Captain Oberon Winley III stood alone at the broken window, staring into the dark forest. He craved a cigarette, but hiding in a dilapidated barn less than a mile from the German front demanded caution. He flipped the collar of his dull green overcoat against the night air, his shallow breath marking each tired exhale in the waning moonlight. Dawn would be breaking soon, and it would break no better than any other dawn in this already long war.

He looked at the three privates sleeping in the far corner and shook his head. Despite trying, he couldn’t forget they were his responsibility. Outside the glassless opening, the clouds thickened and clung to the trees of the dense, dark forest. Winley knew that snow would soon fall over the Ardennes; he had learned to smell it coming in the damp air. The limbs on the pines and firs already hung heavy with the weight of the crystallizing moisture. The captain hung heavy with thoughts of his sister.

He took off his glove. Feeling the bitter cold stinging his skin, he slid his hand through the slit in the army-issued overcoat, reaching deep into his left pocket. His lungs filled with the icy air as he touched the fine silk. Turning his back to the window, a rare dereliction of duty to keep watch, and leaning against the framing, Oberon Winley removed the white silk handkerchief and held it up to the last brush of moonlight casting over his shoulder. The initials JAW stitched into the corner with fine blue thread provoked his mind to wander to thoughts of his twin sister.

“Shh! She’s in the other room,” Oberon cautioned his sister and raised a finger to his lips.

“We’re gonna get caught.”

“Not if you stop talking.”

The two children crouched behind the large island counter in the center of the kitchen. On the far side, large French doors led to the dining room where their mother sat drinking tea. They focused on the remaining few feet of open space required to reach the pantry where their clandestine objective sat on a shelf.

“I don’t really want any anyway,” whispered Josephine to her brother.

“You know we’re not going to get any at the party. We can’t even come downstairs when they have people over. We won’t get caught. So, shh. And come on.”

Oberon, who had always been an inch shorter than his twin sister, moved first. He quietly shuffled across the tile floor, watching his mother’s back. She didn’t move. He reached the pantry, stood inside and breathed in relief.

Waving at his sister he mouthed, “Come on.”

Josephine “Jo” Winley peered around the corner of the counter. Her mother was stirring her tea with a small spoon. An open book sat next to the cup. Squatting, Josephine pulled her dress to the side and into a knot that she tightly fisted. She crossed the kitchen unnoticed.

“See,” he whispered. “It’s easy. You made it.”

Oberon smiled at his sister as she stood inside the large pantry. He took out his pocket knife and began to cut the prize for sneaking behind their mother’s back. The thick frosting and cake sliced easily. He laid a very thin piece of ruby red cake with a sliver of white frosting in his palm and looked down at his sister.

“Here,” he said rolling the cake onto her hand. He cut another small chunk. Oberon then used the knife to spread extra frosting into the gap in the cake. Fortunately, the frosting was thick enough to cover the newly-carved hole but the little swirls he attempted failed to camouflage his misdeed. Licking the blade his mouth began to water. He folded the knife and put it back into his back pocket.

Oberon sat back down, cake in hand. With a large grin that wasn’t mirrored on his sister, he bit into the sweetness and ran his tongue across his upper lip. “Mmm,” he muttered.

Josephine didn’t say anything while she licked sticky frosting off her fingertips. The two thieves sat on the floor next to each other and savored the confection. Jo was always at Oberon’s side. They were friends as well as twin siblings.

“Ready, Jo?” the boy asked.

“Yeah. I wanna get out of here and back upstairs to my room before we get into trouble.”

Oberon looked out the pantry door. “She’s reading her book. It’s all clear.”

The siblings scooted back across the kitchen. As they reached the island counter, they heard a chair scrape on the dining room floor. They paused and exchanged frightened glances.

“Come on,” he whispered. Oberon grabbed his sister’s hand and ran with her out of the kitchen.

They entered the foyer breathing heavily. At the base of the broad staircase, Oberon looked around and said, “In here.” He led his sister through the entryway and into the music room. They momentarily hid underneath the black, grand piano. Oberon would later learn how better to hide from an enemy.

“Oberon William Winley the third, you get in here immediately! Where have you taken off to?” his mother yelled from the kitchen, her voice echoing through the spacious home. Their mother was accustomed to yelling Oberon’s name and always used his full name, a sign that he was in trouble.

“I think she saw us, Obee,” Josephine said.

“No she didn’t. She’s just yelling for me because I was supposed to rake the last of the leaves before her party tonight. Come on!”

The two children ran through the music room and into their father’s study, a room they rarely entered without invitation. They had discovered long ago the secret staircase behind one of the bookshelves. Together they pushed against one edge forcing the other to swing open. Inside, they shut the door but didn’t turn on the light. They just sat in the dark on the first tread, heaving with the rush of adrenaline and fear.

The steps led upstairs to a similar bookshelf in a sitting room off the master suite. An ancestor of the Winley’s, from old Boston money, had been a commissioned general in the revolutionary war. He built the home and installed the passage as an escape route from night marauders. Although the residence had remained in the family for nearly 200 years, the general was the last soldier to occupy the seventy-acre estate nestled on the hills just outside Harvard University. The last until Oberon III joined the army in a rash decision.

“What do we do, Obee?”

“Nothing! We’re fine if we stick together.”

“I don’t think I can,” Josephine admitted.

“Look, if she doesn’t catch us inside the house, she’ll blame one of the servants.”

“Obee!” Josephine looked at her brother even though she couldn’t see him in the darkness.

Oberon felt the glare from his sister. She always proved the more obedient sibling.

“The cake was for her big party tonight. She’ll be so mad I don’t know what she’ll do. We have to say something. We shouldn’t have done that.” Josephine began to cry.

“Don’t worry, Jo. I’ll tell her. I’m used to the whippin’ anyway.”

“No you won’t!” Jo knew very well the punishments that her brother received, merited or not.

With that, Josephine Alice Winley leaned against the bookcase and ran out.

“Hey, Winnie, what’s out that window that’s got you so interested?” Private Larsen asked, chuckling from under his bedroll in the corner of the abandoned barn. He rolled from side to side as if snuggling under a down comforter.

Opening his eyes, Captain Winley stuffed the last tangible memory of his twin sister back into his pocket, hoping that it would also stuff his thoughts. He didn’t hear the private.

Larsen continued, “Close the window! It’s freezing in here! Can’t you see I’m trying to get some sleep?”

“I cannot close it. The glass has been blown out. Can’t you see that, Private?” Winley was easily irritated.

Sticking his head out from the bedroll, Larsen smiled. “Winnie, you’ve got no sense of humor.” Larsen’s head looked just like a tortoise poking its head out from its shell, only bigger, rounder and paler.

“Refer to me again by that appellation and I will see to it that you receive a court-martial for insubordination. I am your superior officer, Private.”

“Okay.” Larsen only understood the words “court” and “martial” but those were enough to induce him to stop using the nickname he and the other privates used behind Winley’s back. He held his large and growling stomach underneath the bedroll. “It’s early or something. What time is it, anyway?”

Winley pulled on the cuff of his overcoat and glanced at his watch. “0600.”

Larsen tucked the cover under his neck. “A little earlier than I would normally eat, but would you order some breakfast. I’d like eggs, flapjacks, maple syrup, the real stuff, please, and a whole lot of very hot coffee. And could you turn up the heat in this room. I’m a little cold this morning.”

Winley heard nothing cognizable from the comedian in the corner. He considered Larsen large on weight and small on wit and had learned to ignore him. Besides, the case of the stolen confection still lingered in his mind.

His sister had immediately confessed to their mother, relieving him of his father’s belt. He couldn’t remember if he felt guilty back then, but he certainly did now with the handkerchief in his uniform pocket. That episode had occurred just before Christmas, exactly twenty years ago. The two were only seven. He thought it strange that he barely remembered any other events from his childhood. But stealing the piece of Waldorf cake had never left him, despite his reasons for enlisting.

Currently, Captain Oberon Winley, an officer with the 395^th Infantry Regiment, led three inexperienced and incompetent privates through the Belgian woodland, called the Ardennes, on what he felt was a meaningless fishing expedition based on rumors and speculation that their inexperienced and incompetent commanding officer had heard. All had been remarkably quiet lately and Winley resented the assignment away from the rare access to warm food.

The day before, the Captain Winley and three privates were sent on a reconnaissance assignment to the Elsenborn Ridge on the eastern edge of the Ardennes forest, overlooking the German border. On their way to the ridge, chance favored the small group not only with shelter in a large clearing but also with a couple of enemy bedrolls. The farmhouse had been burned out, leaving only the stone foundation, walls and part of the roof. The sheep had long since wandered on to friendlier pastures. The barn, although crumbling from the rafters, still provided some relief from the cold, northerly wind on a cold December night.

“I said could you turn up the heat,” Larsen repeated, still with his characteristic chuckle.

“Be quiet, Larsen.” Winley turned his ear to the wind outside the broken window. He hadn’t heard anything but some internal sense was triggered.

“Wah, wah, you be quiet,” Larsen replied in muted breath not realizing his insubordination. “Nothing’s going on out there. We haven’t seen a thing since we left. The rumors were just a bunch of paranoid locals, old folks gossiping in cafés because they have nothing better to waste their day on. The locals are always doing that.”

“I said please be quiet.”

“There’s nothing in these woods but these comfy bedrolls. By the way, thanks, Jerry,” Larsen said staring at the cold, starless air above his head.

Winley now squinted. Flakes of fresh snow began to flutter to the ground, and shadows seemed to shift with the passing clouds. He saw nothing, but a dark figure did move between the trees.

“Well, we’ve got to take off at first light anyway. Might as well get up.” Larsen emerged and stretched his broad chest like a bear after hibernation. His breath only frosted the damp air as he blew on his hands for warmth.

“Ouch!”

Larsen kicked another bedroll to wake a sleeping private. “Get up, we’re taking off.”

The bundle barely moved.

“Larsen, shut up and get down!” Winley’s suspicions were now confirmed.

Larsen reacted quickly to the uncharacteristic and commanding language from Captain Winley. The only familiar intonation in the order was the New England “R” in Winley’s accent, making the private’s last name sound more like Lawson.

The captain ducked beneath the open window. From a crouched position, he motioned above his head. The others, instantly alert and understanding the signal, crawled over to the captain, sliding their rifles along the bare ground.

“How many?” whispered one soldier with a genuine look of terror in his eyes.

“I saw only one. Do you have your mirror?” Winley asked Larsen, who was now sidled up alongside him.

Larsen pulled out the square sheet of metal he used for shaving from his field-glass case. However, the disappearing moon provided inadequate light to observe anything farther than a few feet away. In another uncharacteristic move, Winley dared a personal observation; he looked out the window. Behind a snow-covered fir tree, a dark figure brandished a shred of cloth.

“I believe he is waving a flag,” Winley informed the others.

“A white flag? The international symbol of being a pansy?” responded the wanna-be comic. “What? You give the Kraut that stupid hanky of yours so he could give himself up?”

“Quiet!” Winley’s word was emphatic despite the hush volume. Captain Winley stood up, going more on instinct than intelligence.

“What are you doing? There could be others! You don’t know what he’s up to. Winnie, hold on.” Larsen shuffled toward the barn door. The door had long detached from its hinges, and a three-inch gap formed from the door leaning against the jamb.

The two other soldiers accompanying Winley and Larsen also took strategic positions. The first man skirted to another broken-out window opened to the front, and the second sneaked out the back and around the side of the barn.

From his vantage point, Larsen watched the figure emerge from behind the pine tree and slowly make his way forward. The man was thin and wore a German officer’s gray, double-breasted, wool overcoat. The insignia on the right collar revealed his being a part of the Waffen-SS. On his head he placed a cap of the high command, not a helmet. He held out his arms spread eagle, the white cloth prominent in his dark gloves. Larsen saw no weapon stored in the holster as the man continued toward the barn.

Winley, Larsen and the private keeping watch at the other window presented their rifles. Three barrels from three angles were aimed directly at the man’s chest. The fourth American remained hidden outside and scanned the forest. The German officer acknowledged the weapons and proceeded forward.

Standing to the side of the window and tracing the German with his gun sight, Winley could see this was no foot soldier. The man was a first lieutenant. Winley suddenly realized that the officer must have known they were in the barn all along yet took no aggressive action.

Accordingly, Winley took no action. Many Germans were deserting, he knew. So he watched.

The SS officer reached the barn door, less than two yards from the tip of Larsen’s barrel. Winley re-aimed inside the barn. With arms still raised, the German pushed open the leaning slab of wood with his boot just enough to enter. The private outside the barn, too apprehensive to notice the sub-freezing temperatures, tried to recon the meadow: nothing but darkness and falling snow.

The moon, now fully covered by clouds and floating low in the predawn sky, withdrew its light. Inside, the wanderer became nothing more than a faint silhouette in the doorway.

“Halt!” Winley didn’t know what else to say. Although his university education allowed some measure of invention, it was no substitute for experience in the field. At least he knew as much. He despised relying on instinct, and not knowing the answer in any situation made him uncomfortable. He held his rifle raised in caution, and fear.

The officer stopped and said nothing.

Larsen, holding the gun steady despite legs wobbling, pressed the muzzle into the back of the intruder’s neck. Winley went for the gas lantern. He propped his rifle next to a small shelf. He reached inside his overcoat and removed the matches next to a pack of cigarettes. He really wanted a smoke now. In a single flick he lit a match, and the lantern produced a pale, blue-white glow.

Larsen tried to hide his fear from the artificial light and the German officer.

Winley and Lucht

Holding up the lantern, Winley paused on the German’s features. Thin lips without upturn appeared solemn but relaxed. He was clean-shaven with no sideburns. High cheekbones seemed to indicate birth into a refined family. The bridge of a long, straight nose separated dark eyes, intense under the brim of his hat. He was handsome and strong, almost statuesque with his arms still in the air; a white handkerchief hung in his right hand.

In his pocket, Winley mentally perceived his own folded, white symbol. He felt a connection with this German officer. Without knowing why, they both realized that they had each lost something.

With a wave of his hand, Winley motioned for the officer to move into the center of the barn. He looked to Larsen and flicked his head, another non-verbal instruction that soldiers learned, toward the door to push it closed. The first soldier remained a sentry at the far window and confirmed no movement to the captain.

With the barn door shut, Winley moved behind his captive. He instinctively pressed his worries to the back of his mind, something he had been doing ever since deciding to enlist in the military.

“Do you speak English?”

“Yes.” The German’s voice was deep and clear.

“What are you doing here?” Winley succeeded in keeping the nerves bubbling in his gut from vibrating his speech. If there was one thing Winley excelled at, it was controlling his emotions.

“I surrender,” he slowly replied, with emphasis on each consonant.

With that answer, Winley looked again to Larsen who was now back to peering through the slit in the door, and the soldier by the window. Both nodded negative.

“What’s your name?”

“Obersturmführer Frederich Lucht, SS-Panzergrenadier-Regiment 25.” Although his speech was heavily accented, Lucht had obviously been educated outside Germany.

“Turn around.”

Lucht obeyed.

The officer’s regiment was part of the famed Hitlerjugend, the division thus named because it recruited mostly from the ranks of Hitler Youth, young men born, bred and trained under the auspices of the Nazi party. General Josef Dietrich of the 6. Panzer-Armee had assigned Lucht’s regiment the assault on Elsenborn Ridge.

As he nodded for Larsen to come and search the officer, Winley removed his own .38 pistol with his free hand. He had never fired his weapon and was hoping that wouldn’t change now.

Larsen unclasped Lucht’s gun belt, currently without its weapon, and unbuttoned the thick, wool overcoat.

Lucht lowered his arms and allowed the coat to fall to the ground. “We have little time. They are coming.”

“Who’s coming?” Winley asked as Larsen continued the search.

“My regiment, and another from 12. SS-Panzer-Division.”

“They’re coming this way?” Winley asked, looking the German in the eye.

“Yes, to take the ridge, then down to Elsenborn.”

Larsen was surprised that he found no weapon. “Clean,” he reported. Instinctively, Larsen held up the man’s coat to put it back on. The officer acknowledged the rare kind gesture and slipped the coat back over his clean uniform.

Winley never moved his eyes off Lucht’s. They faced each other like pawns across a chessboard, although the stakes were much higher. Lucht responded in kind. Unbeknownst to either man, they both enjoyed and excelled at the strategic board game. Winley played chess throughout school and even had become a local champion.

“How long until they get here?”

“Orders are to leave at dawn. Very soon.”

Larsen glanced out the open window where Winley had lost himself in memories of his sister just minutes earlier. Below the clouds, the sky was just beginning to lighten with daybreak. He looked back to Winley with large pupils.

“Who’s your division commander?” Winley asked the question to test the German even though he didn’t know what the correct answer should be.

“Standartenführer Krass. We must hurry.”

“Is this a German offensive?”

“Wacht am Rhein.” Lucht physically relaxed, confident the Americans were beginning to trust him. He kept his tone serious.

“Larsen, check outside on Macon.”

The remaining private relieved Larsen as guard at the window as the big soldier went out the back door. He tried to walk quietly but his large stature made him sound like a horse trotting out of the barn.

“I don’t understand. Wacht what?” Winley motioned for Lucht to move over to the side of the barn. He placed the lantern back on the low shelf.

“Wacht am Rhein.” Lucht paused, thinking. “Watch, uh lookout, on the Rhein River, Hitler’s code name for the offensive. Two divisions are coming here. Three full armies are in the Ardennes, others, I believe, all along the Belgian border.”

Larsen returned with Macon and the small American reconnaissance group, now back inside their vulnerable refuge, stood stunned at the revelation. Larsen nervously began scratching the side of his leg, his round face sweating. The two others went pale. Perhaps the local gossipers were right after all.

Through the pines and mist, the sun began to brighten the eastern horizon from black to a deep dark blue. Then they heard a rumble, barely audible but clearly recognizable to even the inexperienced privates of the group. Had these Americans left a day earlier, they would have overlooked the ridge in the daylight and seen the Germans amassing below.

Outside the towns of Wirtzfelf, Rockerath and Losheim, mortar began falling on the western side of the front. The German Wehrmacht was moving.

“Forget the Kraut! Let’s get the hell out of here. Back down to Elsenborn.” Larsen nearly yelled, becoming increasingly agitated. The others appeared to agree. One went to grab his gear.

Lucht remained fixed on Winley, neither flinched.

“Slow down! I will not allow you men to do anything imprudent. Just ready your gear. I do not want anyone getting killed.” Winley didn’t know his good intention wouldn’t last the morning.

“There’s more that you must know.”

“More than three armies!” Larsen yelled. “We’ve only got a few divisions in these parts and even those are spread thin as a cobweb.”

Winley turned and glared at Larsen, finally taking his eyes off Lucht. Larsen didn’t comprehend the possible leak of information to the German officer.

“We’ve gotta get back and warn the C.O.” Larsen now let his rifle droop, aimed at the ground.

“Private!” Winley lost patience. “Get your gun and gear!”

“Where’s your radio?” Lucht calmly inquired.

All the Americans except Winley exchanged embarrassed glances. Larsen looked at his feet in shame as he knelt to pick up his weapon. He was truly sorry for what he had done.

“Broken,” the captain replied without intonation. Although Winley reinitiated the staring contest, he struggled to restrain the impulse to shoot Larsen for the not-so-comical incident earlier that evening that had resulted in a broken transistor, rendering their only mode of communication useless. Winley had briefly contemplated leaving the ridge and heading back down to Elsenborn. The voice of adult obedience kept him on the reconnaissance mission. He silently despised that voice.

Lucht reached inside his shirt pocket and removed a thick fold of papers, his turn to make a move. He quickly unfolded the maps and documents and placed them next to the dim lantern.

He spoke fast for broken English, and the captain struggled to follow. In less than five minutes, Lucht had precisely divulged Hitler’s plans to retake Europe, including routes, troop and artillery strength, and most importantly, Operation Greif, the key to Hitler’s success.

“Is your gear ready?” Winley asked his men with less authority than the situation demanded. His thoughts were too preoccupied on the recent events to pretend to be a leader. He came from a long line of New England aristocrats, educated and wealthy. He had mastered the etiquette of using dining utensils before his first day of grade school and how to tie a bowtie before high school. Military leadership skills were not prized attributes in his home, and war was a vulgarity to his liberal parents; they had long lost the gene for serving their country.

Oberon Winley had his own personal reasons for conscripting after graduating from Harvard. His current rank was due to his education, and he possessed no intention of climbing the army ladder any further. The only reminder of his Boston home was the white handkerchief in his pocket. The only one he wanted.

The four Americans and one German officer were ready to set out for Elsenborn. With luck, they would be back at the regiment camp in a few hours where Winley could unload the vital information that he now carried unwillingly on his shoulders. Snow began falling more densely as Larsen opened the barn door to the cold morning—and a single gunshot.

“Larsen!” Captain Winley’s warning came too late.

“Ugh.”

With that single, throaty utterance, Frederich Lucht stumbled a few feet and collapsed to the ground, face down in dirt. His cap rolled a few feet from his body.

A second shot ricocheted off an iron hinge and landed in a wood plank that made up the barn’s wall. Larsen slammed the ten-foot, wooden closure back to its insecure position, his face white beneath his heavy, dark beard.

Three more bullets sliced the stale air inside the barn. One found the private standing next to Winley, dropping him instantly.

Winley grabbed the maps from the ledge as the two remaining privates flew past him toward the rear exit. His own pistol re-holstered, Winley stuffed the documents into a breast pocket of his dark green uniform and scooped his snow cape and rifle off the ground.

Out back the privates saw the small, snow-covered pasture that meant fifty yards in the open until the three Americans would reach the forest wall. The ground had less than a few inches of packed, icy snow. A dusting of newly fallen snow was just coating the surface. A few gleams of light sparkled off the field, giving a bluish-white glow. It would be a beautiful site except a platoon from Lucht’s regiment was swarming around the barn.

Outside, all three men moved in slow motion, their speed hampered by the wet snow blanketing the field and their boots slipping more than gripping. Surprisingly, Larsen’s large torso led the escape, followed by Winley and Private Macon.

Lucht’s platoon had been dispatched soon after the German officer’s disappearance. If it had not been for a random request for Lucht’s opinion on the rules of a card game, Lucht’s final gesture to the army that he had served for his entire life would not have been found until morning. As it happened, they had found the officer’s personal sidearm conspicuously placed at the head of his cot. They immediately set most of the platoon out after him.

Schütze Heinz Sandig belonged to that platoon. Despite being sixteen years old, fair-skinned, blond and from any physical sign not having reached puberty, he still could not have looked less of a soldier. He never wanted to be in the army nor a member of the Hitlerjugend. But there was nothing else left for him. Both his parents had been killed in the raids on Berlin and his older brother died fighting. He hated school and performed poorly in academics and sports. His friends were all joining the ranks of the Hitlerjugend and so he followed along. That was only a few weeks ago.

Coming up to the lonely barn deep in the Ardennes, Heinz followed the other boys around the dilapidated structure as the Americans escaped across the back field.

Obediently, he kneeled by the rear corner of the barn. He only thought about how cold his hands were. With the butt of his gun firmly pressed against his right shoulder, he lined the sight of his Mauser Kar 98k rifle at another human being for the first time in his life. Looking through the site, he suddenly found himself thinking about his older brother and whether he had been a good soldier. He asked himself if he would be a good soldier. He thought of his mother and father. He wondered if they thought about him just before they were killed in the air raids. The young boy hated the war and now hated himself. He closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger. The gun exploded. In the snow-covered field, an American soldier running for his life fell dead, sliding across the pasture.

Heinz dropped his gun and began to cry, never knowing that his bullet hit a tree ten feet to the right of his target.

The Medic and the Lieutenant

“Medic! Medic!”

“All right! I hear ya!”

The morning dawned gray and it was only just beginning.

“Medic!” a boyish private screamed again at no one, hunched over another soldier who didn’t appear much older. The private appeared agitated but resolved. His uniform doubled the bulk of his body, and sprayed blood pimpled his pale skin and the wire, military-issue glasses perched on his nose.

The medic, Corporal Stephen Gould, glanced up toward the cry and witnessed chaos. Some men were fleeing into the forest while others were still emerging, groggy and bewildered, from foxholes. A moment earlier Corporal Gould had been fleeing with some of these men in their panicked awakening.

Scattered gunfire hit a few of the soldiers before they took their second breath of the cold, morning air. All of them appeared young, too young. A few months earlier, most of these guys would have been chasing girls at a football game pep rally or at worst running from the local truant officers for ditching school. However, at 0730 in the middle of the Belgian Ardennes forest near the German border, it was simply tragic.

“Medic!”

The immature urgency of the boy’s cracking voice snapped Gould back to his reality: he was a medic—whether he liked it or not. “I’m coming, already. You can stop yelling.” He paused; then, barely above a whisper and shaking his head, he repeated, “I’m coming.” He paused on the countless times he had said those exact words.

The veteran medic grabbed a small, green duffle bag and skidded across the slush. He kept his torso low, the dirty snow cape trailed behind, ghost-like in the early morning light and fog. Despite the constant rattle of gunfire and flashes from German muzzles, Gould heard only the crackle of crisp snow under his feet and saw only a thin blond boy with glasses.

The young private sat motionless, apparently compressing the shoulder of the other soldier. Gould sidled next to him.

“He’s my boss, uh, lieutenant.”

“And I’m fine,” the officer replied, irritated at the unnecessary attention. “Who are you? You’re not with our regiment.”

“No.” Gould pulled a pair of scissors from his duffle and cut away a small part of the officer’s uniform. He probed the wound with his finger and felt no foreign object. The bullet must have ricocheted off the bone. The skin was torn and the muscle slightly injured. But in Gould’s world, this wound wasn’t even worth his attention.

“Is it bad?” the blond boy asked.

“No. More blood than real damage.” He then ripped open a small packet with his teeth and poured a gray powder into the lieutenant’s small wound at the shoulder. Gould wedged his last sterile 4x4 inside the opening of the man’s shirt and wrapped a long length of dirty bandages, quickly but meticulously in a figure eight around the officer’s arm and shoulder. The medic was proud of his ability to work quickly and without emotion, even under fire.

“We need to get our men back into their holes,” the lieutenant ordered the soldier with glasses. “Walker, do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir!” he replied “But…”

“GO!”

The young blond jumped and ran with an odd strength for his frail body, nimbly keeping the glasses propped on his nose.

Gould began organizing the few remaining pieces of equipment in his bag. There wasn’t much left; it had been a busy morning. “I think they’re moving off, probably following the ones that ran into the woods or back to their platoon. I’m surprised they came out this far. It’s quieting down; but it won’t last. Best I can tell they’re headed this way though. We better hurry and get out of here. See if we can get to Honsfeld, or hopefully further west.”

“We’re not going anywhere.” The lieutenant spoke with an authority far beyond his age and glared Gould in the eyes. “I asked you who you were. And where did you and all these other soldiers come from? Everything was quiet just twenty minutes ago.”

“Name’s Gould. I’m part of the 2^nd ID. We came up from St. Vith to help you boys take the Roer River dams. We were less than a mile from here when it all started.”

“What started? What’s going on? I swear I was just having my morning coffee and bam. Shots came from everywhere at once, and soldiers I’ve never seen before were leaping over our foxholes. We’re even an I&R, and we knew nothing was supposed to be coming down. This is impossible!” the lieutenant exclaimed as he got up without Gould’s assistance. His voice just began to reveal his age. “What are you doing here?”

Gould explained, “The Krauts broke the line and hit about an hour ago, outside Losheim. The regiment there was nearly decimated. Everyone scattered. I was chased and ended up here. Part of the 106^th was there as well, platoons from three divisions got all mixed up and men took off in all directions. Nobody was sticking around for orders, if you get my drift. It came too fast.”

The lieutenant stood quiet for a moment. “We shared rations with a colonel transferring out that way just last night. He headed off late. I hope he realized what was going down before he got there.” He thought about asking Gould if he knew anything about the colonel but he just muttered something more to himself and walked back alone toward a foxhole.

Picking up his bag and following behind the lieutenant, Gould commented, “There were more Germans than I’ve seen since St.-Lô. Hell, since Omaha. Someone was yelling something about multiple Panzer-Armee units. If it’s true, we don’t have much time to get out of here. You need to get your men and leave!”

Walker arrived running and out of breath—and finally wiping the blood from his glasses, creating smears rather than clean lenses. “The men are ready for orders, all eighteen are accounted for. But, but there are dead guys everywhere. Some are Jerries and others are Americans I don’t recognize. I saw a few running into the woods. Where’d they come from?”

“Apparently, from the front line,” his boss replied.

“I thought we were the front line?” Walker asked himself out loud.

“Walker, right now, we’ve got to get ready. Sounds like we’re gonna have our hands full.”

“Get everyone back into their holes and ready weapons!” The lieutenant suddenly aligned his demeanor and barked orders like a drill sergeant at boot camp, almost more for show than effect—his men always followed his command and didn’t require the barking. “Search the casualties and grab any artillery you can find,” he yelled, holding his Garand M1 semiautomatic rifle at the end of his injured right arm. “Get me the phone!”

Men obeyed and began crouching into foxholes dug into the south side of the road from Losheim. Unknown to the Americans, it was the beginning of the German Army’s Rollbahnen D, the fourth of five lines of attack, lettered A through E, started that morning in what would become known as the Battle of the Bulge.

“Lines are cut, L.T.,” a soldier who sounded disappointed informed the lieutenant.

“Then get me the radio! Someone has to know what’s going on.”

Gould began to head west, his nearly empty medical bag slung over his shoulder. He thought about the previous few months, since St.-Lô. Despite the emptiness of the bag, it still felt heavy.

“Where’re you going, Corporal?” The lieutenant emphasized Gould’s rank because age was meaningless in this war. The young lieutenant had lied about his own age to enlist in the army before the war even started and, like many other young men, he kept his reasons to himself. Commissioned second lieutenant by the age of eighteen, he was now head of an Intelligence and Reconnaissance platoon with the 99^th Infantry. Although informal in his manner, older soldiers followed this young officer’s commands without hesitation.

“With everyone else, outta here,” replied Gould without turning around.

“I’ve got a feeling we’re gonna need a medic and we don’t have one. All we’ve got is a brand new medical kit in the foxhole, and nobody knows how to use the stuff in it. You’re staying!”

Gould stopped. In a moment, he mentally reviewed the faces of death he had seen since landing in Europe, horrific flashcard images flipped in his mind, hundreds of men, soldiers, women, children. Even Madeleine’s face appeared. Nothing seemed to matter. When a shard of metal no bigger than a small fingernail pierced a lung, the aorta or the brain, the result was always the same: death.

The medic wasn’t a doctor—at least not yet, the army saw to that—and, despite his best efforts, there was nothing he could do to stop the inevitable. Death would come to these young men regardless of what he did, if not at the moment then eventually. Nothing mattered: not to the injured; not to God; and certainly not to Gould.

With serious reservation, Corporal Gould turned around and walked back and jumped into the cold, dank hole in the ground with the lieutenant and the skinny soldier with glasses.

The morning continued as the week had begun. Bitter air flowed through the supposed winter gear the infantry divisions were issued as if it were made of cheesecloth. Freezing wet penetrated to the skin through snow-soaked boots, socks and trousers. Wool hats, gloves and coats provided little warmth. There never seemed to be enough clothing to go around and the men were accustomed to sharing.

The sky never blued as the dark gray clouds hovered relentlessly overhead. When snow wasn’t falling, the wet mist, damp fog—or the enemy!—prevented the troops from starting small fires to dry out, neither their clothing nor themselves. For over a month these soldiers were never dry and never warm and rarely slept. Mushy snow covered the entire forest except for the brown, muddy roads that webbed their way between towns. Deep ruts carved out by jeeps, trucks and tanks measured up to three feet deep, becoming physical barriers between opposing troops and causing men to become state-fair shooting targets if they tried to cross.

The young lieutenant’s regiment had camped along side one of these roads, if it could be called a road, that came from Losheim. The entire division was spread thin, north to south, along the front line through the Ardennes. They were mistakenly told that it was not an area of strategic importance.

“Now what?” Gould inquired of his new lieutenant. He had become accustomed to the constant change, officially or unofficially, in leadership.

“That depends on how much you can tell me about what’s going on here.”

“Not much I’m afraid.”

Walker squatted in the foxhole across from his L.T. and Gould, his weapon resting on his thin thighs. He looked almost calm despite the events of the morning. Gould eyed him with curiosity.

“You’ve got to know more than we do. We landed at Le Havre a little over a month ago. Took us almost as long to get here. We haven’t seen a Jerry, let alone combat. At first we thought it was just the outgoing mail that we heard this morning.”

“That wasn’t outgoing. It was incoming!” Gould replied. His curiosity deepened. “You telling me all these guys are that fresh.” To Gould, this regiment certainly didn’t act like untested soldiers.

A few men moved in the woods behind the foxholes. Muffled voices told their story as they headed west. Snow began to fall again over the Ardennes.

“Yep. Almost the whole 99^th is just a couple of months old. The few that aren’t replacements are in command now.” The L.T. sensed Gould’s curiosity. “And no, I’ve been in the army a long time, longer than most, anyway.” He ended the conversation with his standard explanation: “I’m older than I look.”

Just then a soldier jumped into the foxhole like a football halfback carrying a large radio.

“Found this in the back of that jeep. I can’t believe it, but it works.”

“Get me battalion HQ!”

“Already got ‘em. Here ya go.” The soldier delivered the handset to the lieutenant and kneeled next to Walker. The two younger men began chatting with a feigned composure.

“Don’t tell me that! I’ve got eyes!” The L.T. screamed into the handset. “I’m telling you that it’s happening right now. There’s a German column coming up the road from Losheim. We need artillery, and now, damn it! Look, it’s my job to report intelligence and that’s what I’m doing. We were under fire minutes ago and we’ve got reports that the Krauts are coming straight at us. Yeah. We need artillery! And the sooner the better!”

He stood, handset still at his ear, and looked above the hole. Visibility measured merely in feet. His men, all eighteen, were still alive and hunkered down in a series of holes alongside the road. Each hole, originally meant for two or three, contained five to eight men, most from other platoons that had come running through earlier. Others had disappeared into the fog or woods. Scores lay dead on the road, now half-covered by snow and mud.

“You really haven’t seen any action?” queried Gould, still staring at the thin soldier across from him.

“Six weeks ago we were in England. German bombs from those unmanned things smashed the hell out the place, but things have been basically quiet since we got here. What about you? Have you seen any action?”

“You could say I have.” Gould intentionally concealed information he’d been trying to forget. He had seen too much action. But Walker looked on with such simplicity that Gould felt compelled to continue. He kept his explanation as brief as he could. “Landed at Omaha in June, pushed on to St.-Lô in July, then to Paris and toward the German border, and now here, sitting in this damn hole as perplexed as you are about where I’m headed next.”

Unphased by the obvious brevity, Walker furthered his investigation. “How were the beaches? I’ve only heard second-hand stories and some of the newsreels. Was it that bad?”

The soldier next to Walker now looked on as well. From under the hoods of their snow capes, two youthful faces beamed like school children listening to their teacher, hoping for words of inspiration, or at least distraction.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Gould said, abruptly ending the conversation. The soldiers looked dismayed and slightly wounded. Gould took a deep breath as the nightmare of the last night before capturing St.-Lô began to play in his mind, the night he lost Madeleine. He squeezed his eyes shut in a metaphorical attempt to squeeze out the memory. It wasn’t enough. He tried to replace the thoughts with better ones.

“I’m not a doctor, just a medic,” Corporal Gould replied to the nurse in charge of the surgical ward.

“You’re not just a medic,” Madeleine said in return as she led the corporal down a row of cots. “You boys in the field do as much, if not more, than the doctors here.”

Madeleine Béart, a French-American, worked as a nurse at the Hotel Ceour en Hiver. After the Normandy invasion, the hotel north of St.-Lô had been transformed into a makeshift Divisional HQ, military hospital, barracks and staging area as the Allies pushed further into France.

“I don’t know about that.” The corporal scanned the beds. While his eyes searched for his friend’s face, his mind searched for words to ask Madeleine.

“I do,” she said.

Without hearing her, the medic sighed. “I don’t see him.” He stopped walking.

“He was your friend?”

“The last, I think.”

“Certainly not the last.” Madeleine turned and faced the medic who appeared distraught. She lightly touched his arm.

Gould tried to look the beautiful woman in the eye but dizziness and a lack of courage prevented making contact. He stared at his feet. “Actually, he was the last.”

“I don’t understand.” Madeleine’s face looked serious but empathetic.

“He was the last original member from my company. They’re all dead now. In only one month, everyone I came over with is officially gone. The entire company is nothing but replacements, including the officers.”

“You are not a replacement,” Madeleine pointed out. “So they are not all gone.”

Raising his head, Gould thought back to himself: I’ve never been anything but a replacement.

Madeleine continued to smile at him.

Gould finally found the words. “Would you like to have some coffee? It’s army-issue but not too bad.”

“I’d love some.”

The pair proceeded down the stairs to the hotel lobby. There were hundreds of soldiers and officers drinking coffee, casually talking or merely standing around. Gould guided the nurse through the congestion to a table with a large metal canister with a spout at the bottom and rows of cups. He poured, and she smiled.

They took their coffee and walked out large glass doors to the veranda on the side of the lobby. The sky was gray and rain fell heavily. Water ran off the canopy in large drops as the two silently watched the rain and thought the same thoughts.

With another extricating breath, Stephen Gould stood up and turned his back to the other soldiers. “What’s the word, Lieutenant?”

“They have less of a clue than we do. And unless the weather clears there won’t be any air support. Sounds like we’re on our own for at least the rest of the morning.”

“Retreat?”

“Negative. We hold the road. Those are my orders.” The L.T. faced Gould with a look of resolution and fear. To him, Gould still possessed experience, combat experience, and that often accounted for more than rank or years in the service. He hoped Gould would offer some words of encouragement, or at least some advice. From the look on Gould’s face, he realized he wasn’t about to get them.

“Against an entire Panzer-Armee?” Corporal Gould tried to sound convincing, not scared.

Disappointed, the L.T. said, “Whatever portion of it that comes down that road.”

“But you’re intelligence, not combat. Your men aren’t ready for this. That’s why you guys are behind the lines. They weren’t supposed to see that kind of combat. It could be…”

The L.T. cut the medic off. “They did this morning. We hold the road. Take a look at this and keep whatever you want.” The lieutenant tossed Gould the medical kit that the arrogant colonel had hastily left the night before.

With that the lieutenant leaped out of the foxhole and started an inventory of men, weapons, artillery and the terrain. He moved with confidence, and his men responded. They had little in the way of heavy artillery, but there were a couple of Browning .30-caliber machine guns, a .50-caliber on that colonel’s flipped-over jeep, some BARs and numerous submachine guns.

The platoon’s position, however, was their greatest strength. The dense forest would force the German spearhead along the center of the road, which would be slow moving in the slush. Their foxholes, hidden in the snow and mist, would flank and entrap the advance.

Gould searched through the medical kit and couldn’t believe his luck. No real medic would have left that stuff here, at least not intentionally. There were supplies that Gould hadn’t been able to get for weeks, and some he had never seen. He sighed in relief as he pulled out the packets of morphine and held them in his hand.

In the field, medics were revered as saints, and soldiers handed over rations, especially cigarettes and other personals, as gestures of appreciation. That admiration, however, always escaped Corporal Gould. From his experiences, he always felt useless.

Winley and Larsen

Captain Oberon Winley and Private “Big” John Larsen sped without guidance through the dense forest, neither thinking about the two other privates back at the barn. The heavy onslaught of snow, thick fog and pine branches nearly blinded the pair. Only gravity indicated that they traveled downhill. They did their best to keep their feet underneath them.

“I can’t go any farther,” gasped Larsen, clutching one hand at his large chest.

Winley turned his head and tried to look behind. He saw nothing; but he also knew that seeing nothing didn’t mean no one was out there. The Germans could be a few feet away in the current conditions.

Larsen stopped, nearly collapsing, and Winley ducked behind a tree trunk barely wider than his own thinner frame.

“Winney, I’m gonna heave.” Larsen bent over at the waist with his hands on his thighs and his mouth opened like a caught trout. He sucked in the frigid air in gasps.

“Quiet!” Winley tried to listen for the sound of a moving platoon: voices, snapping twigs, crunching snow or even trucks. The forest returned nothing.

“Maybe they’ve given up,” Larsen barely coughed out. “I think I could really use your hanky.” The big man wiped his lips and began choking from his tightened lungs.

“Sorry. You are on your own.” Winley placed his hand over the cloth in his pocket. “And I doubt that they have given up. They have certainly located Lucht’s body, and they are now aware of what he has done. They are either behind those trees, or trying to head us off from the front. Either way, they are certainly pursuing us.”

Trying to control his breathing, Larsen looked to the line of firs, then back to Winley with terror in his eyes. “Do you even know where we’re headed?”

Winley already had his compass in hand and began calculating in his head. “We are moving south. Unless we deviate from the current course, Elsenborn should be just down this hill and rather close.” The truth was that Winley didn’t know where the town was located. “We must keep moving,” he ordered as he reinitiated their journey.

“Hold on, I’m coming.” Larsen had barely regained his breath and began moving his body again when he started to ask, “What about…”

“You must forget them,” Winley interjected, knowing what Larsen was about to inquire. “Dwelling on the loss will only slow you down. Concentrate on returning to the regiment.” Winley didn’t realize his own hypocrisy. “Save your strength. And would you please be quiet, if not for just one blessed moment!” Winley’s impatience rang out through the storm.

Like a punished puppy hanging its head, Larsen trudged forward, wiping the snow that had frosted on his thickening beard but had melted on his broad forehead. He moved well for a large man. As much strength as gut, his father always reminded him. Larsen’s torso more than tripled that of Winley’s, and the big man possessed the physical ability to overpower any man or officer. His personality, however, belied his prowess.

On the ridge, heavy snow dropped in torrents of wind and quickly accumulated as the pair had fled the barn. Larsen’s back steamed from sweat and the snow melting off his wool jacket. The large private could barely see his captain even though Winley was only a few feet in front of him. Their progress slowed to a crawl and then to a walk. Each step required tremendous energy just to lift their soaking wet boots out from the drifts of heavy slush. Larsen lagged behind.

“Captain Winley?” Larsen spoke as if he were chatting to a friend during a picture show, barely audible enough for the captain to hear.

“What?” Winley kept moving.

“I think I’m stuck.”

Winley turned around. “What?” He felt the anger fill his chest as he began to backtrack. He saw the private buried up to his neck in snow, arms raised in surrender and pressed against his head. “What happened to you now?”

“I just took a step and fell in.”

“Good hell, Private. You think you are stuck?” Winley again listened for any movement and heard nothing but the howl of wind. The snow continued to fall in sheets. “You had better hope the Germans are rutted as well, or you have placed both of us in peril.” He stepped back up to Larsen’s position. Looking down at Larsen’s large head Winley inquired, “What is this?”

As the captain began to dig around Larsen’s shoulders and shake his head, Larsen said, “I think my feet are wet.”

“Mine are, too. The white material that we have been traveling through and stepping in and that is falling from the sky is called snow, just in case you are too ignorant to realize it.”

“No, sir. Sorry. What I mean to say is that I think I’m standing in water.”

As he scooped handfuls of snow, Winley realized that they had been running through a narrow ravine, probably carved by a small stream coming off the ridge. The v-shaped terrain had filled in with cubic yards of new snow.

“I’m sorry, sir. I guess I was just too big.”

“Quiet, Larsen. And you don’t need to keep apologizing. It’s okay.” Winley eased a bit. Seeing such a large head helplessly sticking out of the snow made the captain smile through the thoughts of his sister and current mission. “I will try and free one of those tree trunks you call arms. Then, you can dig yourself out.”

Larsen began twisting his shoulders to loosen the pack. The snow fell so quickly, however, that nature reclaimed much of the progress the two mortals made. Some forces were too strong to fight against, they both thought.

The two men struggled for nearly half an hour before Larsen had freed his arms enough to gain full mobility. He waved them in exhilaration.

“Halleluiah! Let the angels sing!”

“Quiet St. Nicholas. You are not out yet. And Christmas cheer is still a week away.”

“I’ll get myself outta here in no time now, sir. And it’s a proven fact that you can start singing Christmas carols the day after Thanksgiving.”

Winley looked up. “I do not believe you will. Shh!” Winley pressed his hand to Larsen’s mouth. “I hear something.”

Larsen’s eyes darted back and forth in panic above his red, swollen cheeks.

Very faintly through the storm and still a ways off, Captain Winley heard voices. Quickly, he began shoveling snow from the hillside back on top of Larsen. The private, although bewildered, remained quiet and obedient. As soon as his body was hidden, Winley lightly covered the top of Larsen’s head with snow. Now he really did look like Santa Claus. Winley used a few tree branches and swept the snow. Then he placed the branches on top of Larsen’s head. The raging storm finished the camouflage.

Winley took a couple of steps up the hill and jumped down into the ravine at an angle similar to the slope. He was instantly submerged up to his chest. He finished covering himself in the snow as if he were burying himself in sand at the beach. He knew his position would be obvious but had no other options. He heard the first crunches of footsteps as he wedged his head underneath the cold, white blanket.

Six German soldiers tracking the escaping Americans made their way down the ravine. They had managed to follow two pairs of boot prints until the storm covered any further markings. Now they were lost. The young members of the Hitler-jugend were well-armed but grossly inexperienced.

The German posse followed the notch down the hill in single file toward Winley and Larsen. Luckily, the snowfall and wind had almost erased any sign of their predicament. The captain listened while Larsen began sweating.

The leading German held up his hand and stopped. “Halt!” The soldier’s boot set down a few yards from Winley’s own.

Winley disappeared in thought.

“You’re dead, Oberon!” Jackie Martell yelled across the schoolyard. The school’s star rugby player and two other seniors chased after the young boy.

Oberon had been studying in the library with his sister when the trio of athletes stormed in. He managed to escape the building, leaving his jacket at the table. Outside, snow had been falling all day. He raced across the snowy field and into the woods beyond. His pursuers were not far behind.

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DECEMBER 16, 1944

Winley on the Ridge

Winley and Lucht

The Medic and the Lieutenant

Winley and Larsen