candlelight, encased in the little hole. He watched the spark at the tip of the wick, concentrating on the thin blue light that shown down from it, and the supple yellow flame that seemed to float above it, incredibly bright at its center, a spear point of hope. He slowly edged his hands into the hole, on either side of the candle, until his fingertips touched.
He felt warmth. Not the absence of cold, but real warmth, the feel of hot sun on his palms, reaching between his fingers, easing the pain, thawing his hopelessness, caressing him. The warmth settled into the base of his fingers, gathering in the swirls of flesh until it was almost unbearable. Not the heat, but everything else. Knowing he’d have to leave here, first his hands back out into the frigid air, then his body. Exposed to cold, steel, shrapnel, fear, loss. He rested his helmeted head on the wall of the foxhole, feeling as if he were at prayer, afraid of tears.
You weren’t supposed to have a light in a foxhole. Any little pinprick of light, even a faint glow, and Kraut gunners somewhere would get an order from an observation post for a fire mission. They’d probably curse and stumble out of their foxholes, saying Fuck it’s cold out here in German, load up their 88s or 75s or mortars, drop a half dozen rounds on you, then go back and try to sleep if they could, maybe have a smoke and curse you for being so stupid, getting spotted and making them go out into the cold and kill you.
So no warmth, no fires. But everyone had their candles. If you were dumb enough to let it be seen, by the Krauts or an officer, well then you wouldn’t be around too long, so enjoy it while you got it. Jake and Clay were smart though, plenty smart. Brains enough to know they needed these tiny flames, needed to draw warmth from somewhere, and brains enough to keep it well hid, burrowed deep, their bright shining secret.
“Hey, you guys,” Tuck whispered hoarsely. He was ten yards behind them, squatting down, not daring the slight rise in the forest floor that would expose half of his head to the unknown.
“Yeah,” said Clay, squirming around to face the rear opening.
“Company cooks are bringing joe up, ‘bout a hundred yards back. Ammo truck too.”
“Fuck,” said Clay.
“Shit,” said Jake, blowing out his candle. Hot coffee, extra ammo and they had found the MLR yesterday. He rolled up his blanket, grabbed his pack and his M1, and followed Clay out of the foxhole. A couple of inches of new snow had fallen last night, covering the log-reinforced foxholes around them. It looked peaceful, soft, white and gentle. They stumbled out into it, running low, dirty and brown, a collection of rags bound by webbing, belts, canvas ammo pouches tied over their shoulders, field packs worn high on the back, knives, canteens and more ammo hung from belts, softly clinking and clunking as they ran.
Strands of sunlight broke through clouds, forcing them apart like a pry bar lifting granite. Clay squinted up at the unfamiliar sun as he walked alongside Jake, his belly full of lukewarm coffee and oatmeal, his pockets stuffed with grenades and extra clips of .30 caliber ammo. He looked around and saw the whole company on the move, on the road that led into the woods, and out on the flanks too. Probably other companies moving up with them, headed for the MLR. He shook his head, driving that thought out, no reason to worry about it right now.
He went back to thinking about food. Guys groused about the coffee not being hot, but Clay knew it was impossible to keep it hot after it was brewed at the Company kitchen a mile back. He was grateful to have it, happy that somebody went to the trouble of cooking for him. Clay knew about going without, knew what an bare table looked like, knew the feel of an empty stomach, and the loneliness of an empty kitchen. He knew enough that he never complained about something not being quite right. It was there, and he was glad. He might bitch if there was
He felt warmth. Not the absence of cold, but real warmth, the feel of hot sun on his palms, reaching between his fingers, easing the pain, thawing his hopelessness, caressing him. The warmth settled into the base of his fingers, gathering in the swirls of flesh until it was almost unbearable. Not the heat, but everything else. Knowing he’d have to leave here, first his hands back out into the frigid air, then his body. Exposed to cold, steel, shrapnel, fear, loss. He rested his helmeted head on the wall of the foxhole, feeling as if he were at prayer, afraid of tears.
You weren’t supposed to have a light in a foxhole. Any little pinprick of light, even a faint glow, and Kraut gunners somewhere would get an order from an observation post for a fire mission. They’d probably curse and stumble out of their foxholes, saying Fuck it’s cold out here in German, load up their 88s or 75s or mortars, drop a half dozen rounds on you, then go back and try to sleep if they could, maybe have a smoke and curse you for being so stupid, getting spotted and making them go out into the cold and kill you.
So no warmth, no fires. But everyone had their candles. If you were dumb enough to let it be seen, by the Krauts or an officer, well then you wouldn’t be around too long, so enjoy it while you got it. Jake and Clay were smart though, plenty smart. Brains enough to know they needed these tiny flames, needed to draw warmth from somewhere, and brains enough to keep it well hid, burrowed deep, their bright shining secret.
“Hey, you guys,” Tuck whispered hoarsely. He was ten yards behind them, squatting down, not daring the slight rise in the forest floor that would expose half of his head to the unknown.
“Yeah,” said Clay, squirming around to face the rear opening.
“Company cooks are bringing joe up, ‘bout a hundred yards back. Ammo truck too.”
“Fuck,” said Clay.
“Shit,” said Jake, blowing out his candle. Hot coffee, extra ammo and they had found the MLR yesterday. He rolled up his blanket, grabbed his pack and his M1, and followed Clay out of the foxhole. A couple of inches of new snow had fallen last night, covering the log-reinforced foxholes around them. It looked peaceful, soft, white and gentle. They stumbled out into it, running low, dirty and brown, a collection of rags bound by webbing, belts, canvas ammo pouches tied over their shoulders, field packs worn high on the back, knives, canteens and more ammo hung from belts, softly clinking and clunking as they ran.
Strands of sunlight broke through clouds, forcing them apart like a pry bar lifting granite. Clay squinted up at the unfamiliar sun as he walked alongside Jake, his belly full of lukewarm coffee and oatmeal, his pockets stuffed with grenades and extra clips of .30 caliber ammo. He looked around and saw the whole company on the move, on the road that led into the woods, and out on the flanks too. Probably other companies moving up with them, headed for the MLR. He shook his head, driving that thought out, no reason to worry about it right now.
He went back to thinking about food. Guys groused about the coffee not being hot, but Clay knew it was impossible to keep it hot after it was brewed at the Company kitchen a mile back. He was grateful to have it, happy that somebody went to the trouble of cooking for him. Clay knew about going without, knew what an bare table looked like, knew the feel of an empty stomach, and the loneliness of an empty kitchen. He knew enough that he never complained about something not being quite right. It was there, and he was glad. He might bitch if there was
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