I'll try to finish the story. I have a lot to do so no promises though
.
In the meantime, here's one for the GIs. Something I did for our English Project last year.
May Your Days Be Merry and Bright
Private Grimes was cold, terribly cold. Private Grimes was hungry, terribly hungry. And, now, as he thought of it, he was scared, too. He was scared of what lay in front of him, through the foggy December air. He was scared of what he would meet face to face if the chaos of battle were to come to his miserable little foxhole. He was scared of what would happen to him should he get caught in the middle of the maelstrom of fire. But still, he kept his lonely vigil, shivering as he laid waiting, as if for eternity.
A song began to fill his head. It went, “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas, just like the once I used to know, where the treetops glisten and children listen to hear the sleigh bells in the snow.”
He tried to get that song which Bob Hope used to sing on the radio out of his head. It only made him more miserable. Yes, he was experiencing a white winter, but here was not like back home. Back home it was heaven, or at worst, just plain old earth. Here, it was hell. And it also pained his heart as it made him think of home, his loved ones, their cozy little house, his friends and all the other memories he had, especially of Christmas back in New Jersey.
Bleakly, he looked at the snow-capped trees in front of him. Nothing was worse than this. Not enough sleep. Not enough food. And just out there was a hungry wolf waiting to strike at him and his comrades, or better yet, whole battalions of wolves. Wolves, with enough firepower to blow them all up to kingdom come. Wolves with tanks. Wolves with artillery. Wounded wolves, with a vengeance unlike any. Wolves ready to die for the leader of the pack, that Austrian paperhanger they call “Der Fuhrer”.
He rummaged through his pack and found what he was looking for, his K-Rations. He opened the packaging and pulled out the can that contained the main course. He grudgingly opened it and found ham and cheese. Dinner was served.
He ate the canned food slowly. It was cold, as usual. And whether hot or cold, his meal was awful. It always was. He sadly longed for the food back home, or even back at their camp. He finished the meal, not anymore hungry, but still longing for food.
He took out the biscuits from the packaging and too found them cold. They were hard as wood and tasted awful. Everything on the menu always was. He finished them slowly, partly because he wanted to feel fuller, but more because they tasted bad. At last he could no longer bear to eat them and stuffed them back in his pack.
There was something more in the ration package. He got the lemonade packet and mixed the powder with snow he collected in his canteen cup. His acidic dessert made him think of the dessert they were probably eating back home. Perhaps it was a pie, or cake, or ice cream, but whatever it was, he was sure it was better than the one he was eating.
He finished half the cup and emptied the rest of the contents on the snow in front of his lonely hole. Thus, his Christmas dinner was consummated.
He turned his attention to the trees in front of him. He quickly searched for any sign of Krauts who might have infiltrated but found none. He did not want to get caught unawares, not especially on Christmas day. If the Germans had broken through when he was eating, it would have been his fault had the battalion been endangered, for it was his job to keep watch for any enemies. Surely he did not want that.
The fog was lifting a bit. He fumbled for his binoculars, which he had clumsily left at the bottom of his position. He put the ocular device to his eyes and scanned his area. A slow and thorough search yielded nothing. He put the field glasses back down.
Something was bothering him. Something did not feel right. He scanned the area with his binoculars. Again, his search yielded nothing. His eyes and mind were probably joining forces to play tricks on him.
Yet, he still did not feel calm. The silence was deafening and he knew, somehow, it meant something. Like, perhaps, the proverbial calm before the storm.
He proceeded to arm himself. He got his rifle and made sure its bolt was working. It was. Actually, he always made sure that his Garand was fine, and if it wasn’t, he was forced to urinate on it. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the very act of urinating was sometimes painful itself. It felt as if though he was urinating needles.
He reached for the bandolier on his chest and got out a clip. He loaded the 8 rounds in the rifle and waited, expectant and terrified at the same time.
The chaos of battle came to him in a way he never pictured. A single bullet struck him in the stomach and he fell down to the bottom of his sad and filthy position. As he laid there in pain and disbelief, a man in winter camouflage and steel helmet got on top of him and pulled out a knife.
Grimes was absolutely sure it was his end and closed his eyes, waiting for the coup de grâce. It never came. A shot rang out and the enemy fell in top of him, dead with a bullet hole in the left temple. His blood spilled throughout the whole position, including Grimes himself.
His eyes fixed onto the direction of the shot and then he saw his buddy and squad member Private First Class Kryzanowski. He held a smoking rifle in his hands and had a worried expression on his face.
“I was coming here to relieve you, Grimesy, and I heard a shot. I rushed here and saw that bastard trying to do you in. Good thing my rifle was loaded,” he explained.
“I owe you, James,” was Grimes’ reply. He normally would have said more had he been in a good condition but he was bleeding from his stomach wound and feeling weak.
Their conversation was cut short by sudden bursts of fire and voices screaming in a foreign language. Bullets hit the snow all around their position and Kryzanowski was forced to dive into the foxhole. To make room, he pushed the big dead German out of the hole, getting blood all over his jacket in the process.
Kryzanowski soon began firing back at the Germans, and Grimes, amidst much pain, followed suit. He was stopped by Kyrzanowski and reminded him to first contact the company headquarters to inform them of the situation and to ready themselves for the enemy assault.
Grimes picked up the radio and began talking. “Fox, this is Fox Six,” he radioed. “We are under fire, do you copy?” He waited for the reply.
“This is Fox, we read you. We’re sending some help. Hang on. Fox out,” was the answer from company headquarters.
Grimes dropped the radio and resumed firing at the trees in front of him. He couldn’t see the enemy and he could only hope that they couldn’t see him either. He just fired at where he thought the gunfire came from.
His head was throbbing. His heart was pumping fast. He forgot the cold and the misery. He forgot the odds stacked against him and his buddy in the foxhole. He forgot the pain in his stomach. All he thought of at the moment was his survival; his ability to hang on and defend the position until help could arrive.
He knew he was running out of bullets fast. The two cloth bandoliers which before had felt heavy were now lighter. And yet, he kept on firing, aware that his furious enfilade might just save his life and that of Kryzanowski.
The help came eventually. From the back of their position, small-arms fire rang out. The firing in front of them soon stopped and so did the fire from the back. Thus, the chaos of battle retreated as sudden as it appeared.
Grimes felt weak again, and he slumped to the bottom of the foxhole once more. He felt the pain of his stomach wound intensify and as he gazed around he saw the blank stare of his friend and savior. He had not survived.
Grimes’ pain intensified even more. He was now quite delirious and he saw the lovely Christmas dinner his mother always prepared. He saw the family gathered around the table, exchanging stories, exchanging jokes, joyful and festive. He saw their house basked in the warm glow of the fire in the fireplace, and their cat curled up near it. He saw all of the happy faces inviting him to dinner.
A sharp tug on his arm and a voice brought him back to reality. He saw the face of Medic Van Fleet of his company and the other members of his squad who had braved the fire to rescue him and his position.
Van Fleet attended to his wounds and used his radio to call in an aid jeep. The ever-dependable medic reassured him that everything would be okay. And yet Grimes knew that it was not so in his case.
Private Grimes was cold. Terribly cold. Private Grimes was hungry. Terribly hungry. But now, as he thought of it, he felt peace. His misery and suffering were about to end. He was triumphant. As he heard the rumbling of the aid jeep, he closed his eyes and suddenly remembered the song that Bob Hope used to sing. He let it fill his head as it wished him a very merry Christmas.
“I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know, where the treetops glisten, and children listen, to hear the sleigh bells in the snow. I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, with every Christmas card I write, ‘May your days be merry and bright, and may all your Christmases be white.’”
