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Here's a short, simple Thanksgiving story from first squad.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Enjoy and stay safe.

GIVING THANKS

CHAPTER 1

No one was in a very good mood. It was another dreary patrol on another cold, muddy late morning. Caje was on point as usual, with Sergeant Saunders bringing up the rear. Kirby, Littlejohn, Nelson, Brockmeyer and Doc were all trudging in between the other two, slogging over the muddy trail.

"Sometimes I think it must rain mud at night," Kirby griped, wiping a splatter of black goo from his cheek.

First squad had been on recon patrol for hours. It had rained heavily the day before, and the terrain was saturated and thick with mud. Walking through heavy black ooze and pools of inky water had been difficult, and the men were fast reaching exhaustion. Brockmeyer was struggling to keep their radio dry.

Suddenly Kirby's face lit up. He turned to the men behind him. "Hey, what's today?" he called out.

Brockmeyer laughed and said, "What's the difference?"

Kirby, right behind Caje, stopped and looked at the others. "No, I'm serious. Is today Thursday?"

"Yeah," Billy answered. "I wrote home yesterday, and I always try to write home every Wednesday. So that means today is Thursday."

"Guys!" the BAR man exclaimed excitedly. "Today's Thanksgiving!"

Everyone stopped and stared at Kirby. "Yeah, really!" he said to them. None of their faces reflected any joy for the holiday.

"Great," Littlejohn said morosely.

"Alright," Saunders called out. "That's enough. We've got a patrol to finish up. Pay attention. We're not completely out of kraut territory yet."

The sergeant turned and walked backwards for awhile, scanning the terrain behind them. He was well aware that it was Thanksgiving when he awoke that morning, and prepared for the patrol. And he was also well aware of the clouds of gloom and foreboding that had been hanging over him ever since he opened his eyes.

He knew that this patrol was an important one. And they'd certainly gathered a lot of valuable information for the brass. But his nerves were still on high alert. He continued to look around anxiously. Saunders just wanted this patrol…this day…to be over with. Maybe then he'd start feeling better about everything.

The squad trudged through the mud and gloom.

CHAPTER 2

Time dragged on. Caje suddenly turned and waved, whispering "Krauts!", and everyone dove for cover. Caje, Brockmeyer and Saunders were all lying flat in the mud behind a fallen tree. Littlejohn and Nelson had found cover, hidden on the side of a steep embankment. Kirby and Doc were stuck in the middle with scant cover, tucked behind the stump of the fallen tree. But it was too late. The Germans had seen them, and were above them on the hill, digging in behind their own cover.

Kirby was pulling Doc in closer, and lying on top of the medic as he brought the BAR up and over the stump and began firing.

The Germans had good cover, grouped behind rocks and logs on higher, slightly drier ground. Saunders quickly assessed their situation. This wasn't going to be easy, he thought. The krauts were just out of grenade range and uphill. He couldn't reach them from his position, unless he stood up to get more power behind his throw. He didn't think that would be a very good idea.

He asked Caje, "How many?"

Caje wiped the mud from his chin with the back of his hand. "Pretty sure it was eight." He poked his head up, instantly picked a target and fired. Ducking back down, he looked at his sergeant and said, "Seven."

Bullets were flying in both directions, with the damp air clinging to the smoke and smell of gunpowder. Billy let out a loud yell, and the sergeant looked in time to see his man slide down the embankment, with his rifle sliding next to him. Littlejohn reached out to try to grab him, but missed. He went scrambling down the slippery embankment after him.

Kirby was struggling to stay behind his meager cover while protecting Doc and continuing to fire at the krauts. As he bent to replace his magazine, he suddenly spun and landed on his back on top of the medic. His BAR lay next to the two prone figures. Doc was trapped under Kirby's dead weight and by the kraut bullets spraying up mud around him.

Saunders looked over anxiously at them. Two men down and Doc trapped alone and defenseless. This can't be happening, he thought.

Next to him, Caje peeked out above the dead tree trunk and took another quick shot. Ducking back down as he heard the distinct ping of his empty clip flying from his rifle, the soldier quickly replaced it. Smiling over at his sergeant, he said with satisfaction, "Six."

But when he went back up for another target, he shouted in pain. His rifle flew from his hands as he doubled over, and toppled onto his side in the mud, curling into a ball.

Brockmeyer looked around at the men down and their situation. "Sarge! We're in trouble!" he managed to get out before he shouted in surprise and was flung backwards himself, dropping hard on the radio in the black ooze.

Saunders' heart was racing. No, he thought, he can't lose his men now. No! Four of his six men were injured or dead. They were outnumbered and he only had Doc and Littlejohn left. They wouldn't last long, especially with one being an unarmed medic.

Against all of his instincts, the sergeant pulled a grenade from his field jacket, and slung his Thompson over his shoulder. He knew that he had to do something or he'd lose all of them.

He called out, "Littlejohn!"

Hearing the soldier respond, "Yo!", he took a deep breath in relief.

"Cover me!" he called back. He saw Littlejohn scrambling back up the slope, sliding as he went.

"Got you, Sarge!" came the reply.

CHAPTER 3

As Saunders crawled slowly through the wet mud around to his left, Littlejohn poured cover fire onto the krauts' position. With the attention now diverted away from him, the sergeant slid on his belly through the ooze, so close to the ground that cold mud was being scooped up into his shirt. It slid down around his sides and crept around his back. Ignoring the ice cold ooze slithering around his flesh, he continued to slide forward.

Finally, he felt that he was close enough to be in range. Pulling the pin on the grenade, he held the safety lever, took a deep breath, and said to himself, 'I'd be thankful if my squad gets out of this to live to see another Thanksgiving. That's all I want. Please.' He let go of the lever, counted a quick two, and lobbed the grenade into the midst of the cluster of krauts.

The explosion was immediate, and the sergeant felt the concussion vibrate through him. Mud, gravel and large splinters of wood rained down on him as he covered his head.

Saunders tried to stand and run forward to be sure they were all dead, but he kept slipping and floundering in the deep mire. Finally managing to stay upright, he realized that there was no need to rush. There was no movement…only the dead.

Taking a deep breath, the sergeant wondered what was left of his squad. Cautiously making his way back to his men, he was fearful of what he would find. None of his wishes in this damn war ever seemed to come true.

He stared in confusion as he saw all of his men staring back at him.

"Look at you, Sarge!" Billy laughed, pointing at his sergeant.

Saunders looked down. He was covered in mud from head to toe, with globs of mud oozing from the inside of his shirt and jacket. He wiped a filthy hand across his face, but only succeeded in making it worse.

"You're ok?" he asked in total confusion, looking at each of them as if they were ghosts.

Littlejohn laughed and answered, "Billy slipped in the mud and slid all the way down the embankment. Almost took me with him."

"And I lost my rifle in that pool of goo down there," Billy added, pointing at a black thick pool of sludge below where the two of them had been hiding. "Can't find it anywhere. Hope they can get me another one."

Kirby was sitting up, leaning against the tree stump next to Doc. He lifted up a bloodied arm, as the medic pulled out sulfa from his med kit. "Just a scratch. Hardly worth bandaging. But my BAR will probably never be the same though." He held up his barely recognizable weapon, coated with mud.

Saunders looked at Caje and Brockmeyer. "What about you two? I know I saw you both go down. I don't get it. What happened?"

Brockmeyer peeled the mud caked radio off of his back. "They missed me, but they definitely killed our radio." He poked a finger in one of the holes drilled into the top of the radio. "Knocked me flat on my back. And, man, did that ever hurt landing hard on top of that big old radio."

Saunders shook his head in disbelief. He turned to the Cajun. "And you? I know I saw you go down and double over. What? You're going to tell me you had a sudden belly ache or something?"

Caje laughed. "I'm fine, but I'm afraid we need to hold services for my rifle. Looks like the operating rod, spring and catch are all shot. Literally." He held up his Garand to show his sergeant the damage that a kraut's bullet had caused. "Tore it right out of my hands. Sure hurt like the devil, too."

Saunders looked at each of his men, totally speechless. As they watched him expectantly, he quickly closed his eyes and said silently to himself, 'Thank you.'

He wiped his hand on the back of his pants, swung his Thompson up, and said, "Let's move out."

CHAPTER 4

The patrol finally made its way back to their unit. They were cold, wet and very tired. And they were still slogging through muck. But they had successfully completed their mission. As they entered camp like seven lost souls, covered in dirt, leaves and fresh mud, they heard someone call out to them.

Hanley stood in the doorway to his makeshift office, watching the seven bedraggled men. He'd been anxiously waiting and watching for the last hour.

"Saunders," he called out. "Hold them up a minute."

The sergeant stopped and held up his hand to his men.

"Wait one," he said wearily, and trudged over to his lieutenant.

"Yes, Lieutenant? My men have really had it. They just want to scrape some of this off and hit the sack. We've already missed dinner, so some K rats and sleep would be just great right now. As soon as I clean up a little, I'll come back and give you my report. Don't think you want me in there like this." He looked down at his disheveled and dirty uniform.

"Did you find out anything?" Hanley asked.

"Yes, sir," Saunders replied, fighting with his eyes to keep them open. "Got everything the brass wanted and more."

Hanley looked at his sergeant with a faint smile playing around his lips. He hadn't needed to ask. He knew the mission would be completed.

Saunders wiped his muddy hands off the best he could, and reached into his pocket. Pulling out a dirt splattered map, he said apologetically, "Sorry, it's a little wet and dirty. It got a little hairy out there for awhile. When I'm a bit cleaner, I'll get back and answer any questions you have after you've had a chance to go over it all."

"Have your men head over to the barber shop. I've had the water heated for all of you for hot showers. When you're all cleaned up, you and your men report back here to me," Hanley ordered.

Saunders started to protest, but recognized the futility of it. Besides, he was afraid that if he protested, the lieutenant might revoke the hot shower privilege. He wanted his men to at least have that luxury. They deserved it. He was just thankful his men were all ok. If he had his way, he'd lie down somewhere quiet right now and simply sleep the rest of the night away.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," he replied quietly, and turned back to his men without another word. The hot showers were certainly welcome, but he couldn't help but think that it was merely a way to soften them for the blow of another night patrol.

Thanksgiving was just another word to him now. Besides, he was already thankful for getting his Thanksgiving wish. He didn't want to push his luck by making another wish for a dry, quiet night with no patrol. He led his men off to the showers with silent thanks for what he had.

The soldiers were overjoyed with the hot showers, taking them three at a time. They had even been provided with two bars of soap and clean towels. The showers and washing away the grime seemed to rejuvenate them all as they reveled in the luxury with jokes and laughter.

Saunders waited until last, and had the extravagance of the showers all to himself. But he had a hard time enjoying it. He stood under the water, looking down at his feet, with water dripping from his head. Then he sighed, and brought his head up. He closed his eyes and let the hot water pour over his upturned face as he tried to wash his worry…and the war…away.

CHAPTER 5

Hot showers, soap, clean towels. Something very heavy duty was definitely coming down, and it was now a serious weight on the sergeant's shoulders. He'd gotten his wish. His men had all made it back. He was extremely thankful. But he didn't want them going out again.

With clean uniforms on, the soldiers were upbeat, laughing and joking as they left the barber shop.

"How's your arm, Kirby?" Saunders asked as they walked.

"Fine, Sarge. Stung like heck in the shower, but Doc patched it up real good afterwards. Don't hardly feel it anymore." Kirby replied, touching his bandaged arm.

Very quickly, the men realized that their sergeant wasn't leading them back to their own bivouac. They were headed directly back to Lieutenant Hanley.

Caje looked worried. "What gives, Sarge?"

"Yeah," Littlejohn added. "What do we have to see the Lieutenant for?"

"Oh, man, this can't be good," Kirby said anxiously.

Saunders didn't answer them. He didn't know what to tell them.

Hanley came to the doorway when he heard the men approaching. He looked them all over and said sternly, "Come on in. We have to go over a few things." He turned and went in, with the door closing behind him. The men looked at each other with worried glances.

Kirby finally broke the silence. "Hey, Sarge, can't us guys just go wait for you? He sounds kinda like he's gonna chew us all out for something. You can just be the one to yell at us what he said instead."

All the men nodded their heads in hopeful agreement.

Saunders shook his head, "C'mon. Let's get this over with. Sooner it's done, the sooner we can all get some shut eye. We've earned it. You guys did a great job out there today, no matter what the Lieutenant tells us."

The sergeant stepped up to the doorway and hesitated. When they heard a stern, "Saunders?" the NCO opened the door and went in. His newly washed men glumly followed.

CHAPTER 6

The building that Hanley occupied, for both his office and living quarters, had been a small French home in town. It had been French before the Germans had driven the French out, and then the Americans had driven the Germans out.

The room that the soldiers entered was small, but obviously a living room to entertain guests. A delicate loveseat and a few chairs were arranged in a friendly grouping for warm, intimate conversations. No one sat down.

Hanley looked at the seven men, all shifting nervously under his gaze. Best squad he had in the whole platoon, he thought to himself. Probably in all of King Company.

"I know that you've had it rough lately. You men were the only ones to go out today," Hanley told them.

Nods of agreement went around the room.

The lieutenant continued, "But I have one more thing you all need to do before you hit the sack. Sorry."

Murmurs ran through the squad, with a groan escaping from someone. Every one of the soldiers, except Saunders, shuffled on their feet nervously, shoving hands in their pockets. The sergeant remained unmoving, stone-faced.

Ignoring all of their reactions, Hanley added seriously, "Let's go to my office to discuss it."

Saunders watched as Hanley turned towards the back room. He knew that the lieutenant had all of his maps and plans spread out on the table there. The sergeant groaned inwardly. It was definitely going to be another patrol. The shower and clean clothes were for nothing. His wish was for nothing.

CHAPTER 7

Hanley opened the door in front of them, and heaven wafted out to greet them. Such wonderful smells after the odors of dirt, mud and death. They just knew it had to be heaven inside that door.

Smells of fresh, hot food that brought fond memories back to each of them, curling through their minds. Family, friends, laughter, comfort…no war.

Hanley smiled and held his arm out towards the table that had the maps and plans tucked away. It was now laden with delicious smelling food. "We have important decisions to make. We need to decide who sits where. And who gets dark meat, and who gets light."

First squad was dumbstruck, standing and staring with their mouths open.

"Well, don't just stand there," the lieutenant ordered in mock sternness. "Sit down! That's an order!"

The spell was broken. Everyone laughed and hurried to pick a seat. Kirby, Caje and Doc sat on one side, while Littlejohn, Brockmeyer and Billy sat on the other. The head of the table was naturally saved for their sergeant.

As Hanley continued to speak, all the men looked up from the table. "You did a great job out there today. I knew you would. I couldn't have sent better soldiers to get it done. I also knew that you'd be missing dinner tonight, so I had cook save you some food and keep it hot until you returned. Enjoy. You all deserve it. Happy Thanksgiving."

There was a round of thank you's as Hanley started to leave. He stopped and turned around. "Oh, I almost forgot," he added, going over to a cupboard behind Kirby. He opened the cupboard doors and pulled out two bottles of wine. Setting them on the table, he said,
"There's another two bottles of wine in here, and there's a few pumpkin pies on the sideboard over there for dessert."

"Happy Thanksgiving, men. And you also have the next three days for a little R&R. So you don't have to worry about staying up past your bedtime." The men laughed, and the lieutenant added, "And I'll be staying in a building down the street for tonight, so that won't be an issue either. Stay as long as you want." Then he finally left amid choruses of cheers and thanks.

CHAPTER 8

No one stood on formalities. Caje grabbed the wine and began to pour and pass glasses around. Kirby scooped up the heaping platter of turkey and, taking a huge portion for himself, passed it over to the Sarge. Squash, corn, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green beans, gravy, cranberry sauce, hot rolls and cold butter between the laughter and the jokes. And the table was set with real plates, glassware and serving dishes from the house's china cabinets.

The men talked of old times, Thanksgivings past, and eventually their conversations turned to dreams for their futures. Saunders sat back and listened quietly, enjoying their talk about the future. Thank you, he thought, for giving them all a future. But, he noticed, the brutality of the war never once invaded their conversation.

As the food and wine began to disappear, and the men began to mellow out, Kirby picked at the last of his turkey.

"Hey," he said, holding up a bone. "It's the wishbone. You guys ever do that? Make a wish for Thanksgiving?" Everyone laughed and started remembering and calling out their wishes from when they were children around the Thanksgiving family table.

Kirby looked at the bone, and said, "Well, I know what I'd wish for right now. I wish that when I get home, I'll have enough money saved up so my uncle and I can buy a bowling alley." He twirled the bone in his fingers, and looked at Caje sitting next to him. "What about you, Caje? What's your wish?"

The Cajun smiled. "I wish I was bass fishing in New Iberia on the
Bayou Teche right now! Best bass fishing in the whole world on the Bayou." He turned to the medic. "Doc? And you?"

Doc looked at everyone for a moment. "I wish this dang war was over tomorrow, and we could all go home." Soft 'amens' went around the room. Doc looked across the table. "How about you, Brock? What would your wish be?"

Brockmeyer laughed. "Easy. I'd wish my mom would send me her apple strudel every single week. Her apple strudel is heaven. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water. It's like getting a piece of home in the mail.

Brockmeyer turned to Nelson, sitting next to him. "Billy?"

Billy looked around the table with an embarrassed smile. "I wish when I get home that Evelyn would marry me, and we'd have Glenn Miller and his guys all play at our wedding." He looked back around sheepishly, expecting loud laughter, but the men all nodded their approval.

Caje replied, "I'm sure Glenn Miller would be proud to be there. He's been entertaining the troops for a couple of years now."

Kirby pointed at Billy and nodded. "Yeah. If anyone deserves Glenn Miller playing for them, it's you, Billy." The young soldier beamed and blushed.

Littlejohn volunteered, "Well, I'd wish for a little farm of my own when I get home. Somewhere quiet and peaceful. I've been saving everything I can towards it." He looked down at his empty plate, smiling at his thoughts.

The room was quiet, with each man momentarily lost in his own thoughts and dreams. And then, all eyes turned to their sergeant. "So, what about you, Sarge? What would you wish for?" Kirby asked.

Saunders, glass of wine in hand, remained quiet and thoughtful. He remembered the morning, which seemed so long ago. The mud, the gloom, the firefight with the krauts. The gut wrenching feeling when he thought that he'd lost most of his men. And his fearful wish for their safety.

He looked around at each of them. His squad. His men.

"My wish?" he asked. "I already got my wish." He once again gave his silent 'thank you'.

He paused as the men expected him to explain. Then he stood up, finished his glass of wine, and said, "Kirby, why don't you break out another bottle of wine. Anyone for some pumpkin pie? As my mother always says, 'Pie fixes everything.'

HAPPY THANKSGIVING, EVERYONE

Historical note: Glenn Miller never had the chance to play at Billy's wedding. While on a flight to entertain more troops, his plane was lost over the English Channel, December 15, 1944.