Thursday, 25 January 1945
Mr. & Mrs. Armand
Lemay
Bayou Cane
Houma, Louisiana
Dear Mama and Papa,
I hope you don't mind - this letter isn't like ones I usually write, but
I need to talk to somebody. No, I need to talk to you, tell you what
happened today. It's eating me up inside.
We were on patrol, Lieutenant Hanley, Sergeant Saunders, myself, Doc, Kirby,
Littlejohn and Billy. It was just supposed to be a regular patrol
but things went wrong from the start.
It was bitter cold, snow a foot deep and no hot chow. We weren't
out an hour before the Lieutenant fell and wrenched his back. He
could barely walk so Sarge sent Doc back with him. That made us short
two men. That wouldn't have been a problem if the patrol had stayed
what it was supposed to be, a recon, no enemy contact.
An hour or so past noon we came to a clearing. There were bodies
everywhere, frozen solid, arms and legs sticking up out of snow dyed red
, eyes wide open staring at nothing. They weren't soldiers' bodies.
They were civilians - men, women, little kids. Sarge even found a
baby. Billy couldn't take it and got sick. Sarge told us he'd heard
about this happening other places. He said the people were Jews.
The Germans had killed them only because of that. There was little
talking from then on.
The day only got worse.
I was on point, being careful, cautious. I thought, like always.
Germans were dug in deep, low behind a clump of bushes that looked like
any of a thousand others. I led the squad into an ambush.
Billy was hit straight off, but he didn't die - not clean, not easy.
During the whole battle he lay next to Sarge crying, calling for his mother.
We could hear him even through the gunfire. There was no time to
comfort him, only time to try and get us, all of us, out alive.
Saunders was hit when he tried to move up. It was the weirdest thing.
I was covering him, me and Kirby. He raised up just enough to throw
in a grenade and like a movie in slow motion I saw him get hit. A
machine gun bullet caught him in the right shoulder, up high, went straight
through him, knocking him back off his feet. Blood sprayed
the snow behind him, a hundred tiny red dots.
The grenade went off and it got real quiet - suddenly. Littlejohn
went to Billy and I tried to get to Sarge, but my legs wouldn't move.
I tried to yell at Kirby that I couldn't get up but he was already with
Saunders. Kirby was yelling for me to come - he needed help.
The Sarge was bleeding and he couldn't stop it. He kept yelling.
His face was white - almost as white as Sarge's. Somehow I got there,
but I don't remember how.
Billy died in that clearing. Littlejohn carried his body all the
way back, alone.
Kirby and I brought Sarge home.
We're behind the lines now in a little village. The people try their
best to make us welcome.
Sarge might live. The doctors are hopeful, whatever that means. Littlejohn,
he won't ever be the same. Him and Billy were pals, best friends.
He hasn't said a word since it happened - not to me - not even to the Lieutenant.
I don't blame him.
I wish I was home talking to you instead of having to write this all in
a letter. But maybe it's best this way. I don't think I could
say out loud what I've written down.
Thanks for listening. I miss you both. I miss home. I
love you.
Your son,
Paul
January 26, 1945, Friday, 2:30a.m.
Mr. & Mrs. Evan Halsey
Halsey Farm Road
Arkinda, Arkansas
Dear Folks,
I know
it's late to be writing but after what happened today, tonight, I couldn't
sleep with it all on my mind.
What
happened is bad, so bad maybe you should stop reading now and just tear
this whole thing up. Heck, maybe I should do that myself.
We,
the whole squad, were sent on a mission this morning, early. It was
colder even than it gets at home this time of year.
First
off Lieutenant Hanley takes a nasty fall and twists his back.
Sarge, Sergeant Saunders, sends me back with him. Hanley's bad off,
in a lot of pain and can't hardly walk at all, but I feel funny leaving
the men without a medic.
The
squad goes on, Sarge, Caje, Kirby, Littlejohn and Billy. I get the
Lieutenant back and settled into his quarters after the doctor takes a
look at him. Bed rest for a week recommended. I bet Hanley
gives it two days, three at the most.
My day
is pretty normal. I work around the field hospital helping the doctors
with the wounded. I check the Lieutenant a couple times, eat a hot supper,
get the men bedded down for the night.
I'm
dozing off in a chair by the pot bellied stove when the door is kicked
in. That scares the daylights out of me and I jump up, trying to
get the sleep out of my eyes.
Standing
in the doorway is Littlejohn and he's holding Billy Nelson in his arms
like a baby. Before I make if over, calling for Captain Jaworski,
I can see Billy's dead. His face is pasty white and there's no expression
on the boy's face. I feel sick, like I'm going to throw up but I
don't. I try to take Billy from Littlejohn but he won't let me.
He pushes past, a gentle giant of a man, and sits on a bench in a far corner,
the body cradled against his chest. He sits and stares straight ahead.
Caje's
voice from outside pulls me back and I run outside.
Kirby
is sitting on the ground next to a rigged up stretcher looking down at
his hands like he's never seen them before. Caje is crouched at the
foot end, talking fast, all his words running together. He doesn't
even realize he's talking French to me.
The
man on the stretcher is Sarge. All I can see is his face. He's
covered with wool German coats, almost buried in them. His face,
like Billy's, is pasty white, but when I lean close I can see tiny puffs
of breath coming from his mouth. I thank God he's alive.
I signal
Caje to pick up his end and between us we get Sarge inside. I yell
at Kirby to get up and follow. I guess he hears because he follows
us.
Doc
Jaworski pulls the coats off Saunders. He's awake, looking up at
me but not seeing it's me. Jaworski cuts away Sarge's coat and shirt
and the bandaging and Saunders cries out, weak, more like a kitten mewling.
I don't know where Kirby's been but all of a sudden he's right there in
the Captain's face, yelling "Give him somethin' for pity's sake!
Give him somethin' for the pain!" His voice goes real low and soft
then and he says "Sarge was so good...never said a word...all the time
we was carryin' him...never complained. Give him somehin' now.
For God's sake!"
Before
me or Caje can do anything, Kirby drops right down to the floor, out cold.
We get him onto a cot and I start getting his wet boots and socks off checking
for frostbite, then cover him with blankets. When I get his gloves
and liners off I feel sick all over again. His glove liners are stuck
to his hands. The palms and fingers are nothing but broken, bleeding
blisters. I have Caje take off his gloves and they're almost as bad.
Those
two guys carried the Sarge nearly 12 miles over snow a foot deep in places,
through woods, up and down hills, dodging German patrols. They deserve
medals for what they did, but I doubt they'll get any. It's that
sort of bravery that happens all the time over here but is so quiet and
so personal it just never gets noticed at all. But I noticed and
I'll never forget.
The
orderlies can't get Billy away from Littlejohn. They have to wait
till he falls asleep, give him a shot to keep him out and take the boy's
body.
He's
sleeping now. I can see him from here. I don't know how he'll
be when he wakes up. Caje and Kirby are asleep too. I got their
hands cleaned and dressed and some hot food into them.
Saunders
is hooked up to a couple IVs. One's giving him blood, the other,
fluids. We were lucky we had a couple guys with his type willing
to donate. He's a little better...not so pale. He was hit in
the shoulder. Captain says if he makes this night, he'll live.
I'm sitting next to him. When he wakes up he'll want to see a friendly
face.
Lieutenant
Hanley came in a bit ago, on his feet against orders, to see the men for
himself. I told him the story as I saw it. He looked as sick
as I felt. He wanted to stay in the hospital too for the night, in
case of any changes, but the Captain forbid it and sent him back to his
quarters. He stayed long enough to take my place so I could get some
coffee. He's a good man. They all are.
I hate
to say this but I've been so concerned about the living, I almost forgot
about the dead.
Billy
was a fine youngster, full of life and fun, a happy kid who should've been
home, going to parties, walking with a girl of a warm summer evening, going
fishing. Not here, not dying. He was a good soldier.
He came to do a job. He did it just right. God keep him.
Like
I told you at the beginning of all this, maybe you should just tear this
letter up. Maybe you did and this is all for nothing. Maybe
I won't even mail it but I sure feel better having put it down to paper.
I keep
the Bible you sent in my field jacket, in an inside pocket so I won't lose
it. It brings me comfort. I'll read some tonight before I try
to sleep. I guess I should say morning; the sun's coming up now.
I love
you both. I miss you. God bless,
Lee (or as the guys all call me, Doc)
January 27, 1945
Mr. & Mrs. James
Kirby
George Kirby
250 South Main Street
Marion, Iowa
Dear Mom, Dad and George, (Hiya Kid)!
Got
a few minutes and a sheet of paper and pencil so thought I'd write.
What a surprise,huh? I'll try to be better about answering your letters
but it's hard sometimes, heck, it's hard all the time! Sorry the
writing's so messy. I got a bad blister on my thumb!
I'll
tell you right off I'm fine, but the squad's in pretty sorry shape.
On a patrol a couple days ago, we lost Billy Nelson. You remember
me telling you about Billy. He was a good kid, a good soldier.
It was awful. Pure god awful. He was a lot like you, George, a goofy
kid some of the time, but mostly just a good joe. He was 20 years
old. His favorite band was Harry James' and he had a huge crush on
Dorothy Lamour.
I
don't know why I think it's important to tell you that, but it feels less
lonely when I remember things about him. I wish now that I'd told
Billy I thought it was an all right guy. I'll miss him.
I
tried to talk to Littlejohn about Billy, but he clammed up tight.
They were close. Caje is tore up too, about Billy, but about Sergeant
Saunders more, I think.
Sarge
got it after Billy did. It was clean, a bullet through the shoulder,
but I couldn't get it to stop bleeding. Finally between Caje and
me we did. We made a stretcher out of two dead Germans' coats and
a couple saplings. Sarge nearly died on us before we made it back.
It was blue cold and he'd lost too much blood.
At
the field hospital the doctor let us take turns sitting with him.
First they weren't sure he'd live, but Sarge is stubborn as they come.
He was awake today. Caje told me. It was the first time I'd
seen Caje smile since before we left on that lousy patrol.
Between
you and me and the lamp post I think maybe Caje thought it was his fault
we got caught in the ambush. It wasn't There's no way he could've
seen those Krauts. They were hidden too good. Nobody could've
seen 'em.
We
saw something else the day of that patrol. I can't tell you about
that, not yet. I can't even talk to the other guys about it.
Someday I hope I'll be able to, someday. I wonder if anybody will
believe it.
So
Mom, how are things in Ma Kirby's kitchen? Hope you're baking up
a storm. I can eat anything you send and I guess I could maybe share
some
with the guys. My stomach's
growlin' just thinking about that care package!
Dad,
don't mess with the transmission on my Chevy. Just leave it, okay?
Not that I don't think you can handle it, but the war will be over soon
and I, well. Just wait for me, okay?
George,
be a good kid. Hey, no laughing! Take care of things till I
get back and keep me posted on the newest music and all. Hubba hubba!
Or is that old hat now? You're my lifeline, kid. I'm countin'
on you.
Gotta
go. I want to get some chow before I sit my watch with Sarge.
Maybe he'll be awake tonight. Wouldn't mind talking to him.
Won't expect answers, but the Sarge, he listens real good. I sure
do miss you all, yup, even you, kid. Write me. SEND FOOD!
Love,
Bill
p.s. George, if you
get into Chicago any time soon, eat a Flukie's hot dog for me, will ya?
Get the works on it too! Don't forget the hot peppers! B
January 29, 1945, Monday
Mrs. Laura Saunders
Miss Louise Saunders
1323 Crain Street
Evanston, Illlinois
Dear Mom and Louise,
Sorry
it's taken me so long to answer your last letter. We've been on patrol
daily and totally out of touch, no paper and no place to mail anything
anyway.
I promise,
you will be hearing from me more often for a while. We've settled
in behind our own lines in a small town, very provincial, very French.
We spent a day here last month. There's a good bakery and decent
tobacco shop, but I don't think I'll ever really enjoy a French cigarette.
In the
center of town there's a fountain. It's sort of a gathering place
for the townspeople. Kids splash in it . Women do small pieces
of laundry there by hand. Reminds me of Grandma Schroeder and her
old washboard. Old men smoke and talk. There are no young men
here. They're either in the Maquis, the French underground, or dead.
We get
hot meals twice a day, a warm water shower and a soft bed. Lots of
sack time. Not a bad life. Feels funny though, like I'm sloughing
off, not doing my job or something. Guess I'll get over that feeling
when I get used to being off my feet.
By now,
who am I kidding, by the first line you realized this isn't my handwriting.
It's too neat. I put off telling you this because I just didn't know
how. I was wounded four days ago in a skirmish. A bullet clipped
the top of my shoulder so my right arm is in a sling. No surgery
or anything since the bullet went clean through. At first it burned,
now it's mostly an achy throb. Don't worry! I'll be fine.
The
worst part is, we, I, lost a man. Actually he was more a boy, 20
years old. He'd been with the squad since right after Omaha Beach.
His name was Billy Nelson. His death hit us all hard, but especially
Littlejohn. Those two were inseparable. Brothers couldn't have
been closer. Littlejohn's not the same guy I knew. Something's
gone out of him, a bit of his heart maybe, or his soul. I don't know.
Doc
says he's running out of space so I'll finish this up. I think he's
just tired of me running off.
Take
care of each other. Know I love you both and write! Getting
mail means more than you can know. Doc says send cookies - any kind!
Kirby just came in. He says make 'em macaroons!
Love and miss you,
Chip