Women of War - A Band of Brothers Story

Fissures

A/N: Hey guys! It's finally Friday evening! Work was chaotic and busy because of an extremely important project (where my team had to send 70 or 80 emails to about 50 people because the deadlines were shortened. Twice.) And the weather has been absolutely crazy all week (southerly winds blowing at up to 130 km/h and temperatures at 16 to 20 °C as opposed to 4 °C last Sunday).

Sorry, I'll stop babbling now. The next chapter will be uploaded on the 3rd or 4th of January. So until then: Enjoy whichever holidays you celebrate or just have a lovely week if you don't celebrate any. Enjoy your time off if you have any. If you don't, I wish you a peaceful and pleasant time at work.

Cheers and best wishes
buxy

23 December, 1944

Bois Jacques, Bastogne, Belgium

The weather is clearing up. But it's still freezing. I think it's even colder than yesterday. Everybody is cold and tired and miserable. The NCOs get even less sleep than the regular soldiers, the squad leaders and platoon sergeants least of all. And to make matters worse, the Germans seem to be taking perverse pleasure in shelling the crap out of us at night even more than during the day.

I'm ashamed to admit that I'm starting to lose track of how many we've already lost. Is it five? Fifteen? Fifty? I don't know anymore. Too many. And we'll lose more, of that I'm certain. If the weather doesn't clear up soon, we'll all die, even if we aren't killed by the bullets and shells. Those that don't succumb to illness will just starve or simply freeze to death. Either way, without supplies, we won't be able to hold the line for much longer.

I should stop being so pessimistic. We've made it through Normandy and Holland, we'll make it through this particular hell, too. But this oppressive whiteness that surrounds us drives away my positive thoughts. I can't even enjoy the sight of snow anymore. I'm afraid the joy I used to feel at this gorgeous wonder of nature will now forever be replaced by haunted dislike.

Two years ago, I experienced snow for the first time in my life. It seems like an eternity ago. I remember gaping at the soft, white layer that blanketed everything outside, marvelling at the snowflakes dancing in the wind as they flurried from the sky. Everything seemed quiet and muffled as it snowed. Peaceful.

I also distinctly recall my first snowball fight that day. I got hit smack-dab in the face by one of the snow missiles curtesy of Shifty. (The sweet boy kept apologising for days, bless him!) And Muck shoved a whole handful of snow down my collar. I think I screeched loud enough to raise the dead.

Well...maybe the joyous miracle of snow isn't completely tainted for all eternity. That was the gloom of our situation talking, I suppose. Gwen and Tommy would adore the snow. And they'd have snowball fights as wild and mischievous as the ones we had.

Good grief, I just pictured my two moppets playing in the snow with the horde of rambunctious rascals I call my friends and comrades. There would be lots of fun, of course, but also quite a lot of squealing and cussing (the guys, of course, though my kids are – unfortunately, in this case – very quick studies) and most likely snow in places it really doesn't belong.

Catherine closed her diary and tucked away the pencil stub she was writing with. Blowing out a sigh, she heaved herself up, limbs stiff and uncooperative from the cold. She tugged her scarf up towards her nose and vigorously rubbed her hands together in an effort to generate a meagre bit of warmth before she climbed out of the foxhole and went to get herself a portion of whatever Joe Domingus had cooked up today.