—SCHÖNBERG, BELGIUM—
OCTOBER 1944
The month of October is relatively quiet for the 333rd Field Artillery Battalion. They settle into daily work schedules on the quiet “Ghost Front,” experiencing little, if any, action. As fire support for the highly competent and combat-experienced Second Division Artillery, they participate in a few fire missions almost daily, most light, some heavy. But mostly the men, including Stewart, Forte, Davis, Adams, Moten, Turner, Green, Moss, Pritchett, Leatherwood, Bradley, Hudson, and Shomo, practice maneuvers, maintain their equipment, and, with weekend passes, rest and party in Paris.1
The days are boringly long. Temperatures are dropping steadily, and in late October the men see snowflakes swirling in the skies.
“You boys ever seen snow?” Shomo asks, sipping coffee. “We get lots of it in New Jersey.”
“It’s snowed a few times in ’Bama,” Davis says. “Doesn’t stick to the ground, though.”
“We don’t see much snow in Texas, ’cept in the Panhandle,” Moten says. “Certainly would like to, though. Looks pretty in pictures I’ve seen.”
“Boys,” Shomo laughs, “you don’t wanna see Belgian snow! From what I hear, it’s worse than New Jersey.”
“Only good thing about snow is it’ll freeze all this mud hard as rock,” Pritchett says. “I just wanna make sure I’m not standing in it when it freezes up.”
“Not so worried about us getting frozen in ice,” Shomo says. “But I don’t want to be digging out 155s if it freezes.”
“Better hope we’re outta here before snow starts piling up,” Pritchett says. “If we’re still wearing these flimsy summer rags and worn-out boots, we’re all dead. The cold’ll get us before the German bullets do.”
“War can’t last much longer,” Stewart tells the men. “Krauts are getting hit hard on two fronts.”
“Hope it ends soon,” Hudson says. “I’m sick of all this.”
“You gonna go back home to St. Louis, Corporal?” Stewart asks.
“No. Not many jobs there. Anyway, I don’t have good memories of St. Louis. Think I’d like to live in Chicago one day.”
“You might be in Chicago sooner than you think,” Adams says. “General Eisenhower thinks the war’ll be over by Christmas. Hope so. I’m tired of patching up wounded GIs.”
“You mean you’re not thinking of becoming a real doctor when you get home?” Stewart asks, smiling.
Sergeant Forte grunts, standing and tossing his last drops of coffee on the ground.
“You think Adams has a ghost’s chance of gettin’ into med school?” Forte says. “If you’re thinkin’ he’s goin’ to med school with the white boys, you’re a plain fool. It’ll never happen.”
“You’ve gotta get rid of all that hatred bottled up inside you, Forte,” Shomo says. “If you don’t, it’s gonna eat you up. And, for our sakes, smile once in a while. Your face always looks like you just ate a lemon!”
Forte makes a fist, shaking it in Shomo’s face. “You grew up in the North, Shomo,” Forte spits, his voice loud and angry. “Things are different in Louis’ana. Blacks get beat up and hanged from trees. Whites there think blacks aren’t even full humans. You oughta try livin’ in the South and see for yourself. They act like we’re still their slaves.”
Shomo stands up and faces Forte. “Get your fist out of my face, Forte. You think hate and prejudice are just in the South? Study your history books, Sergeant. Monmouth County, New Jersey, where my family’s from, was built on the bloody backs of black slaves. White masters owned my own kin, beating them up and burning them at the stake when they tried to run away. Louisiana ain’t got nothing on Monmouth County!”2
“Men!” Stewart says, standing up quickly and placing himself between Forte and Shomo. “We’re supposed to be fighting the Germans, not each other. Jus’ stand down. This war’s gonna be done soon enough, and we’ll all be going home.”
When things calm, the men sit down, Shomo’s nostrils still flaring, Forte clenching his jaw and staring at the ground. Stewart takes a deep breath and turns to Davis, eager to change the conversation.
“What time’s it getting to be, Davis?”
George pulls out his granddaddy’s prized pocket watch, smiles, and announces loudly, “It’s time to eat!”
“And what’s your mama gonna cook you and your family for Christmas this year?” Stewart asks.
“Good ’Bama chow!” George says, laughing. “Ham hocks, turnip greens, creamed taters, corn bread . . . pecan pie—”
“You’re just gettin’ his hopes built up for nothin’, Sergeant,” Forte snaps, glaring at Stewart. “Nobody’s goin’ home for Christmas. War’s not even over yet.”
“Brass says it’ll be over by then, son,” Stewart responds calmly.
“Even if it is,” Forte spews, “the brass’ll make us blacks stay back and clean up the mess. Whites might get home for the holidays, but you are all fools if you’re thinkin’ we’re gonna get outta here by Christmas.”
Stewart and Shomo glance at each other, both wrinkling their brows and shaking their heads.