On the other hand, I rode with my feet near the exhaust pipe, which kept them quite toasty.

Attacked the woods south of Houffalize. Gave them everything we had, every barrel blazing. No match for us. Cleared them out and dug in for the night. I slept strangely well, with Hook having to shake me awake for my guard shift. Maybe it was my warmed feet?

If I get through this, I can’t imagine ever losing sleep about anything again.

17 Jan 1945

German rocket barrage this morning. We lost Marty.

Feels like the heart has been ripped clear out of the squad. Nobody has a damn thing to say. Not even a curse.

The 17th Airborne relieved us and we marched to the town of Champs. I walked next to Anderson, who wasn’t openly crying, but his eyes were red and brimming. I wanted to do something so bad. If I had the strength or the means, I would’ve taken his pack for him, let him walk along just with the burden of grief to shoulder. I felt useless and used-up, but I stayed next to him. I could do that much.

We split up among empty barns and ramshackle houses and collapsed.

19 Jan 1945

Still in Champs, resting, cleaning our guns and organizing equipment. Writing “Don’t worry I’m fine,” to loved ones at home.

24 Jan 1945

The town is Massul, Belgium, but by war standards, we are in Heaven. The Quartermaster Corps set up shower units and we got our first head-to-toe scrubbing since leaving England. The best goddamn shower I had in my life.

Funny moment: we were sudsing up and out of nowhere, Jock started singing “O Sole Mio.” And when I say singing, I mean SINGING. Clear, beautiful tenor to make the hair stand on the back of your neck. Everyone looked around, stunned. Our loudmouth vulgate can sing like an angel. He won’t do it on command, though, which is strange, since he never hesitates to clown around or steal attention. I guess singing is for him and him alone.

Or maybe it’s all for O’Hara.

Anyway, we are clean from the inside out. Every stitch of clothing we stripped off promptly disappeared. Whisked away by the laundry unit, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was all burned. We came out to stacks of clean pressed uniforms, fresh skivvies and long johns, new wool socks, new gloves, the works. Everyone had to shave, and while we all looked rather handsome, it was quite a shock having a bare face out in the cold again. I miss the beard.

Which reminds me of something else funny: a lot of us grumbled that the new long johns weren’t keeping us warm as the old ones. Then a laundry private explained that after a month in the same clothes, the oils from your unwashed body seep into the fabric, adding an extra, very thin, but very noticeable layer of insulation.