© Sharon Pigeon

MY FEET WERE SO COLD they were now completely numb.  I did not think they would ever be warm again, which was probably a good thing since when they were warm, they ached relentlessly.  From all the walking.  And from almost always being wet inside the boots I had been wearing for three months straight.  Would we never get to wherever we were going? Somewhere where we could sit down and maybe get dry and warm?  I did not think so. 

Almost without any warning, I had been dropped into this alien world and did not think things could ever be normal again.  I wasn’t a dumb hillbilly.  Even though they did not let me stay long enough to pick up my diploma, I was an actual high school graduate now and I would turn nineteen in a few months.  But I had never heard of these places.  Mortain, St. Lo, Ardennes Forest.  That was like no forest I had ever seen in the mountains of Virginia.  What were we all doing here?  I wanted to go home but had started to feel that was never going to happen again.

Home.  The thought of home always warmed me somehow, so I luxuriated in my private thoughts, almost the only private thing remaining for us poor slobs here.  I knew my mother was probably home now cooking some soup beans and cornbread and some fried potatoes, nothing like this tasteless hardtack we ate here, as we walked.  Always walking.

After they all sat down together and ate – my mother and father, three sisters and my grandmother – they would all probably listen to the radio for a while or maybe sing some songs while Mother played the piano.  When we were there, my brother and I always wanted to run outside after eating, staying till dark while we played Kick the Can or Tag or something, but certainly not singing with the girls.  We both especially liked to play football if we could find enough boys out playing to form a team or two.  If I could be there now, I would sing every song she played with such gusto that they would laugh and tell me to pipe down.

Thinking about my mom, I remembered how the two of us rode the bus to go to the movies to see that new movie, Gone with the Wind.  My mother was a good Christian woman, and she loved Daddy with all her heart, but she also loved that actor, Clark Gable.  I didn’t see much there with him, but I had had to go to the dentist earlier that day before the movie, so sitting in the movie for several hours was okay.  I sure didn’t feel like playing Red Rover on that long-ago afternoon.

I became aware that I needed to relieve myself, so I stepped off to the side, in the bushes.  Still lost in my daydreams, it was a moment or two before I saw the glint on the ground.  A tiny ray of sunlight had filtered through this jungle of never-ending trees and had fallen onto something shiny. 

Leaning down to investigate, I was surprised to see that it was a gun – a Luger, in fact!  Just lying there.  Of course, I picked it up.  It had been dropped in mud, long before the ground had frozen into the ice block it was now.  Then I saw the manufacturer’s stamp in the metal barrel.  It was the insignia of the hated enemy.  Turning it over in my hand, I almost thought I could feel evil emanating from it, almost seeping into my skin.  Silly, of course, and just my imagination, but still, I was sure I could feel something.

Stepping back into the always-moving line of men, I showed the gun to the closest guys.  They couldn’t believe my luck.  Just taking a leak and finding this trophy!  Most all the guys tried to collect a souvenir or two to send back home, but not many had acquired an enemy gun.  This was quite a prize!

I was already starting to feel pretty impressed with myself.  I wasn’t sure what story I might tell my friends about this.  Maybe I would say I was involved in a battle, hand-to-hand combat, going house to house, and took this weapon off an enemy soldier.  I wasn’t sure if I might say I killed that man or took him prisoner.  My mother would not like a story about me killing someone, so I would need to think about that some more.

It wasn’t long till our group reached a quaint village lying in our path.  At least it had been a village at some time.  Now it was more of a shelled-out reminder that this had once been a place where people lived, worked, married, and had families.  They had probably lived happy, fulfilled lives here for generations.  Now, there was no one around.  All the inhabitants had become refugees or casualties of this madness.

Looking at what was left standing, I saw the remnants of a small town, not too different from my own hometown.  That was disheartening to think about.  There was the church in the very center of town.  It had probably been the actual center of the lives lived here.  But now, even the church steeple had been hit and partially destroyed.

Just as we were preparing to take a much-needed break in the rubble of this village, my sergeant strolled up to me.  “What you got there, Private?” he demanded.  With a proud grin, I held up the gun.  By now, I had wiped off most of the mud and it was even more impressive than when I found it.  “Thanks, soldier.  I need that.” he barked, thrusting out his hand. 

“No, sir!” I answered.  “I found this gun back beside the road, and it’s mine!”

With his voice rising, penetrating the cold, still air, he again demanded that I give up the weapon.  I continued to refuse.  Our captain was walking in our direction and heard the heated exchange.  “What’s going on here, men?” he asked.

I liked this man.  I immediately told the true story of how I had taken a relief break on the march and had found the gun in the bushes.  Now, the sergeant wanted to take it from me, but it was rightfully mine!

The captain looked at the two of us for a minute.  He seemed to be seeking the Wisdom of Solomon before he spoke.  Finally, he turned to me, and, in a quiet but so very tired voice, he said, “Give it to him, Private.”  Before I could stop myself, I blurted, “But sir, it is mine. Rightfully mine.  I found it!”

“Give it to him,” he said and turned on his heel and walked away.  With a hard look in my eyes, I handed the gun toward the sergeant.  With a look of triumph, he grabbed it from my hands and immediately stuck it in the holster where his service weapon had been.  It was larger than the holster, so it stuck up like the trophy it truly was.  Cocky as our rooster back home, came to my mind.

Our break wasn’t long before we gathered our packs and moved out again.  This walking would never end, it seemed.  We had not gone more than a few yards when a slight movement was seen in the ruins of the church steeple.  Quick as a flash, a shot rang out, and the sergeant fell.  Dead before he hit the ground.  The captured gun in the sergeant’s holster had shone like a target to one seeking retribution for a fallen comrade.

Immediately Rocky, our sniper, stepped up and took the shot that brought down the steeple shooter.  It all happened so horrifically fast that we had not completely grasped the situation when we all hit the ditches for cover. 

After some patrolling, it was determined that the shooter was a lone gunman, and we could go on after burying our sergeant.  We were all still reeling from the closeness of that brush with death, but there was no time to deal with the loss.

Once again, we assembled to continue walking to some alien place I would not know.  My feet continued to hurt.  My thoughts again drifted to thoughts of my mother, and how she prayed on her knees every day for my protection from the danger all around me.  Had her prayers somehow saved me from that sniper?  Saved me from wearing that gun?  Standing a little straighter, suddenly I knew I would be going home.