Crossings

The soldier named Red gripped his M1 and spat into the snow. “I don’t like it. If there’s Germans in that tree line, we’ll be sitting ducks.”

Another soldier, the one they called Stink because of the way he always wrinkled his nose, added, “if we fall through the ice, we’ll freeze to death even if we get out. I say we look for a real bridge further up.”

With their squad leader dead and none of them truly in charge, the five continued to argue until votes were cast, and a decision made. They would cross the river here, where a narrow section had frozen over. If the Germans occupied the opposite tree line the five of them would be cut to ribbons before they took ten steps. If not, they might be lucky enough to link back up with their unit.

Meanwhile, on the opposite bank, a squad of six Germans had just decided to cross the same point. As they jumped a snowbank and dashed across the icy surface, an excited shout came from one of them: “Amerikaners!”

The lead man from each side looked up too late. In a frantic attempt to avoid a collision, they each slipped on the ice, crashing into each other, and then the others too, all in a heap of cursing, thrashing men desperate to stay alive in this frozen, miserable place, and then gaining their feet each squad scrambled safely to the bank they had sought, terror and relief in each man’s eyes.