Cold Determination

by Jennifer Lyons

  Marguerite left me there. I walked to my bed and sat for a time, thinking. I loved that girl, I knew. She was one in a million and I didn’t care if we stayed in France or we moved to Wyoming; as long as we stayed together, my life would be complete. I couldn’t help smiling.

  That same day, I was released. I was healing fine, the doctor told me I could leave and rejoin the Americans. That horrible pinching feeling was back in my stomach—I didn’t want to leave.

  I was told I could stay the night then join a small group who were leaving early the next morning. All I could do was wait and hope Marguerite would come back before I left. Then, we heard the bombs.

  Everyone panicked. It was as if we had been living in an oasis, apart from the world and that sound brought it all back. The bombs were close—we could hear buildings collapse and we ran for cover. Thankfully, the attack only lasted a few moments. Then, the screams started.

  I was safe and uninjured, so I left my small hiding place and ran back towards the hospital. It was gone—only the foundation remained. It looked like not all had gotten out and the rubble was strewn with a few body parts and blood. I looked around for survivors the best as I could. I looked back towards the place the village had been.

  No one was running from there. No nurses or doctors were running around looking for new patients. There was nothing. The houses that had once occupied the few streets were gone. I knew there were no survivors and I knelt, no longer able to hold myself upwards. I couldn’t understand what had even attracted the Germans to this place. It was a sleepy little place, no threat to anyone. The hospital had been set up in haste—it was no threat. The church stood no longer. As I looked across the clearing dust, I saw even the small signpost announcing the town name was gone. It was all gone.

  Then, a small movement from the corner of my right eye caught my attention. That white cat was headed towards the place the hospital stood. She walked right by the old building and headed to the graveyard. She slowly walked by each new grave, then made her way back. She sat at the edge of it, looking stoically across. Instinctively, I knew she was the only survivor. I knew she would keep vigilance over this place, forever guarding the price it paid for the horribleness of war.

  I turned and walked back to a gathering crowd of the few survivors. I helped gather people and supplies best as we could. We made the choice to use the barn again, at least for the night, resolving to leave in the morning with as many as we could. There was nothing left here.

  Battle of the Bulge

  It was time to leave. We left in pairs, in threes, and in fours, joining the river of people who were lost, looking for stable rightness in a world gone mad. I had little food and water. All I wanted was to get away from France, away from the fighting. I joined up with a couple of guys from Britain and one Pole, reasoning if we stuck together, we would be safer. We didn’t talk much and no one introduced themselves. I called both the Brits ‘Brit’ and the Pole ‘Lock.’ They called me Yank. It was enough.

  The autumn of 1944 was a crazy time. The days were hot and the nights cold. There was an almost constant threat of rain. I was back in that goddamned mud, and the thick tensions of war permeated me from every angle. I just wanted it to be over, one way or another. Every face I looked into was little more than a tired mask, moving along spurred by necessity of survival. Food lost its taste. My chest hair grew into the fiber of my shirt and onerously pulled with every move I made. My boots were heavy with mud. When I cleaned them off, more mud stuck to them. There was nothing to do except walk forward.

  After a solid week of walking, I found myself content. I wasn’t in battle and I did not miss it. I had been out of the fight for nearly two months and I began questioning if my training was still intact; I wondered if I would still be able to kill. That horrible pinching feeling settled deep into my gut and never left. The threat of returning to battle consumed my thoughts, taking away my rest and any happiness I might have found. It was exhausting.

  Looking around, I saw many on the same journey. I realized how bleak life was, in that moment, those years. It didn’t matter where anyone came from or how much money we had. It didn’t matter what someone called their God. For those years, we were forsaken, on our own, in an earthly made Hell, abandoned of hope and faith. We were fighting the worst demon, created and inflicted by man, unleashed on all mankind. That is what truly exhausted me, stealing my essence from my very soul. There is no rest for the weary in such a world void of hope. Still, I walked.

  It took nearly two weeks to reach an allied camp. My companions and I were so exhausted, all we wanted was a corner, out of the way, to find rest. Someone pointed us to the showers, then the mess hall and the four of us figured we would rest easier if we took care of ourselves. Taking my shirt off for the first time in two weeks was painful, and I tried to take my time. Once I was out of it, I removed the rest of my clothes and got into the shower.

  The water wasn’t warm but it wasn’t cold. I let it wash over, through my hair and down my face and back. I turned towards it, allowing it to rinse my eyes and every inch of my face. The water rinsed away the grime and then some of the bleakness of the last two weeks. I washed and washed then rewashed my hair and skin. I finally stepped out into a clean but course towel, feeling better. It was only a lukewarm shower but thankfully, it had done more than clean my filthy body.

  I had clean clothes to change into and then I stepped to the mirror for a shave. My hair had grown, the top too long and the sides filling in from the mohawk I had before. My beard was scraggly, long, and unkept. I looked myself over and realized I still looked like me. My eyes were still the brightest blue, and my hair was still curly and wiry. My cheeks had sunk in a little but the changes I felt so deep inside were not present on my face. I thought my eyes would have sunken into my head, mirroring my hopelessness. I was surprised and while I shaved, I checked several times to see that I was still young and still alive. Only I stared back at me.

  I had left the Brits and Lock somewhere between shower and mess hall. I never saw them again. It saddened me just a little, but I wasn’t surprised. It was too chaotic to hope to keep new friends. I ate a good, hot dinner alone even though I was surrounded by what felt like thousands of people. After, I slept and slept.

  My dreams were filled with gold flecks, my father’s one eye, and white cats guarding potatoes. The dreams didn’t frighten me, but they reminded me of all I’d lost during my short twenty-three years. I woke wondering how my mother was and the last time anyone had heard from Peter.

  It took a little while but I finally tracked down members from my unit. We caught each other up on the past months. Turns out, I had been injured the worst but had the best stay. Several guys met French girls and those pictures were passed around. I didn’t discuss Marguerite.

  We stayed on for a few more day, all the while more men showed up, looking for rest. Units went out on small missions and all of us readied for the next big push. We had no idea it would come so hard and fast. Somehow, the Germans still had plenty of fight in them.

  December 1944 was cold and bleak as the autumn was. It was as if the seasons even understood how bleak the war was and played accordingly. Snow came early, much earlier than anyone expected and only added to the hardships we faced daily. A small favor came with the chill. When it froze, there was no mud. There was so much snow, even I, with my long legs, was knee deep in the drifts. It was cold, we were underfed, and no one wanted to spend another holiday in Europe ever.

  We knew the Germans were up to something; they were too quiet. Thanks to the snow, we stood out like sore thumbs in our olive drabs. Some kid named Pezzone came up with the great idea to take white bed sheets from houses for camouflage. The crazy idea worked. We dropped in behind those enemy lines one night, covered in bed sheets and hidden in the snow, and hunkered down. I spread a sheet over me and my buddy in our hole and the German spotlights drifted over us time and again.

  Later, I learned over two hundred thousand German
soldiers were readying for an all-out offense to kick us off the European continent. Two hundred thousand, war-weary, hungry, ill-equipped Germans lined up, ready to die for their mad leader. Europe held its collective breath as stories of Nazi-savagery spread.

  Stories of mass murder came in every single day. Germans were dressing as Allied soldiers, then murdering civilians indiscriminately on their march towards the Rhine River. No prisoners were taken. Christmas was bleak.

  I heard from Mama, Aunt Anya, and even Peter, though his letter was old. Each letter brought my thoughts closer to home, close to the people that loved me most. I treasured them and folded each one carefully, tucking them inside my shirt. They were safe there and ready to reread anytime.

  Mama’s letter was the hardest to read. She talked about the weather and Nils. There was nothing of great significance, but it made me miss home. I missed her, Nils, and that neat little house we called home. I missed fishing in the creek in the back yard and the smell of autumn leaves mixed with fresh mountain air and pine trees. Anya’s brought a smile to mind and face. Hers was full of gossip.

  The women in the house where I grew up were still there. Now, though, they were respected members of the community. They worked as mechanics. Others worked transporting goods in big trucks. All tended a victory garden they put in behind the vast building. Kate was especially driven and was now training young women to garden and be a mechanic. I was amazed and pictured her in overalls. She would always look good; nothing could quiet cover her curves.

  Peter was somewhere in the Alps, and much of his letter was blotted out; apparently, the censors didn’t like his details. Towards the end, he talked about some Italian girl he was in love with. He described her long hair and large eyes, but neglected to say her name. I wondered if that was on purpose. I wondered if she was still alive.

  The letters reminded me there was life beyond that war, away from the mud and cold. Winter would not last forever, and this war couldn’t last forever either. All I had to do was survive.

  We dug in, refusing to give any ground to the opposing tide of Nazis. After just two days of fighting, our unit was separated, and I had no idea what was happening. There was no way to know. I wondered how in the hell any of us would survive.

  German soldiers dressed in stolen uniforms and infiltrated our lines. They killed randomly and viciously. Every single day, more and more reports from the East spoke of horrific death camps. My hate for the war, for Europe, and especially those Nazis grew as the fighting grew harder. In the meantime, winter silently crept over Europe, and the cold was life threatening.

  It crept into our bodies, settling deep, into our bones, exhausting us and taking over our minds. My hands were constantly stiff with it. My body constantly shifted, trying to gain some warmth. It was exhausting. I never truly rested and plenty young soldiers froze to death during the night. I feared the cold as much as I feared the Germans.

  We settled in, grim but determined. Soon, it seemed the cold was stronger. It permeated every layer, every man, crawling up our coat sleeves, under our hats, and into our minds each night. We tried to keep moving, we tried to think of warmer thoughts, but after two weeks, our grim determination was lessened.

  The third week, the Germans threw all they had at us. There were so many explosions and concussions, so many blasts, I nearly gave up any hope. That night I was so exhausted and so overcome with the cold, I barely acknowledged I still lived. Surviving was all I did. I didn’t feel and I didn’t hope. Minute by minute, I survived.

  The battle raged on for six full weeks. People gave up. You could see it in their eyes as the hope and will to survive abandoned them. They grew still, giving up on keeping warm and wouldn’t even shield themselves from blasts. We found them in the mornings, eyes frozen open, staring into nothing.

  Then, came the deserters far more than anyone anticipated. It was the strangest thing when they decided they no longer wanted to fight the cold and the enemy. Most just walked away. Some took more extreme measures to leave.

  I saw one young man shoot his own foot. I would have let him lie, waiting for help. Unfortunately for him, I wasn’t the only one who saw him. I didn’t stick around to see if he was properly buried or not. Others were ordered to be shot for deserting. After six weeks, we were victorious. The other side backed down. There was still a fight, but the Battle of the Bulge had ceased.

  Soon after, I heard of an ongoing operation. There was a pretty, German-born, USO entertainer working in England. She constantly asked anyone to deliver mail from her to her mother. Several soldiers carried letters back and forth for her, happy to do something so humane. They had even gotten together and secretly flown the girl to her mother. One guy described the scene.

  “We flew the girl to the edge of a small German village, almost completely surrounded by thick forests. Her mother was already there, ready to meet her. It was such a touching reunion, not one of us battle-hardened soldier kept their dry eyes. The girl ran to her mother and never let her go as long as she was there. The two conversed for nearly an hour in their native tongue and the mom often touched her daughter’s hair and cheeks. The girl begged her mama to go with her, to board the plane and fly to safety. The mother gently refused. She would stay back and care for her own mother who was physically unable to care for herself. The pretty young girl begged her, tears ruining her mascara but her mother refused. Then, the girl decided to stay; she did not want to leave her mother. Her mother refused this too. She handed her over to us. I caught the young girl and led her away from her mother. I think we all knew this was the last time they would see each other, and it damned near broke all of us. I led her back to her plane and helped her sit safe inside. She turned and waved to her mother, crying too hard to call anything out.” His voice broke at that. He took a few seconds to take a long drag from a cigarette, then he told me the rest.

  “Her mother squared her own shoulders and waved back, even managing to smile before we closed the door. Two soldiers led her away, through the dark, safe to her own home.” I was astounded at these events and before I knew it, two weeks went by, and I found myself at the service of that young girl. Her mother was killed by a blast to her neighbor’s home. The concussion had caused her own roof to fall in, killing both her and her invalid mother while they slept. The girl asked for us to bury her mother but we did more than that.

  Again, she was hidden on a plane and flown to that same village. During the darkest time of night, she was taken to the old cemetery where she was reunited with her mother for the last time. Here, I put my arm around her small shoulders and led her to the place we had readied for her mother’s body. I stood beside her while they lowered the body into the ground. The girl wept, almost silently, and I stood there wishing to God I could take her pain away. We stood there while they buried her. When they finished, she dropped to her knees, panicked, whispering, “Mama, Mama!” over and over again in a hoarse, raw voice. We finally got a hold of her and dragged her away. I don’t think she would have left, ever, had we not done that for her. We got her on the plane and she flew away.

  “I lost many people early in my life but witnessing this woman bury her mama hurt. I was reminded of home, of the possibilities of the future, and what true love meant. I still faced the cold, I still faced the Germans, but this gave me a reason to fight, a reason to live. While I walked away, I wondered how anyone could survive such a god-awful place.”

  Still Fighting

  I was tired—tired of the cold, tired of fighting, tired of hating, and tired of the army. I was tired of war. I wanted to go home.

  Home.

  When I thought of home, my mind took me to a happy place. There were no lines waiting for food, waiting to jump or waiting to shower. Home was warm. Home had happy people waiting to see me, to feed me. They were happy to see me. It became unbearable to live apart from home. I realized nothing could ever replace it and living in cold mud sure as hell didn’t help.

  War was my reality, though
. My days were spent fighting and waiting in lines. On good days, I waited for my turn to eat, to shower and to sleep. I was stuck in Europe. It was a strange place and time. Europe was old, and nothing was sacred. They bombed their old buildings and churches simultaneously killing off their own population and history. War destroyed it all. Everywhere I looked, more and more people were displaced, and more and more homes were wrecked beyond repair.

  I was stuck in a place I did not want to be and I was miserable. I wanted to leave Europe; I wanted the war over. The early months of 1945 were the worst.

  I had already survived so much. I was still alive after enduring terrible injury. The greatest, longest battles hadn’t killed me. I survived four drops. I survived being lost and separated from my unit. I was a lucky one. I had all my limbs. I had my life. I told myself how lucky I was, but I missed Marguerite and all my friends lying in cold holes. I missed the sun and warm garden in my mother’s home. I missed my brother.

  I had no contact with Peter for months and there was no way to know if he was another lucky one. Day to day life was simple survival, and no way for anyone to truly live.

  Between the mud and the cold, we were still clearing Nazis. Thankfully, the fighting was not as intense but there were daily fights. We killed so many. I killed so many. I was so consumed by my own survival that it took a while to notice the enemy had changed.

  Germany was losing the war. It became increasing evident as March approached. One day, not unusually, I found myself on the receiving end of enemy fire. I was holed up in a bombed-out building with only half the walls intact. I was half-asleep, cold and thirsty, when I first heard the shots. They were close. I crawled to a point where I could look out.

  At first, I was confused. I didn’t see any shooter; all I could see was a kid. He was standing in the rain, a weapon raised in my direction. He was too young to fight, too young to be a soldier. I looked around to find where the enemy was. No one else was around. The street was empty.