“Nicht schießen,” a voice cried out of the smoke. “Genosse!”

Gullgosse? Kennet thought wildly, and for a sick moment he thought he’d shot Lieutenant Jorgensson.

“Kamerad!” the man yelled. “Freund!”

“Hände hoch,” von Asselt shouted above his aimed rifle.

“Kumpel, Kamerad, Freund!”

Von Asselt went on shouting. “Beweg dich nicht. Don’t take your eyes off them, Fish. Hände hoch. Leg die Hände dort hin, wo ich sie sehen kann, Arschloch.”

“Rough translation?” Hook mumbled out the corner of his mouth.

“Hands up, asshole,” von Asselt said.

So for dessert, Kennet wrote, we were treated to two German prisoners.

A little before midnight, we were ordered to evacuate our current positions, pull back to the hill and dig in there. Why? Ah. Grunts don’t ask why. If you’re told to pull back and scratch a hole in the frozen earth for the second time in six hours, you pull back and scratch.

So, in a weird circular coincidence to end this bizarre day, I ended up back on the hillside, right by that same goddamn haystack where all the trouble started this afternoon. But I wasn’t alone this time, thank God. AND, a bit more luck was in the air: the 9th Armored had left their trenches behind, and Hook and I stumbled into the Taj Mahal of foxholes. I don’t know how many men dug it, or if a shell created it, but it was so roomy that we waved down Ingle and Pete to come join us.

Pete von Asselt is such a swell guy. Did I say that already? He’s just decent and level-headed. Of course, we all call him von Asshole. It’s irresistible. But we do it in a friendly way and he takes it in stride. Says he’s been called that since kindergarten.

So that was my New Year’s Eve, celebrated in a little-known hole in the ground. Not much of a party. The food was terrible and the band only played one song. I didn’t get kissed, but I snuggled up to Hook while he snored on the back of my neck.

Now if we, darling girl, were together tonight, I’d kiss you until you forgot your name. I’d take you to bed at midnight and wouldn’t stop making love to you until 1946.

January 1945

To Kill For Friends

New Year’s Day 1945

A holiday back in the States but here in Belgium, just another day in the salt mines. Breakfast of frozen C-rations pried out of the can. Wondering over terrible coffee and endless smokes what the day would bring.

We had orders to attack Chenogne again, and the crews were warming up the tanks. Our hillside swarmed with activity and I couldn’t believe how many vehicles occupied the slope behind us. Half-tracks and tanks and tank destroyers. Ambulances and jeeps.