Women of War - A Band of Brothers Story

Fog and Ice

21 December, 1944

Bois Jacques, Bastogne, Belgium.

AKA Hell on Earth

It's official. All roads are cut. The Germans, as well as our side, recognise the US airborne and armoured infantry as surrounded. Bastogne is under siege. 1st battalion pulled out of Foy with heavy casualties. We're spread thin. Too thin to properly hold the perimeter. A German soldier got lost and ended up wandering into Fox's CP this morning. Word has it that "a lot of shit" is coming our way. Tanks included.

At least the snow has let up for the first time since yesterday morning. I had hoped that it might get at least a tiny bit warmer. But it only got colder. I have never experienced such freezing temperatures. Mia thinks that it's around -20 degrees Celsius. I don't know how much that is in Fahrenheit, but it doesn't matter. It's just extremely cold.

Nobody gets any sleep around here. Firefights break out at the drop of a hat and are over just as quickly. And then, there are the mortar attacks. The Germans seem to take a sadistic pleasure in shelling us, especially during the nights. And in these woods, the trees are just as dangerous as the shells. A falling tree trunk is easier to avoid than a tree that gets blown apart. Those flying pieces of bark and wood are like javelins. We've already lost a good dozen men to mortars and trees alike.

On top of that, we've pulled five people off the line for trench foot and a number of guys have developed a cold. I'm not surprised. With our bodies just warm enough to melt the snow, we're not only freezing all the time, but also constantly wet. Wet shoes, wet socks, wet everything.

We don't have an aid station any more. Artillery fire destroyed it last night. There were a few survivors, luckily. Mia saw to it that they were all evacuated to the aid station in Bastogne. Thankfully, she wasn't hurt.

We're running out of supplies. I doubt that the other battalions are faring much better. Right now, Gene and Mia are out scrounging for bandages and whatever else they can find. Between the four of us, we only have two morphine syrettes left. Gene tried to get to 3rd battalion last night, but he lost his way. No wonder in this fog.

If only the weather cleared up. A supply drop would solve at least some of our problems. But wishful thinking won't get us

A frantic call for a medic pierced the fog, interrupting the soft scratching of a pencil on paper.

Catherine dropped her diary into her pack and was out of the foxhole in seconds, slipping on the thin sheet of ice glistening atop the snow.

Cold bit into her palm as she caught herself. A spray of snow fell down onto her pack when her feet found purchase.

"Medic!"

Her lungs burned with each breath. Her nose stung from the dry cold air. Catherine didn't let it stop her. She raced through the trees, mind buzzing as it tried to come up with an explanation for the call.

There had been no gunfire. No mortars.

She passed a number of foxholes on her way to answer the cry. They all looked the same, just as the forest always looked the same. There were no points of reference apart from the men inside the foxholes and the knowledge of which way the CP and the enemy were.

***

Her destination was another foxhole. Her trained medic eyes needed barely the fraction of a second to assess the situation. The clump in her chest – sadness, tiredness, helplessness, anger – hardened a little more. The thrum of alarm faded from her nerves. There was no need for urgency.