An Owl's Whisper by Michael J. Smith

Author:Michael J. Smith [Smith, Michael J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: antique
Published: 2012-03-10T23:56:59+00:00

Ardennes Truck Stop

Stan got his M-1 rifle, a bayonet, and sixty rounds of ammunition from the armory. He packed a shelter half, a sleeping bag, and a rifle cleaning kit. His readied his web gear—canteen, gas mask, entrenching tool, flashlight, ammo pouch. He crammed extra socks, pants, underwear, and shirts into his duffle bag. He stuck in his fruitcake and eleven Baby Ruths—left one behind to give to Henri Messiaen. He tied rubber galoshes on the outside of the duffle. It was a load to tote, but it was ready. By midnight he’d written to Uncle Jess.

At 01:15 Stan fell out with the others to wait for the trucks. He was glad everyone else seemed nervous too. At 02:30, when the convoy hadn’t arrived yet, the shivering men were moved into the dry goods storage building to wait. At 05:40, four trucks arrived. Two were already full of mechanics, clerks, illustrators, machinists, and cooks from other units. All suddenly infantrymen. By 06:15 the trucks were fueled and loaded with supplies and men. Out the gate they rolled. Without chow. Breakfast and hand grenades they would get when they hooked up with the 28th.

It was just forty kilometers to Marche-en Famenne. An easy two hours, Stan figured. That was before the fouled up signs at one road juncture sent the trucks off in the wrong direction. Before the traffic jam at the blown bridge over the River Tarder. Before the road closure from the fuel truck fire just outside Barvaux. It was dusk on the evening of December 17 when the trucks found the 28th Division rally point near Marche-en Famenne. There was no hot food, just K-Rations and all the radishes you could eat. Men were griping, but no one passed on the chow.

Fifty minutes after arriving, Stan and eleven others were back on the road in one of the trucks, heading to the 28th’s G Company, located north of Bastogne. A sergeant named Harkin from the division rode up front as guide. With his thin face and wire-rimmed spectacles, he looked more like a librarian than an infantry sergeant. The road was torturous, mostly tracking the Ourthe River. Near La Roche-en- Ardenne, about half way, traffic was snarled due to snow, stalled vehicles, and trucks coming the other way. They spent hours stopped, the diesel engines idling. Some men managed to sleep. Feeling sick from exhaust fumes, Stan shivered in the back of the truck, thinking, sittin’ here gives ya a bad feelin’. Sounds too much like sittin’ duck.

Poke Denton, seated next to Stan, was remarkable for his thin lips and weak chin. And his nasal voice. “Ever seen anything so screwed up?” he whined. He lifted the canvas flap over the tailgate and shook his head at the vehicles lined up behind them. “Look at that. Fucking brass ain’t smart enough to pour piss outta their boots.” He hollered, “Hey, ya goddamn Krauts! It’s Christmas, for chrissake.”

The driver turned off his motor, and distant rumbling was unmasked. Stan

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