For the second time, Kennet picked up a handful of dirty straw and threw it at Hook. “Not funny.”

“Oh come on, it was a little funny.”

“Fuck off.”

“Sorry,” Hook said, chuckling. “Guess I need to work harder on being grand and casual.”

Something to Someone

Kennet stopped writing blow-by-blow accounts of the battles. Hook’s advice was only part of it. The bigger reason was he was shutting down. Every day, he sensed the functional parts of himself telling his emotional aspects to get lost. Vamoose. Scram. This wasn’t the time or place. Days were running into one another, the grind of each day’s terror, misery, cold and hunger exactly like the day before. It was boring, and like Hook said, the history books would do the job.

So Kennet wrote dates, places, and terse descriptions of the action, noting any buddies who were killed or wounded. Then he tried to find a human moment, no matter how small or banal, to tease out into something he’d like to read later.

14 Jan 1945

Past two days saw action in Bastogne, with Co. B attached to Task Force Blackjack. Attacked town of Cobru. Heavily fortified with Krauts. Clearing the town a bitch, had to search house to house, under heavy mortar and tank barrage, plus sniper fire. Saw two men get killed. Didn’t know their names. Town full of terrified and wounded civilians who needed to be moved so we could outpost for the night.

Pretty young woman pushing a barrow cart stopped, took my face in her hands and gave me one hell of a kiss. My knees buckled and the boys gave me hell from all sides. But goddamn, it was a kiss for the ages. She stepped back and with a quick movement of her hand, nicked my cigarettes right out of my pocket. Then she was off, moving down the road.

What a swell dame.

15 Jan 1945

Attacked cross-country, first south of Sankt-Vith highway—little resistance—then north of the road—heavy fire from 88s. Had to keep reminding myself what Jorgy said, “You won’t hear the 88 that kills you.”

Now dug in for the night. Half-tracks coming up bringing C-rations and blankets. I’m so cold and hungry, I can’t think of anything good to write. Nothing memorable to report.

16 Jan 1945

B company was attached to the 41st Tank Battalion and we became a mounted unit. The thrill of hitching a ride on the “big boys” lasted five minutes. Riding that contraption over hills and through snowdrifts was like riding a bucking bronco. It lurched and rolled and swayed and jerked. Everybody frantically grabbed onto anything that lent a grip, then grabbed onto someone else to stay aboard. Many new curses invented along the way and I don’t think my ass has hurt this much since Paps’ last hiding. Then when the tanks began firing, I thought my skull would explode and my ears turn inside out.