Just Another Innocent Victim
December 24th, 1944, Belgium
Night enveloped him in black comfortless arms while the bitter penetrating cold forced him deeper into the bomb crater in which he'd taken shelter, more like a grave than anything else, he thought, yet still better than the nothing above ground offered. Feeling a draft where the meager canvas tarp flapped open in the sharp wind, Saunders reached up, tugging it closed.
Flipping open his lighter he took a quick inventory of the men who shared his temporary home away from home. Kirby, head tucked down into his chest, arms wrapped mummy-like around his body, slept the sleep of a man who'd had precious little in at least 48 hours. Conserving energy, the slim BAR man wasted none in snoring or moving, in fact it seemed he barely breathed. Saunders resisted the urge to touch him, to reassure himself Kirby really was alive and not frozen to death, a fate meted out to far too many soldiers this day. A sudden involuntary twitch of a booted foot and Saunders relaxed.
Shoulder to shoulder with Kirby and jammed in between the BAR man and young Billy Nelson hunched Littlejohn. Bent into a seated fetal position, the big man overflowed onto his fellow soldiers, but neither appeared to mind. Shared body heat kept them all that much warmer. Nelson shifted position, leaning into his buddy, his face tucked into the crook of Littlejohn's arm; he whimpered in sleep. Littlejohn raised the arm, pulling Nelson close into his side, protectively holding the wounded boy near.
Saunders snapped the lighter shut and hunkered down into the meager warmth of his field jacket. He hurt, they all hurt. Bloodied to a man, hungry, cold, frightened, cut-off and behind enemy lines, as far as he could tell – it was a hell of a way to spend Christmas Eve.
December 22nd, 1944
Hurried into position to close a breach in the Ardennes, the soldiers of the 361st, King Company, found themselves temporarily attached to the 30th Infantry Division. They also found themselves left to their own resources. Pitifully outfitted in threadbare warm weather gear, they scrounged what equipment they could from those no longer in need of wool gloves, helmet liners or winter boots. Becoming scavengers of the dead turned more than one stomach.
"Grave robbers is all we are," Caje complained as he removed a much needed knit scarf from a dead G.I. "No better than grave robbers." Yet he, like his squad members, continued to take so that he might live.
"Looks like this guy's Mom musta knit these for him." Kirby observed, "Or maybe his girl. Wow!" At Saunders' frown, Kirby toned down his enthusiasm, "wow," he whispered as he held up a pair of gloves obviously not government issued. Narrow bands of alternating red and green gave the gloves a decidedly Christmas look. Kirby tried them on, flexing his fingers, reveling in the warmth and softness. They fit perfectly yet within moments he slowly, carefully removed them, crouched down and tucked them back into the dead soldier's jacket.
Looking up he noticed Sarge watching. "I can't," Kirby whispered, shaking his head. "I can't take 'em."
Saunders nodded. Even Kirby felt it, the disgust, the distaste, the sorrow of what they did, what they were forced, by circumstances, to do.
Searching through the knapsack of a dead German corporal, Billy Nelson's hand touched the softest, most inviting bit of warmth. Suddenly he let out a garbled shriek. "Somethin's alive in there! It moved! I felt it!"
Littlejohn shook his head. "You're just imaginin' things again, Billy! Can't be nothin' alive out here – not in this cold, well… nothin' aside from us and some krauts a course - too many krauts."
The big PFC nudged the German's body with a booted toe; the corpse was frozen solid. But Doubting Thomas or not, Littlejohn crouched at Nelson's side, his curiosity definitely piqued.
"It's alive in there, Littlejohn…honest! I wouldn't lie to you!" Billy's boyish excitement was contagious.
Littlejohn reluctantly pulled off one glove, closed his eyes and edged a hand into the knapsack. Sure enough, when he touched the soft furry object it squirmed. When he stroked it gently it made a noise – a low rumbling purr.
Littlejohn's jaw dropped and his face lit up like a Christmas tree. "It's a kitten! I'll be darned, Billy! It's a little kitten!"
Saunders hated to say no, but more than telling Billy he couldn't bring the kitten along, he hated being put on the spot by a combat soldier who should know better even than to ask. The tiny creature's pinched face peeked out from inside Billy's jacket, its eyes wide and trusting – just another innocent victim of war.
Saunders forced authority into his voice. "You gotta leave it, Billy. We're movin' out and movin' fast. In case you don't know it, the war is just over that next hill."
There was no need for Saunders to point out the direction; the artificial thunder of artillery grew frighteningly close. The ground beneath their feet heaved and trembled with the impact of a hundred, a thousand shells. Smoke burned the eyes and hung suspended above the trees.
Much to his credit and the sergeant's relief, Nelson offered no arguments.
Billy followed Littlejohn back to where the dead German lay, a fresh dusting of snow obscuring the face, masking the identity, the humanity of the enemy. Opening out the knapsack, Billy gently placed the little animal back inside. Naturally it attempted to crawl out, eager for warmth and companionship. Billy looked up at his friend, tears blurring his vision. "It ain't his fault, Littlejohn. It ain't fair."
Littlejohn grabbed Nelson by the sleeve of his jacket and hauled the boy to his feet. "You go on, Billy. I'll take care of the kitty."
Nelson's eyes widened as he hitched his rifle up onto his shoulder. "You ain't gonna…you won't…?"
Disgusted, Littlejohn swore under his breath. "Don't be stupid. Course I wouldn't…what kind a man do you think I am anyhow?" He shoved Billy toward the waiting squad. "I'll take care of it. You go on now before the Sarge decides to get mad."
In the days that followed Saunders forgot the incident with the kitten. He forgot what it was like to sleep, to eat, to be warm, to be unafraid. He forgot what it was like to live any way other than in an all out fight to survive. He forgot what it felt like to be human.
December 25th, l944
Pale winter sunlight creeping in through the holes in the makeshift canvas ceiling woke Saunders with a nasty start. He listened, expecting to hear at the very least small arms fire if not the monotonous artillery barrage of mornings past. He heard only the silence of the forest.
Littlejohn struggled to his feet, his tall frame bent nearly in half in the low shelter. When Saunders looked questioningly up at him, the big man shrugged. "Call a nature, Sarge."
Saunders nodded and Littlejohn clambered out of the relative warmth of the hole and out into the light.
Stiff from tight quarters and torn aching muscles, Saunders got to his feet. Pushing aside the canvas he breathed in the incredibly frigid air, stifling an urge to cough as the cold stuff stung his lungs. As he scanned the carnage of blackened trees standing naked against a shattered backdrop of the once beautiful, almost ethereal woodland, helmeted heads popped up from the ground around him like so many curious prairie dogs.
From the closest shell hole Doc whispered a greeting. "Merry Christmas, Sarge."
So that was it. That was why no shelling, no small arms fire. Saunders returned the greeting, tentatively. "Merry Christmas, Doc."
Caje popped up next to the medic – the white bandage across his forehead in stark contrast to the dark hair and blackened eyes, yet the Cajun smiled broadly. "Merry Christmas, Sarge!"
"Merry Christmas, Caje," Saunders replied. "Uh, Doc…how's Brockmeyer doing?" He was almost afraid to ask.
"Okay, Sarge. He's doin' okay," the medic replied.
Doc wasn't much of a liar and it was easy for Saunders to see through the thinly veiled pretense. "Tell him…tell him Merry Christmas from the rest of us. Okay?"
Doc nodded. "I'll do that."
The sound of Littlejohn's booming voice sending out greetings of the day reached Saunders before the PFC's large form exited the treeline. Saunders raised his eyes skyward. If Littlejohn thought he was whispering he was sadly mistaken. The big man eased past Saunders and back down into the cramped shelter, careful not to tread on his fellow occupants.
Saunders sank back into the hole and was met with smiles and warm wishes. Kirby held out a smoke – the last one in the pack and probably his last pack to boot.
The sergeant took the cigarette and lit up, inhaling deeply, gratefully before passing it back to Kirby who also took a single long drag. Both Littlejohn and Billy passed so it was left to Saunders and Kirby to finish the Lucky, which they did with obvious satisfaction.
Nelson fumbled inside his coat with a bandaged hand and pulled out a battered bar of Belgian chocolate, its wrapper torn, but the contents whole. "I got it from a girl – a girl in that first town we came to once we crossed the border. I been savin' it for today."
At the low wolf whistles and assorted jokes at his expense, an especially lewd example from whom else but Kirby, Billy blushed bright crimson. "Aw, it wasn't like that and you know it!" He broke off three squares and tucked them into a pocket before passing the bar around. "For Doc and Caje… and Brockmeyer," he explained.
Next it was Littlejohn's turn. From inside his coat he retrieved what appeared to be a thick pair of rolled up socks. These he handed to Billy.
Although Nelson smiled he shook his head. "I can't take your last pair a socks, Littlejohn!"
"Just shut up and take 'em!" The big man insisted, grinning.
Kirby chimed in with his two cents' worth. "Yeah, go on, kid, take 'em for Pete's sake!"
Billy fumbled at the wool, finally separating the stockings. But something wasn't quite right. Filling the entire foot of one of the hose was something warm and wriggling. A smile started at Nelson's eyes and soon encompassed his entire face; he grinned literally from ear to ear.
"I knew you couldn't do it, Littlejohn! I knew it!" Grabbing the toe of the sock Billy gently shook loose the contents. The tiny kitten dropped into the boy's lap, its striped fur all whichaway, its yellow eyes wide in the gloom. Within seconds it settled itself into a compact ball, tucked its sharp nose beneath its paws and fell contentedly asleep in the young soldier's lap.
"I shoved him tight inside my sock and pushed him deep into the kraut's knapsack. I hoped he'd stay put. When I went back for him this morning, there he was! Bet he's hungry as all get out, though!" Littlejohn rubbed the kitten gently behind one ear. The ear twitched, but the little cat slept on, unperturbed.
A sudden shadow fell across Nelson's face. He glanced anxiously at Saunders. "But, Sarge…nothin's changed, nothin' at all! We ain't moved two hundred yards from where we started… I can't keep him."
The canvas flap of the shelter's roof was thrown back and Lieutenant Hanley squinted down at the gathered squad members. "Merry Christmas, Sergeant…men."
Saunders' finger dropped away from the trigger of his Thompson as he released a held breath. "Lieutenant, maybe you better make it a point to knock around here."
Besides the rather intimidating barrel of the sergeant's Tommy gun, Hanley also got a good look at the working ends of two Garands and a BAR. "Point taken, Saunders." Hanley grinned, "But as I was saying before being so rudely interrupted…Merry Christmas!"
A chorus of well wishes were tossed back at the officer whose rare grin turned into an even rarer full blown smile. "I've got a gift for you…for us all. We've been relieved. The 3rd Army broke through late last night. We're pulling back at 0730. Don't bother with breakfast…"
Saunders thought that was a pretty good joke on Hanley's part since the men had been out of rations for 24 hours and on half rations for two days previous.
"Don't bother with breakfast because hot food will be waiting, hot food, hot showers and warm blankets, back in that little town we passed through several days back." Hanley rubbed at the unaccustomed stubble darkening cheeks and chin, "Seems like weeks ago instead of days….anyhow, pack it in, Saunders. I'll see you in," the officer checked his watch, "exactly a half hour, and again, Merry Christmas."
Hanley disappeared and Saunders leaned back and closed his eyes. Merry Christmas for sure!
"Hooray for ole Georgie Patton!" Kirby crowed. "I wanna shake that man's hand!"
"Like you'll ever get the chance to do that," Littlejohn quipped while bits of candy wrapper and other debris rained down onto Kirby like manmade snowflakes courtesy of his companions.
Kirby brushed the 'snow' from his shoulders. "Hey! Since we're headin' back to the town where Billy met that girlfriend a his…! Hey! Maybe she's got a sister!"
The group was in a festive mood indeed, a mood Saunders was loathe to break, but orders were orders and these he actually looked forward to obeying. "We're headin' out. Get your gear together."
Each man pasted the sergeant with a look expressing varying degrees of disbelief.
"Like we've got any gear TO pack up, Sarge! Geez!" Kirby moaned.
Saunders didn't need to look around the cramped space to realize the truth of that statement. "Just get ready to pull out," he replied, "and Littlejohn, since you're responsible for our new mascot, maybe you'd better carry it." He stopped short of saying Nelson didn't look like he could carry himself let alone the almost negligible weight of the little feline, though that fact was plain enough for anyone to see.
Pale, trembling from cold, hunger and pain, Nelson appeared fragile, an odd word to be sure when describing the usually healthy, robust youngster. Even the round baby face appeared thin and drawn, the cheeks bordering on gaunt. Yet Billy would have none of Saunders' suggestion that he not be allowed the privilege of carrying his Christmas gift.
When Littlejohn held out his hands, Nelson shook his head, clutching the kitten close. "Not on your life. This little guy stays with me! I ain't lettin' him outta my sight again!"
Littlejohn looked to Saunders with a shrug of the shoulders and a grin of defeat on his face.
The sergeant acquiesced. "Okay, Billy. He's yours."
With an arm up from Littlejohn Nelson got unsteadily to his feet. Yet there was a smile on the boy's face as he tucked the small furry bundle inside his coat, a smile warm enough to melt through the cold and the misery of the past days, one warm enough to make Saunders believe it might really be Christmas.
The non-com turned away, allowing himself the briefest of moments to think, to remember, to recall the joy of other Christmas days. When he turned back to his men he was again the soldier, the sergeant. "Saddle up. It's time."
END
