure of the ice chunks that form. Snow is the perfect camouflage, and yet they would have welcomed the presence of anything warm at this moment. They stamp their feet and rub their hands together, conserving what precious body warmth they can get from their companion.

         A week ago, Corporal Donald had suffered a severe case of frostbite and was taken to nearby Hünningen to get treatment. For the others, they manage through changing socks as often as possible and keeping dry.

         The now 17-man platoon of the 99th Intelligence & Reconnaissance has been at this post for the past month; their initial mission of gathering intelligence on the German's next major attack to the Americans' line of defense, now becoming a last minute decision by command to hold off the incoming (and unforeseen) avalanche of Krauts. It's almost a ridiculous situation, one that has the young leader of the platoon, concerned for the meager weaponry in their arsenal and their ability to hold back so many Germans.

         His desperate attempts to get back up from the artillery battalion has been met with mixtures of disbelief and the command's inability to understand how German paratroopers could have organized themselves so quickly without the Allied's intelligence knowing. The nearest battalion is several miles away, but before they can arrive, the I&R platoon are on their own.

         Lieutenant Bailey, who will be twenty-one tomorrow, peers through his binoculars at a sight that sends his heartbeat racing a little faster. His worst fears are confirmed and he stiffens as Sergeant Williams comes crawling towards his foxhole as fast as he can.

         "How does it look?" Bailey asks.

         "Not good," comes the breathless reply. "Me and Sherborn saw about a hundred or so of them coming from the left flank." He pulls out a hastily drawn map and holds it out in the fading light, both men peering at it as Williams points. "There. There, there and there. They're surrounding us, sir."

         "We can hold them back with what we've got," Bailey says with an inward grimace. He ignores the incredulous look on Williams' face. "We've got the .50cal and our M-1s and hand grenades should be enough until the artillery battalion shows up. Tell the others to get ready. We don't fire until I say the word."

         "Ye...yes, sir." Williams looks like he's about to say something else, but seeing the determined look on the younger man's face has him biting back whatever comment he would have made. He has to admire the kid's guts. It has taken him almost three months to reluctantly approve of the natural soldier in Lieutenant Bailey, and the more time he spends with the kid, the more he's come to appreciate his leadership.

         The silence, broken only by the surreal sound of Christmas songs from the village, is so ironic; Private Gilbert - a German-American, whose parents had defected in 1938 to flee the oppression faced from the Third Reich - can only shake his head in wonder. He's scared out of his wits, but knows that this is what he has spent all those months training for. He's glad for his companion, a tough former linebacker for his high school team, Private J. Stewart. The older man's a natural with the gun and if last week's shot at the passing deer had been any indication, Gilbert figures he's in good company.

         "Merry fucking Christmas," Private First Class Maloney grumbles from his foxhole. He's pissed, but holds his water. Sure, he listened to the Lieutenant's instructions for them to stay put and guard this godforsaken hellhole, but he sure as hell doesn't appreciate the sudden turn of events. His job is to detonate land mines and spy on folks, not to engage in actual combat. He sniffles and curses again, his M-1 now moist within his hands. "It's goddamn two degrees below zero, and I'm sweating like a hog."

         "We all are," PFC Kowalski replies with a weak smile. He's a quiet, unassuming man who would rather spend his time buried in books, than be in the army. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and peers through the narrow slit in the dugout. It's the calm before the storm, except that the calm is gradually becoming louder each passing second with the sound of seemingly a million footsteps marching towards them.

         Suddenly -

         "Holy Shit!"

         They're unprepared for the barrage of mortar shells that begin to rain on them. They dive into their foxholes, hands over their heads and ears as the thunderous sound cocoons them continuously. The darkened sky lights up with the flare, an almost beautiful spectacle if watching from a distance and not in the line of fire. The trees fall around them with each blow, shrapnel and hot metal scalding the cold earth. Their phone lines are severed, radio communication no longer existent. They are now completely isolated and only have Providence on their side.

         After ninety-minutes, the shelling finally stops and with fear now their companions, the platoon slowly raise their heads, all accounted for much to Lieutenant Bailey's relief. However, he knows it's not over yet. He's now sure that the Germans do not know their hideout, so they should be able to hold them off with no problems.

         "Kowalski, Maloney," he calls. "I'm gonna need you two to head off to 1st Battalion headquarters for reinforcements. Tell them we need it now!"

         With instructions on how to get there with least resistance, the privates head off; Maloney with his M-1 and Kowalski with a Browning automatic rifle, which is quite cumbersome to say the least. Deciding to go through the North side, they arrive at a steep incline with a railroad to cross, but unfortunately, approaching (and at a leisurely pace) are German troops dressed in white camouflaged ski suits. Without warning, they open fire, forcing the two Americans to dive into a nearby pine thicket for cover. Maloney fires back with his M-1, felling several soldiers, while Kowalski lets rip with his BAR, hitting at least one German. In retaliation, there's a barrage of light machine gun fire and the crackle of a Schmeisser machine pistol.

         "Ah, fuck!" Kowalski screams in pain as he's shot in the calf. The white snow is quickly blood red, while Maloney does his best to hold back the German troops with his M-1. However, a searing pain in his right shoulder tells him that he too has been shot, but he does not drop his gun until he runs out of ammo. Knowing that the Germans would be quick to seize their medications, Kowalski swallows all eight tablets of sulfa issued to GIs to control any infection to a wound. To substitute water, he swallows handfuls of snow, just as the Germans scream for them to surrender. Resisting now would be futile, as both he and Maloney raise their hands and allow themselves to be taken away.

         Back on the hillside, the fighting has begun in earnest. Bailey and the rest of the platoon are doing all they can to stop the seemingly endless and relentless German troops. Like automatons they just keep coming, hardly backing away even as their comrades fall to the ground before them. The expanse of snow-covered countryside is now littered with bodies, and Bailey is hopelessly aware that their ammunition is running low. His feeling of overwhelming helplessness is tenfold as Sergeant Williams gives a small cry and pulls away from the .50cal. The large machine gun has burned his hand, since it's become so hot, and is now bent at an awkward angle as it triggers off on its own before falling silent.

         "Gilbert's been shot!" Private Stewart yells, just before he nearly blacks out at the loud explosion that shears the right side of his face. He rolls around the ground in agony, barely feeling his commander running to his side to apply a quick first aid. Sergeant Williams takes care of Gilbert, wincing at the horrific sight before him. Gilbert has taken five or six shots to the face, his jaw nearly shattered with teeth stuck to the roof of his mouth. It's a miracle he's still alive.

         "Am I dying? Am I dying, sir?" he asks in a trembling voice that nearly breaks the older man's heart.

         "What are you talking about? You're doing just fine, kid," Williams says, pouring as much sulfur powder in the wound. There is no morphine available so he can only imagine -

         "Ah fuck!" Bailey suddenly cries out and falls to the ground, sending a flood of panic in Williams's heart. "I'm okay," the Lieutenant manages to gasp as he stumbles to his feet again to attend to his fallen comrade. "Just shot in the leg."

         They can hear the Germans approaching with orders for them to surrender. Williams grits his teeth, trying hard to fight down the rage that boils within him. They have exhausted all options. They are out of ammo and the men they sent for reinforcements might even be dead for all he knows. Little does he or his platoon know that their gallant effort and bravery has slowed down the German advancement considerably.

         As for Bailey, it's all he can do not to scream in frustration and disappointment. Although he knows it would have been impossible for them to defeat so many Germans, he still feels he has let his platoon down. He has come to know all eighteen men in the past three months, and almost considers them brothers. Had his six years in the army all been for naught? Had he any other option in rescuing his men from this inevitable ending?

         Fuck it all. Fuck 'em all to hell!

         "Wer ist der Commandant?" a German soldier screams as he points the muzzle of the gun against Bailey's temple.

         Bailey and Williams share a look - an understanding flowing between the two men without words ever being spoken. They are in this together until the bitter end - wherever it may take them, and raising his hand slowly, First Lieutenant Drew Bailey finally answers firmly and with conviction.

         "I am."