Chapter Thirteen

When Patton’s men broke through the German encirclement, the Germans first tried to press back, and then they scattered, falling back to Noville and Foy. The end came without fanfare for their platoons. A jeep drove by with someone honking and shouting for the men to fall back when one of Patton's replacement units arrived. They were to head to regiment, set up a garrison post there, and wait. Exhausted, the troopers had collapsed to their knees, letting their heads fall back on their shoulders, or collapsed into their buddies’ arms or just straight into the dirt and snow.

Hours later, when the replacements arrived, Giordano and Ramirez rustled the two platoons out of their foxholes and led them on the long march back to Bastogne. They almost didn’t set up tents when they arrived, too exhausted to even think about setting up a garrison post, much less actually finding the tents and getting to work. But they did, and the remnants of both platoons packed into one large tent, sleeping in a giant tumble of arms and legs. It was warm, for once, and no one complained. Not even when Will and Henry tucked down together, spooning next to Gillen and Barr and Giordano.

Patton’s army took care of pushing the Germans back from the Ardennes, but the 101st was tasked with clearing Foy and Noville. Another battalion took Noville, and the remnants of their company and I Company took up position on the eastern side of Foy.

The westward attack of Foy bogged down, and it almost seemed like they were going to have to pull back, but in the end, they took the village. They leveled the buildings, raining mortars and artillery on the sniper hideouts until they were gone, until the village was decimated, just planks of wood and shattered stones. They ran over snow, blasting Germans through broken windows and shooting those who tried to run. They pushed and pushed, hemming them back into the center of the village, and it felt so good to finally be on the offensive, to have the Germans running and seeking shelter.

After, they took over one hundred Germans prisoner, and they only had a few grazes and shrapnel injuries to show for it. One bullet scraping over a thigh, a slice to the cheek. They’d been lucky, and good at their maneuvers, and it was just what they’d needed after all the horrors and devastation and adrenaline-fueled weariness of the forest. That night, they drank and drank, pilfered spirits stolen from the Germans passed around the tent as they all sat in a giant heap of a circle. They sang songs, told stories, and laughed until they cried, then pushed each other to laugh again.

Will and Henry leaned against one another, holding hands first under cover, and then openly. They lounged together, arms and legs intertwined, and not a word was spoken. Barr used Henry’s thigh for a pillow while he was leaning against Will, and when they all fell asleep, Will was cupping Henry’s cheek and pressing their foreheads close.

* * * * *

When they were pulled off the front lines in the beginning of February, everyone cheered. Back to Reims, and a chance to catch their breath, to breathe, to get some real sleep, if they could.

The nightmares began after Foy, after they had gotten through the exhaustion of so much sleep deprivation and had the luxury of having nightmares again. All in one tent, man after man had woken screaming, shrieking, crying. Their buddies, their sleeping partners, had to hold them, calm them back down, reassure them they were warm, the forest wasn’t imploding around them, and the Germans weren’t about to blow them out of their holes. Not anymore.

Will’s nightmares centered around Rose, around his soldier saving his life. Over and over he saw it, saw Anderson go down, saw Phillips. He saw the bloodred snow, miles and miles of drenched snow, and woke sobbing and clinging to Henry. Henry soothed him, rocking him back to sleep, and when Henry’s nightmares came—always with his troopers dying around him, and him powerless to do anything—Will rocked him in turn. Giordano stayed up late, creeping out of the tent at odd hours to smoke, and dark circles pooled under his eyes. His temper, so famously short, was a trip wire, waiting for anyone to stumble across. Most steered well clear.

They bounced and rocked in trucks back down to Reims, warming from the frozen wastes of the Ardennes to the just-above-freezing valley outside Paris. Reims was muddy, the base was muddy, and snow melted off the ground into squelching, sucking rivulets instead of sticking to everything under the sun. They picked their way to their assigned barracks, and the platoons split into separate barracks huts once again.

No one said a word when Will would stay in First Platoon’s hut longer than was necessary, only slipping out in the dead of night. They couldn’t push too far, but they were already well past what was “smart” and “advisable” and “safe.” When the replacements came, new guys to fill the holes from Bastogne, they wouldn’t be able to keep it up. But for now, Will stayed in Henry’s arms as often as he could, and no one said a damn thing.

Liberty came before the replacements did, and the two platoons, near inseparable now, headed out together. They drank again, toasting their lost and missing, their fallen, and told the same stories over again. This time, there were girls and music to distract them, and the night ended on a happier note. Will and Henry slipped away, ducking into an inn with rooms to let, and spent the night in each other’s arms. They kept the candles lit, not wanting to feel the darkness around them, so reminiscent of Bastogne and those damned woods. In the candlelight, their skin glowed, sweat slick and sweet as they moved together, whispered words of love falling openly amid gasps and cries of pleasure.

When the replacements came after liberty, it was back to training. Marching, maneuvers, rifle maintenance, and target practice to boot. They didn’t practice jumping anymore. There’d be no more jumps in the war.

Spring came, and the days warmed. After training, the men from Bastogne gathered together and stripped their shirts, lying in the sun and soaking up the warmth and the light as they tried to banish still-clinging memories. Nightmares stayed with them, still. Even in spring with the warmth, the insects, and the blooming flowers, dark, hooded eyes foretold sleepless nights each morning at chow.

The war wasn’t over, though, and they received orders back to the line, to sweep Germans out of the towns along the French border, to keep pushing them back, keep moving the line forward.

And after that, on to Germany.