A Small Hotel by Suanne Laqueur

Author:Suanne Laqueur [Laqueur, Suanne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cathedral Rock Press
Published: 2021-09-03T20:06:10+00:00

New Year’s Day 1945

A holiday back in the States but here in Belgium, just another day in the salt mines. Breakfast of frozen C-rations pried out of the can. Wondering over terrible coffee and endless smokes what the day would bring.

We had orders to attack Chenogne again, and the crews were warming up the tanks. Our hillside swarmed with activity and I couldn’t believe how many vehicles occupied the slope behind us. Half-tracks and tanks and tank destroyers. Ambulances and jeeps.

While we were assembling, Lieutenant Jorgensson called me over and said, “You stick by me today, gullgosse.”

I turned about as dumb as a schoolgirl asked on her first date and stammered “Sir?” or something asinine.

“I’m about dead on my feet,” he said, which didn’t exactly explain why he wanted me, but I shut up and did what he asked. That whole hellish day, I saw few of the guys from my squad, but I was never more than two feet from Jorgy. I confess I sometimes pretended he was Paps.

Even the war heroes need their heroes.

It was a terrible day.

As soon as the American forces crested the hill above Chenogne, the German machine guns sprang to life in their lightning-fast cadence. Mortars rained down on the American tanks with horrifying accuracy, dropping into turrets like basketball shots. More artillery was called in.

“Move our assaults up the crest,” Lieutenant West bawled over the radio, “Knock out those goddamn machine guns.”

The receiver flew out of his hand and he dropped onto the snow, hit through the shoulder. Blood began to puddle. Crimson on white.

“Don’t move,” Jorgy yelled. “Fish, get a—”

The order was cut off by another explosion and then two more men were down.

“Get a goddamn medic,” Jorgy cried.

Kennet looked around a helpless moment. The battalion was pinned on the ridge, the dead and wounded scattered everywhere. Medic jeeps were all over but every one of them seemed occupied, with countless calls of “Medic! Over here, medic! Medic, hurry!”

So I shanghaied a half-track, he wrote.

Desenrascanco, darling.

I drove it up the hill and put the wounded men on. I looked around for a buddy to come with and give me cover. I wanted Hook bad and had no idea where he was or if he was even alive. Then I saw Pete von Asselt a few yards away. Goddamn, he was something. Machine gun on his hip, four bandoliers across his chest. Just spraying the hell out of everything and looking like a war hero straight out of the movies. It was one of those slow-motion moments when the war takes a breath and you get to be human.

Von Asselt jumped in the track with me and we went like hell for Jodenville, where the battalion aid station was set up. We dumped the wounded and headed back.

“Step on it, Fish,” von Asselt said. “I’d sure hate to miss the fun.”

He was being sarcastic, of course, but when we got back, the scales were just starting to tip in our favor and we were inching down the hill into the town.

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