Confident and powerful, they strike at our lines
But we beat them back, fighting for time.
Berserk with fury, they're hitting us now,
Flesh against steel-we'll hold-but how?
For each day we stay, more mothers must grieve.
For each hill that we hold, more men must we leave.
Yes, honor the men who will someday come home,
But pray for the men 'neath the hills of Bastogne.
-Bernard J. McKearny
It was Christmas Eve.
When most families back in the states would be sitting down to a wonderful dinner of roast goose, they were here, feeling the butts of their rifles pound against their shoulders and wishing for home as the ground shook around them. They were blindly firing out into the snow-dulled night, occasionally hearing a scream and knowing their round had hit home. Those who had exhausted their rifles stood up with a haunted look in their eyes, pulled the pin on a grenade, and ran out past the enemy line.
War was hell.
Lieutenant Adam Foster knelt on the cold, hard winter ground, head in his hands. He heard a grenade go off somewhere out in the night, a dull thump in the dirt that shook the empty cases on the ground beside him. A soldier fired a rifle right next to him, and the cracking report seemed to bring him out of his torpor. He picked up the weapon leaning against the trench wall nearby, flipped over onto his stomach and began to fire at the faint shapes that scuttled over the blanket of night in the distance. He saw a few of them drop, but most of the shots he fired were blind ones. He pulled the trigger until he saw red and his shoulder went numb, then began to hear clicks in the empty firing chamber. He unhooked a grenade from his belt and flung it over the trench, seeing snow, dirt and rocks go up in a shower of fire.
He realized something then, with a sickening feeling in his stomach. Aside from his knife, he was weaponless.
He seemed to be watching his body from without. He felt himself stand, and with a rigid stride, begin to run across the snow toward the German line. He shut his eyes and pounded onward, swinging the knife in front of him like a grand blade from the archaic times. He could feel none of this, for he was numb with cold, and yet he knew what he was doing. He watched himself run up to the German trench, begin to lay into the troops there, and then drop. A fiery pain lanced through his shoulder and yanked him back to the present. He dropped to his knees, then fell facedown in the cold snow. He blacked out.
"Wake up, Lieutenant."
Adam Foster awoke, his eyes fluttering, to whiteness so bright that his head began to pound. He allowed his eyes a bit of time to adjust to the light, then looked around. Everywhere he looked was white. Looking upward, he saw the expressionless face of a drill sergeant in green army fatigues. A helmet covered his head, with the letters HF stamped on the front. He offered a hand to help Foster to his feet. With nothing short of wonderment, the lieutenant realized that his shoulder no longer pained him, although his head buzzed with questions. Seeing the expression on his face, the drill sergeant said simply, "Ask away."
"Where am I?"
Why, you're in heaven, boyo!"
"Heaven?"
The sergeant waved his hand vaguely. "Err...the great beyond, the Hereafter, the Elysian Fields, yada yada yada. You get the idea."
Foster seemed puzzled, then a revelation befell him. "Th- then....you're..."
He dropped to his knees, hands clasped.
"Get up, get up," said the strange drill sergeant, "I hate it when people do that. So I'm the Almighty, so what? Leave it at that, you don't have to base your lives on me. In any event, you're right," he pointed to the letters on his helmet, "I'm the Heavenly Father."
The lieutenant stood there in wonder, mouth agape. The drill sergeant clapped a hand on Foster's bottom jaw, causing his teeth to click together. "Close your mouth, kid, you'll attract flies. Speak up! Any more questions?"
"Do we win?" said Foster.
"Win what?"
"The war."
The sergeant slapped his knee. "Oh, sure. You guys take Berlin, Hitler takes cyanide, everyone else takes a well-earned break. People will still be calling it World War Two, by the way."
"And the battle?"
"Yep. The Germans retreat after someone gets hold of a bazooka and starts blowing up all their tanks. You guys secure some obscure town, down a few Stukas, and clear out just in time for Christmas."
"One more question," said Foster. How do I die?"
"Poison ivy," said the sergeant cryptically.
Foster took this all in, stood in silence for a moment. "Huh..." he mused, "Poison ivy, eh?"
"You'll be relieving yourself in the woods in about forty years. Nasty infection. Things just add up from there."
An awkward silence pervaded. They stood in pensive silence, regarding each other, the mortal and the immortal. The soundlessness was deafening.
"So...err...you ready to go back, then?"
"Back? Already"
The sergeant shook his head apologetically. "Yeah, nothing I can do about it. You're about to come around any second now."
"Right then."
"See you in the eighties, boyo."
Foster awoke. He lay on a cot in a pungent, cold room. Trying to sit up, he noted with dismay that his shoulder prohibited him from doing so. A quick glance about told him that he was in a hospital somewhere. The room was filled with wounded men. Most of them seemed very peaceful, with only the occasional groan to break the almost pious silence. A doctor walked down the line of cots, making notations on a clipboard. Once, doing nothing to heighten the lieutenant's plummeting spirits, he crossed himself.
The doctor stopped at his cot. Smiling, he regarded Foster for a moment before speaking. "Ah, Lieutenant Foster," he said in a honey-sweet voice, "I see you're awake. You're still in Ardennes, by the way. They didn't send you home," the doctor looked apologetic, "how's the shoulder feeling?"
"Shut up."
The smile did not waver. "That bad, eh? Give it a week or two. It'll feel fine. You will have a scar, though. A battle wound!" said the smiling doctor, his eyes twinkling.
"Shut up."
"All right, then. I must be going. Feel better, lieutenant!" the doctor was about to punch Foster in the shoulder customarily, than seemed to remember why he was here. He began to walk away.
"Doc, wait up."
The doctor turned. "Yes?"
"How long have I been out?"
"Four days. Did you see anything in your dreams?"
"Yeah," said Foster, "I saw God."
But we beat them back, fighting for time.
Berserk with fury, they're hitting us now,
Flesh against steel-we'll hold-but how?
For each day we stay, more mothers must grieve.
For each hill that we hold, more men must we leave.
Yes, honor the men who will someday come home,
But pray for the men 'neath the hills of Bastogne.
-Bernard J. McKearny
It was Christmas Eve.
When most families back in the states would be sitting down to a wonderful dinner of roast goose, they were here, feeling the butts of their rifles pound against their shoulders and wishing for home as the ground shook around them. They were blindly firing out into the snow-dulled night, occasionally hearing a scream and knowing their round had hit home. Those who had exhausted their rifles stood up with a haunted look in their eyes, pulled the pin on a grenade, and ran out past the enemy line.
War was hell.
Lieutenant Adam Foster knelt on the cold, hard winter ground, head in his hands. He heard a grenade go off somewhere out in the night, a dull thump in the dirt that shook the empty cases on the ground beside him. A soldier fired a rifle right next to him, and the cracking report seemed to bring him out of his torpor. He picked up the weapon leaning against the trench wall nearby, flipped over onto his stomach and began to fire at the faint shapes that scuttled over the blanket of night in the distance. He saw a few of them drop, but most of the shots he fired were blind ones. He pulled the trigger until he saw red and his shoulder went numb, then began to hear clicks in the empty firing chamber. He unhooked a grenade from his belt and flung it over the trench, seeing snow, dirt and rocks go up in a shower of fire.
He realized something then, with a sickening feeling in his stomach. Aside from his knife, he was weaponless.
He seemed to be watching his body from without. He felt himself stand, and with a rigid stride, begin to run across the snow toward the German line. He shut his eyes and pounded onward, swinging the knife in front of him like a grand blade from the archaic times. He could feel none of this, for he was numb with cold, and yet he knew what he was doing. He watched himself run up to the German trench, begin to lay into the troops there, and then drop. A fiery pain lanced through his shoulder and yanked him back to the present. He dropped to his knees, then fell facedown in the cold snow. He blacked out.
"Wake up, Lieutenant."
Adam Foster awoke, his eyes fluttering, to whiteness so bright that his head began to pound. He allowed his eyes a bit of time to adjust to the light, then looked around. Everywhere he looked was white. Looking upward, he saw the expressionless face of a drill sergeant in green army fatigues. A helmet covered his head, with the letters HF stamped on the front. He offered a hand to help Foster to his feet. With nothing short of wonderment, the lieutenant realized that his shoulder no longer pained him, although his head buzzed with questions. Seeing the expression on his face, the drill sergeant said simply, "Ask away."
"Where am I?"
Why, you're in heaven, boyo!"
"Heaven?"
The sergeant waved his hand vaguely. "Err...the great beyond, the Hereafter, the Elysian Fields, yada yada yada. You get the idea."
Foster seemed puzzled, then a revelation befell him. "Th- then....you're..."
He dropped to his knees, hands clasped.
"Get up, get up," said the strange drill sergeant, "I hate it when people do that. So I'm the Almighty, so what? Leave it at that, you don't have to base your lives on me. In any event, you're right," he pointed to the letters on his helmet, "I'm the Heavenly Father."
The lieutenant stood there in wonder, mouth agape. The drill sergeant clapped a hand on Foster's bottom jaw, causing his teeth to click together. "Close your mouth, kid, you'll attract flies. Speak up! Any more questions?"
"Do we win?" said Foster.
"Win what?"
"The war."
The sergeant slapped his knee. "Oh, sure. You guys take Berlin, Hitler takes cyanide, everyone else takes a well-earned break. People will still be calling it World War Two, by the way."
"And the battle?"
"Yep. The Germans retreat after someone gets hold of a bazooka and starts blowing up all their tanks. You guys secure some obscure town, down a few Stukas, and clear out just in time for Christmas."
"One more question," said Foster. How do I die?"
"Poison ivy," said the sergeant cryptically.
Foster took this all in, stood in silence for a moment. "Huh..." he mused, "Poison ivy, eh?"
"You'll be relieving yourself in the woods in about forty years. Nasty infection. Things just add up from there."
An awkward silence pervaded. They stood in pensive silence, regarding each other, the mortal and the immortal. The soundlessness was deafening.
"So...err...you ready to go back, then?"
"Back? Already"
The sergeant shook his head apologetically. "Yeah, nothing I can do about it. You're about to come around any second now."
"Right then."
"See you in the eighties, boyo."
Foster awoke. He lay on a cot in a pungent, cold room. Trying to sit up, he noted with dismay that his shoulder prohibited him from doing so. A quick glance about told him that he was in a hospital somewhere. The room was filled with wounded men. Most of them seemed very peaceful, with only the occasional groan to break the almost pious silence. A doctor walked down the line of cots, making notations on a clipboard. Once, doing nothing to heighten the lieutenant's plummeting spirits, he crossed himself.
The doctor stopped at his cot. Smiling, he regarded Foster for a moment before speaking. "Ah, Lieutenant Foster," he said in a honey-sweet voice, "I see you're awake. You're still in Ardennes, by the way. They didn't send you home," the doctor looked apologetic, "how's the shoulder feeling?"
"Shut up."
The smile did not waver. "That bad, eh? Give it a week or two. It'll feel fine. You will have a scar, though. A battle wound!" said the smiling doctor, his eyes twinkling.
"Shut up."
"All right, then. I must be going. Feel better, lieutenant!" the doctor was about to punch Foster in the shoulder customarily, than seemed to remember why he was here. He began to walk away.
"Doc, wait up."
The doctor turned. "Yes?"
"How long have I been out?"
"Four days. Did you see anything in your dreams?"
"Yeah," said Foster, "I saw God."