At night, they bedded down and breathed hard to get warm. They ignored the stench and cuddled like brothers, spooned like lovers. One thrust his cold feet between his buddy’s shins and there was nothing for it. Another slid his chilblained fingers into his mate’s armpit because there was nothing for it. Two brothers in arms fell asleep in each other’s arms and thought nothing of it, because there was nothing for it. Nothing except each other.

“What is it?” Kennet said. “Hook, tell me.”

“It’s stupid.”

“Which is why you should tell me.”

His hand clenched Kennet’s sleeve. “I don’t want to die.”

“I know,” Kennet said. “It’s not stupid.”

I don’t want to die. I have gold in my blood, I can’t die like this. Don’t let me die like this and I’ll be good forever. Good as gold. Don’t let me die. Please don’t let me die…

They hung on tight through the cold, terrifying nights. Woke up in the morning to go and fight another day.

Day after day after day after day…

Hungry

10 Mar 1945

Neider Oberweiler

Happy birthday to me. We reached the Rhine in a fast, furious and exhilarating drive. German resistance is almost laughable. Troops surrendering in the thousands, the roads clogged with POWs. We’ll be here a few days for a maintenance break. The mail unit caught up to us with quite a backlog. Mrs. Messer (from North Platte) sent cookies and 4 pairs of socks.

Almost every soldier Kennet knew had a pen-pal in North Platte, Nebraska. The slips of paper with names and addresses, tucked inside popcorn balls handed out at the canteen, were not empty promises. Letters and treats arrived regularly and soldiers tried not to be remiss in replying.

Dear Mrs. Messer, Kennet wrote.

Thank you for the care package which, by miraculous timing, was delivered to me on March 10th, which is my birthday. Knowing all the miracles that come out of North Platte, I shouldn’t be surprised you hit the proverbial target. Well done. I’m afraid the cookies arrived in crumbles, but I doled them out to my mates by the handful and every crumble was eaten. They were indeed fine as could be.

You were kind to think of both me and my buddy Hook, and now we are the envy of the unit with our swell wool socks. Two pairs each was so very generous, our poor feet couldn’t be happier…

In her latest letter, Mrs. Messer had let down her veneer of sweet formality, and wrote about her son, Ted, who was killed on D-Day. The grief was eating her alive. She couldn’t bear the thought of him dying terrified and alone, wanting his mother in his last minutes.

Between the lines, Kennet could read a mother’s plea for something comforting, straight from the horse’s mouth.