Cole was still holding the colorful scarf. He got up and walked over to where Hank was still staring at his own letter from home, as if willing each word to burn into his memory. Cole bent down and gave him the scarf. “Here, kid. You better take this. That girl who wrote us wouldn’t want a mean bastard like me to have it. It will look a lot better on you — and keep you warm too.”
Hank looked up and took the scarf, his eyes still damp. “Thanks,” he said hoarsely. He held the scarf for a moment, then wrapped it around his neck.
The brief peace and quiet did not last long. It was as if the Germans had been waiting for this opportunity to catch them off guard. They heard the deep booms of artillery from the forested hills beyond Bastogne and then the sound of shells screeching in.
“Take cover!” Lieutenant Mulholland shouted, although the men were already scrambling to get out of the street.
Cole dove for a shell hole and landed alongside Vaccaro, who muttered, “Those goddamn Krauts must not have gotten any mail. I’d say they’re jealous.”
“Why don’t you write them and tell them to go to hell?”
“That’s not a bad idea.”
Then the screeching reached a crescendo, and the artillery shells rained down on Bastogne.
The deafening sound of explosions and the continuous whistle of the shells filled the soldiers’ ears, drowning out any other noise. The ground beneath them rumbled and shook like a giant’s hungry belly. Through the roar of the barrage, they could hear screams of men who had been caught out in the open.
“Medic!” someone shouted. “Medic!”
Incredibly, some brave bastard of a medic dashed through the chaos to answer the cry for help.
Through it all, Cole stayed hunkered down in the hole while bits of rock and debris clattered onto his helmet. He prayed that a bomb didn’t land on his head. With some amusement, he recalled the old saying that there was no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole.
As the latest bombardment rained down on Bastogne, a paratrooper from the 101st Airborne was risking his life on a highly unusual mission. The nineteen-year-old private ran down the street, dodging the bomb blasts, finally ducking into the shattered remains of a tavern.
It was a favor for a friend who had brought him there. Just minutes ago, he had been visiting a buddy at the hospital.
His friend had made a simple request. “Listen, won’t you do me a favor? I’m dying for a drink. Can’t you find me some booze?”
“Gee, I don’t know—”
“Come on, won’t you at least try?”
How could he refuse the wishes of a wounded buddy? He patted his friend’s shoulder in reassurance and minutes later found himself outside on the streets of Bastogne.
Looking around at the bomb-blasted buildings, he wondered,
It couldn’t be that hard to find some booze. He had to give it a try, at least.
From time to time a German shell whistled in and exploded, adding more rubble to the ruins. The air was heavy with the acrid smell of smoke and gunpowder, mixed with the stench of death and destruction. The earth rumbled and buildings collapsed. He felt the impact reverberating through his bones. He swallowed back the coppery taste of fear that he had become all too used to since the Battle of the Bulge had begun.
Through the smoke, he could see other soldiers running for cover. Only an idiot would be out on the streets by choice — and yet here he was.
The easiest thing would have been to give up — but that was not how he was wired. If he said he was going to do something, then he did it.
The young paratrooper thought back to when his father had seen him off at the train station. His father was an Italian immigrant and a proud American. Standing there on the station platform, his father had simply said, “Don’t do anything to embarrass the family.”
He hadn’t so far, and he wasn’t about to now.
He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, then headed down the street. He was looking for a bar or tavern that hadn’t been smashed to bits. It wasn’t easy to find. Building after building that he passed bore the telltale scars of the intermittent bombardments that Bastogne had endured. He passed the entrance to one bar whose shattered sign proclaimed it as une taverne. Glancing inside at the fallen timbers scattered every which way like a game of pick-up sticks, he realized that the place would be a death trap to enter. He kept going.
Halfway down the next block, he found a more promising watering hole. The taverne sign hung crookedly above the door like a broken wing, but the interior was more or less intact.
