God jul, Merry Christmas. 500 miles in two days. We march through towns that were battlefields not so long ago. A lot of us are passing places where our fathers fought a war that was supposed to end all wars. Sure gives a fellow something to think about.

Now we’re quartered in French barracks near Sedan and officially part of Gen. Patton’s 3rd Army.

Holiday season, but not much time to celebrate. The tank crews are frantic to install track extensions on the Shermans, so it’s double-time work all day today. Tomorrow as well—we’ll be on the move to Belgium, though we’ll get a break for Christmas dinner and services.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my mother. I’m ashamed to say there are times when I’m glad she’s gone. She doesn’t have to—

…

…

…Got interrupted there by a burst of rifle fire. Whole camp jumped out of its boots but turns out it was the fellows in the 82nd Airborne, pissed at being ordered back to Belgium, where they’ve seen combat before. They know what to expect and are taking their aggression out on the sky. This display of frustrated dread puts a real kink in my stomach.

25 December 1944

A,

On the road toward Bastogne all day. The cooks did a fine job serving turkey dinner on the way. For now, this is home and these are my brothers.

Asta, I’m not saying so in these entries, but I think about you all the time. All the time. Wondering what you’re doing. If you’re wearing the little gold Hildur around your neck and if your fingertips reach to touch it during your days. My guess is not. You’re a lady of your word, which includes wedding vows. You married him, for better or worse, and if that makes me into something kept secret in a drawer of a jewelry box, I have to respect it.

Still, I wonder desperately what you’re thinking and feeling and is it ever of me. I know you can’t flaunt me, but am I still part of you? Most of the time, I believe I am. But I have moments where I fear I’ve been forgotten. Or set aside as merely a fond memory and you have no need to visit the drawer where I live.

Please need it.

28 Dec 1944

A,

We’ve been told to be ready to move early tomorrow morning. Into Belgium, where there’s heavy fighting.

This account may end here. In which case, I love you with all my heart and soul and I wish to goodness I had better words to say so.

28 Dec 1944—Postscript

Hook, if you’re reading this, don’t give it to anyone. I’m begging you. It’s so boring. Keep it for toilet paper. Or go to Clayton and throw it in the river, where my soul plans on resting anyway.