The snow always seemed to be a paradox of existence, there but not there in the Ardennes. It fell, you stepped on it, but it didn’t always make a sound, the crunchy crunch you came to expect. Rook looked down at his feet and noticed the caking of ice and packed snow that clung to his boots, taking a moment to try and shake it off before continuing after Holmes. The house that the rest of their rag-tag squad had taken shelter in had disappeared into the mist that seemed to ebb and grow at random, leaving them in a sea of white that was broken by the occasional fence post that guided them up the road.
Sgt. Summers had taken point, his Thompson clutched in one hand while the other wavered and move to help keep his balance as the squad slogged through the knee-high snow. Nimer followed in tracks he left behind and Holmes behind him with Rook pulling drag. The wind picked up and then faded back into nonexistence, pelting the soldiers with frigid chills. Rook had taken to complaining at almost the exact second he left the house, although Holmes was quick to silence him with a very annoyed glare.
It had taken a while for them to reach the next house along the snowed-over roadway, fifteen minutes by Summers’ watch, the house itself dark and lifeless as Nimer and he checked the front door, finding it unlocked but unwilling to budge. Nimer slammed his shoulder against the wooden pane and the door came open with the resounding crack of ice shattering. The pair entered and soon Holmes and Rook were following after them, the latter noticing the shine of clear ice that coated the inside of the door frame, matching the ice that had covered the door’s edge as well.
Everyone went to work at once, Summers checking the kitchen, Holmes heading out back to check the cellar, and Rook heading for the bedrooms while Nimer stood guard near the front door, his carbine clenched tightly in his freezing hands. The clattering ruckus of pots and pans falling to the ground tore his attention back to the doorway leading to the kitchen, Summers looking down at the pans before looking up, as if feeling Nimer’s eyes on him with an expression that bespoke shame and surprise. Nimer nodded, thankful that the sergeant wasn’t hurt and turned back to the half-open door, his finger slipping from the trigger guard to the trigger several times.
He wanted a cigarette more now than he had ever wanted since he entered France. It would have been easy to pull a cig from his pocket, light up and wait, but after seeing one of his buddies in Holland do the same thing and get his teeth shot in and out the back of his head by a sniper he thought better of it. Never mind that the mist was a thick as momma’s pea and potato soup, some lessons got hammered in down to the bone. He wet his lips and made a conscious effort to put his finger back on the trigger guard of his carbine. Another crash was heard, this time from the bedroom and he looked over his shoulder, frowning.
Holmes was the first one to come back from foraging, his pack withholding a pair of tins, probably sardines while Summers found two wine bottles and a loaf of stale bread. Rook took his time in coming back and when he did he was empty handed. They moved onto the next house, the faint outline barely visible through the mist from across the way. This one proved a better bounty after a proper search as Rook stood guard this time around. Four tins of potted meat, two loaves of bread and even a French fizzy drink. Summers was satisfied with the meager haul, and no-one disputed his decision to head back, everyone wanting to be inside and warm.
The dove for cover into the snow at the sound of a machinegun, too far away to be along the main lines of battle. Summers stood up, snow dropping from his knees while Rook and Holmes looked like they had rolled around in the stuff. Nimer glanced at Summers.
“Sounds like it’s in the village,” he murmured. “Hard to tell where, though.”
“Sounded like a MG42,” Holmes replied as he sloshed towards Summers and Nimer, Rook staying where he was, although he had the sense to kneel down. “Think they’re firing at our guys?”
“Maybe,” Summers glanced at Rook. “I don’t think we should go looking for trouble, though.
The trip back, however, seemed to take longer than before, even though the four men practically bounded and leapt through the snow banks, following the fence posts. After a while they seemed to stop appearing as periodically as they once had the further they went from the village, towards the lone farmhouse. Eventually, the posts stopped altogether leaving them in the blinding white oblivion that the too-thick mist created.
As much as he hated to admit it, they were lost. Summers gritted his teeth and looked around for a landmark, any landmark that would denote just where the hell they were as Rook started to complain once again. Holmes bid him with a hasty “shut your mouth” and Rook begrudgingly obliged as Summers gave a raspy sigh.
“We’re heading back,” he spoke with a growl. “Get up and move.”
“Back,” Rook opened his mouth again. “You want to go back to the village where some Kraut was shooting his buzzsaw?”
“Yes, because we can’t stay here,” Summers replied simply as he lead the way, retracing their footprints.
Rook grumbled and moaned under his breath as he took off after the group, lest he be left behind. Five minutes of walking rewarded them with the first fence post of the village and, shortly afterwards, the house that had been appropriated as their refuge. Summers wanted to scratch his head in bewilderment as one of the soldiers- he thought it was Nimer, but he wasn’t sure- said something just loud enough for him to hear.
“That doesn’t make sense. No-way does that make sense.”
It didn’t matter what kind of sense it made, in the end. The rest of their rag-tag squad had been waiting patiently within the house, their eyes lighting up when the meager earnings were presented almost as if Father Christmas had delivered them by himself. From outside, in the far distance the rumble of cataclysmic explosions could be heard, the vibrations as the earth shifted in response running up the boots of everyone in the region.
A quick, proper count of the rations and they would be able to rest for a night, although beyond that they would have to either make it back to the allied lines or forage through the village while time and distance seemed to shift erratically. The trip was soon forgotten as the squad settled down for the pale night and what lay beyond.
“So,” Samson said between bites of a sausage, his eyes darting from Tollen and Jamie. “What do you guys think Jerry Sauerkraut is doing right now?”
“Jesus, don’t you ever stop talking about the Germans,” Tollen frowned, holding his canteen with both hands. “I mean, it’s ‘Jerry this” and ‘Jerry that’.”
“Well, yeah. I mean, we’re here in some village and fuck if I know if it’s German or French. We’re in the middle of a snow storm and we’re out and about while the Germans are wandering around outside.”
“You really think they’d be out in this shit,” Jamie spoke up. “Out in the mist and fog and whatever else that is?”
Samson shrugged. “All I know is that I’m not freezing in some foxhole.”
They nodded in return and continued to chat as Summers and Kalvin plotted their next move. Summers had opened his mouth to speak just as something slammed against the front door and in an instant every conversation was silenced, every rifle pointed towards the door’s direction.
Another sharp blow, and the door shuddered, almost coming off of its hinges. Someone fired their rifle, the report of the Garand barking against the roar of the door, only for everything to fall silent once again. Summers clutched his Thompson tightly, Kalvo and Nimer with their carbines tight against their shoulders, everyone at the ready. Only the sulfuric smoke that rose from the end of Rook’s rifle, drifting in lazy loops that quickly disappeared into the chilly air.
It wasn’t until Holmes crept towards the side of the door, his own rifle gripped in his left while the right hand moved for the doorknob. A quick glance towards the doorway leading to the kitchen, to Summers and a nod was returned. The door was thrown open and something in the back of Holmes’ mind wondered if he was going to get shot up by the rest of the squad in addition to whatever it was that was on the other side of the wall.
There was no fusillade of bullets, no barrage that caught Holmes in the middle, not a sound but the whistling wind. Holmes grabbed his rifle with both hands and looked at the open door, leaning out slightly first to peek before sticking his head out to look towards the sides, his eyes following the thin fencing up and down the roadway.
“I don’t see nothing, Sarge,” Holmes whispered before pulling himself back behind the wall and door jam.
“What’s that on the door,” Sgt. Kalvo whispered. “Is that snow?”
Holmes turned his head and looked, actually looked at the door and saw snow packed against the wood. He blinked and squinted, not quite believing what he was seeing.
Was someone pelting the door with snowballs?
