Gilbert Morris

I dedicate this book to
three of my family who mean a lot to me.

To Doug Freeman—who fought for us all in the Real War.
To Jimmy Jordan—a sweet guy and my friend
since we were rug rats.
To Gale Towne—my fellow pilgrim
on the way to the Celestial City.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

A freezing blast of air struck the scrawny ginger-colored squirrel just as he emerged from the hole in the top of the large spruce tree. The cold wind caused the little animal to close his eyes, but a fierce hunger drove him out of his warm lair into the frigid air. He scrambled out of the hole, clung to a limb that extended laterally, and for a moment searched the surrounding areas. Something had happened to his world, but he did not know what it was, and fear had kept him inside his nest for days. He did not understand the tremendous blasts that sometimes shook his tree, and now that he was out everything seemed changed. Many trees were down, others were stripped of their foliage, and the forest that had been his lifetime home was gone.

Hunger gnawing at his belly, he scrambled down the tree and began searching frantically for something to fill it. Finally he found an acorn, somewhat moldy, but still food. Grasping it firmly in his tiny paws, he hoisted himself into a sitting position, his tail twitching feverishly.

The squirrel had almost finished the acorn when suddenly that inner sense animals have set off an alarm. He
froze, aware that an enemy was near, swiveled his head about, and then for an instant stood as still as any stone statue. Not twenty feet away from him a creature was watching, and he was so frightened that he could not move. He sat there with his paws together, looking a little like a monk at prayer.

Sergeant William Raines had the tiny squirrel exactly in the sight of his M1. All he had to do was pull the trigger, and the creature would be blasted into bits. Willie hesitated, thinking of the first squirrel he'd ever killed. It had been on his tenth birthday at his grandfather's farm in Ohio. The two of them had gone out into the tall pine woods, and Willie had managed to kill three squirrels with his single-shot twenty-two. His grandfather had killed several with his ten-gauge shotgun, and the two of them had come back with their coarse feed sacks filled. As Willie held the bead on the squirrel that stared at him with bright, fear-filled eyes, he remembered how they had skinned the squirrels, dressed them, and then taken them in for his grandmother to cook.

From far away came the rapid stutter of machine-gun fire, but Willie was so accustomed to this he did not move his eyes from the prey in front of him. He was thinking of how delicious the squirrel stew was and how his grandfather had taught him that the best part of a squirrel was the brains mixed up with scrambled eggs.

The memory did something to Willie, and suddenly he laughed and lowered the M1. “Merry Christmas, Mister Squirrel.” He grinned as the squirrel raced frantically across the ground, flew up the tree, and popped back into his hole.
Willie brought the rifle back over the lip of the foxhole and sat down, leaning his helmet back against the edge. “You wouldn't have made a mouthful anyway. It would take ten like you to make a good stew.”

A German shell shrieked like a wild thing overhead, and Willie ducked his head and closed his eyes. He gripped the rifle until his fingers were white. Finally the explosion came, rocking the earth, but it was not in Willie's foxhole, so he expelled his breath and opened his eyes. Pulling his helmet off, he rubbed his reddish hair, then jammed the helmet back on.

The temperature had dropped far below freezing, making simple existence a struggle. The wind made a constant moan as it drove the tiny flakes of snow across the crust that covered the ground.

Willie desperately wanted to sleep but knew he must not. After seventy-two days of savage fighting in Holland in Operation Market Garden, he and his buddies in the 101st and 82nd Airborne had expected to be sent back to England for R and R.

Instead, they had been crowded into trucks and rushed to meet the might of the German Wehrmacht. Hitler had decided to hit the American army that was driving toward Berlin with everything the German army had left. General McAuliffe was given a simple order: “Hold Bastogne.” The Germans threw everything they had at the American force: tanks, Stuka dive-bombers, artillery, and waves of crack SS infantry.

The American forces had no winter clothing, little food, almost no medical supplies, and worst of all, little ammo to
face the onslaught. The Germans had surrounded Bastogne, and there was no relief in sight for the 101st and the 82nd.

As Willie Raines sat in his foxhole, his eyes shut against the bitter wind, he wished desperately that he were back home. He tried to think of where he would rather be: at a Cubs baseball game in the hot sun, eating a hot dog and drinking a big Coke. All of that seemed a million miles away, farther than the stars that winked faintly at night over the landscape.

A crunching sound brought Willie upright. Quickly he grasped his rifle, thrust it over the edge of the foxhole, and blinked against the icy particles that bit into his eyes. He kept his M1 off safety and raised it to his shoulder, following a vague movement coming out of the woods to his right. He saw two soldiers and watched as they took a detour around a huge fallen tree that had been uprooted by heavy artillery fire two days ago. Recognizing them, he expelled his breath and called out, “Hey, you two, what are you—”

But his words were cut off when a shell exploded twenty yards from where the two soldiers were located. Both men made a mad dash. Willie had no chance to do more than holler, “Hey?!” when Billy Bob Watkins and Charlie Delaughter landed on him. He was crushed to the bottom of the foxhole, lost his grip on his rifle, and one of the soldiers' feet caught him on the neck and the side of his head. If he hadn't had a helmet on, his head would have been crushed.

“Get off of me, you idiots!”

Billy Bob Watkins, a gangling eighteen-year-old from Bald Knob, Arkansas, rearranged himself, folding his lanky body into the foxhole. His face was lined with fatigue, and his
mouth was a straight line. Ordinarily he was a cheerful young man, but the incessant attacks of the German Wehrmacht had drained him as it had the rest of the 101st Airborne who had come to hold the line at Bastogne. Shoving his helmet back, he grinned tightly. “You got anything to eat, Sarge?”

“No!”

“Shucks! I'd shore know what to do with some collards and grits.” He slumped down and heaved a weary sigh. “I'm so tard you could scrape it off with a stick.”

“What have you got to be tired about? All you've done is fight off the whole German army.” Charlie Delaughter shoved Billy Bob away, making room for himself in the foxhole. His Boston accent contrasted violently with Billy Bob's southern drawl. Carefully he lifted his head over the edge of the foxhole, then drew it back quickly as a shot punctuated the cold air. A tiny branch cut by the passing bullet fluttered down landing on Charlie's head.

Billy Bob reached over and plucked the small branch from Delaughter's helmet. “Them Krauts is a mite touchy, ain't they, now?”

“I thought the fight was out of them, but it's not,” Charlie observed.

“Why, them Krauts is just mean, is what they are,” Billy Bob nodded sagely, “mean as a junkyard dog. They're born that way.”

Delaughter winked at Willie. “I thought you rebels could whip anybody. All you've done is brag about how we'd already be in Berlin if we were tough as the Confederate army.”

“Why, shoot, Charlie, if we had some
real
soldiers like them boys who fought under Marse Robert—and some
real
generals like Stonewall Jackson—we'd have nailed that ol' Hitler's hide to the smokehouse wall long 'fore now!”

Willie listened with half his mind to the argument between Billy Bob and Charlie over the Civil War. Each of them had family who'd fought in that earlier war (on opposite sides, of course!), but strangely enough the two had become fast friends. They were almost exactly the same age, but Delaughter, who was only three days older, drove Billy Bob to distraction by referring to himself as “the old man,” and to Billy Bob as “Junior.”

Charlie Delaughter asked suddenly, “What's the date, Sarge?”

“What difference does it make?” Willie demanded, staring at him. “You got an appointment at the dentist?”

“It's December the twenty-fifth, 1944,” Billy Bob grinned. He reached over and punched Willie on the arm hard. “Merry Christmas. What time do we eat the turkey, Sarge?”

“We won't be eatin' turkey,” Willie said, finding it hard to speak through his stiff lips. “What were you two walkin' around for like you was in a park?”

“Wanted to find out what the Krauts was a-doin',” Billy Bob complained. “I figured we had 'em on the run. That's whut the radio said. They're supposed to be whupped.”

Charlie Delaughter suddenly grinned. Billy Bob could never understand strategy. “I guess they don't read the papers,” he said. Charlie was the scholar of the 101st. He had been snatched out of a secure niche at Georgia Tech,
studying to be an engineer, and thrust into the war. He had chosen the Airborne as being more romantic than a slogging foot soldier. Now he was having second thoughts about that. He shook his head sadly. “This is probably the last big push the Germans are going to make, Junior, and they can't win it.”

“Why in the cat hair are they doin' it for, then?”

“Who knows? Hitler's got some kind of a wild notion, I think. Anyway, they're throwing everything they got against us. They won't win, but it makes it tough on us.”

“I wisht they'd go pester somebody else,” Billy Bob grumbled. He started to get up, but Willie reached out and dragged him back. “Keep your head down if you want to hang onto it.” He got to his feet and crawled out of the hole, dragging his rifle out after him.

“Where are you going, Sarge?” Billy Bob asked.

“Lieutenant Stone came by. Said for our squad to move out.”

“Move out where?”

“Over by that open field we held day before yesterday,”

“Well, dang!” Billy Bob exclaimed. “Why'd they tell us to leave there if we was goin' back?”

“Ours not to reason why, ours but to do or die.” Charlie Delaughter had a bad habit of quoting poetry that grated on Billy Bob's nerves. He grinned now and said, “That's in a poem I read at college.”

“I bet it was wrote by some dang-fool Yankee!”

“All poetry is written by Yankees, Junior. You rebels are too busy eating sowbelly and carrying on feuds.”

“Come on, you two,” Willie ordered. Heaving himself out of the foxhole and stumbling from tree to tree Willie made his way through what was left of the forest. He glanced back from time to time, making sure that Billy Bob and Charlie didn't get lost. He finally found Pete Maxwell standing behind a tree, eating a can of C rations.

“How can you eat that stuff, Pete?”

Pete was a slight young man from Los Angeles. His only interest had been surfing until he had been caught up in the machinery of war. He was the only soldier that Willie Raines had ever met who liked C rations. “I don't see how you do it, Pete.”

“Why, it's good. Here. How about havin' some with me?”

“No, thanks. Come on, we're changing the line.” He paused to listen to distant rifle fire, then asked, “Where are Rog and Chief?”

“Over there behind that ridge.”

Willie looked in the direction that Pete indicated and frowned. “They're out in the open? They should know better than that.”

“Well, it was Roger's idea,” Pete shrugged. “He said he was tired of hiding behind trees.” He grinned. “Chief told him that's why his ancestors whipped up on General Custer. Said if the fool had found some trees to hide behind he wouldn't have got all his men killed at Little Big Horn.”

“Chief's right about that,” Willie snapped. “Come on, let's find 'em.”

As Willie led the three men through the trees, he was worried. Only five men were left in his squad, and Willie
was determined not to lose another man. They had gone through training in the States together, had jumped behind German lines together on D-day, and had fought their way across Holland and France together. Willie had never had a brother, and these men were like brothers to him now. He'd never cared for poetry, but he liked the poem Charlie Delaughter had quoted once. Charlie said it was from one of Shakespeare's plays. He had explained that it was the speech that King Henry V gave to his small army before going into battle at a place called Crispin Crispan.

As they passed out of the forest into the open ground, Willie whispered the words of the poem that he knew, not speaking aloud, for he was somehow embarrassed about quoting poetry. He didn't know all the speech, but part of it seemed to have burned itself into his brain:

Somehow the words gave Willie Raines a fierce determination to bring the five surviving members of his squad safely through the war, no matter what it took!

Willie continued moving to his left. He heard the sound of someone singing and knew it had to be Roger Saunders. Saunders had a beautiful singing voice and seemed to know the words to all the latest songs from the States. This one
was a ditty called “Pistol Packin' Mama,” and the nonsense song sounded strange in the midst of the forest with death behind every tree—and overhead as well when the Stukas flew over.

Willie spotted the two soldiers standing in the open field as if they were in the middle of Central Park. He opened his mouth to call out to Roger when suddenly both soldiers whirled and threw their M1s to their shoulders. Willie was looking right down the barrels and managed to call out, “Don't shoot, you clowns—it's me!”

“Oh, is that you, Sarge?” Roger lowered the M1 and nodded. “I almost potted you that time.”

“What a disgrace that would be, gettin' shot by a songbird. Who do you think you are, that singer all the girls are goin' crazy over?”