Chapter 2

Ever miss something so damn bad you could almost taste, or feel or see it? Son of a bitch I missed Georgia. Not a woman, not the song, but the state, where I came from, God's Country. Where you could be warm, warm, hell, maybe that was what I missed the most. Standing in the middle of the woods, somewhere in Germany, where the hell was I anyway, Bavaria I think, ass deep in snow, pulling perimeter watch, waiting for the enemy to creep up on us. Like that was going to happen, not a damn chance, it was too freaking cold.

I stamped my feet in the hopes of reviving a little circulation, and scanned the valley in front of me again. Nothing but blowing snow and cold moonlight, and the occasional car on the autobahn below, everything else was burrowed down for the night. Darkness came early at this time of year, by 4 pm it was pitch black, and stayed that way till around 8 am. What a frigging joke I thought, stand out here for two hours and freeze your nuts off, and for what? Ain't a damn soul going to come up here and look for us, unless it's some crazed German kid looking for chem lights and C rations. I looked at my watch, 55 minutes to go, and then I could crawl into my bag and try to warm up. Bet it was warm back home, never really gets cold in South Georgia until around January anyway, November was usually warm, but then again, my definition of warm had changed in two years since I'd been home. Now days, I thought it was warm if it hit 40 degrees. I scanned my "kill zone" again and continued my trek down memory lane.

October 84, Pops and me, cutting his winter fire wood during my leave, late in the day, just before dark.

"Boy, git that wood loaded so we can go to ta house afore it gits too cold."

He wiped his forehead, and pointed out a piece I'd missed.

"Get dat one over there."

Smoking and resting, he watched me load the rest of the wood, and we left for home. Same as we'd done all through my childhood. Now on the eve of my departure overseas, he saw no need to change. He watched, I loaded. Finished, He drove the tractor and I rode the drawbar, glad to see the house and the fire inside, I had thought I was cold, now I knew better.

"Wish I could get next to that... What the fu... ?"

I peered through the gloom, and saw the slight movement again. A patch of dirty white against the pure white of the fresh snow was moving slowly forward.

Someone was actually trying to get to us undetected. I watched carefully, to see how many there were, whoever was still far enough away that I had time to observe before raising the alarm. The movement stopped, and I had trouble making out the outlines, then a head raised itself from the white camouflage. I focused my binoculars on it, and immediately recognized him, Private Franco, the platoon sergeants driver. Now what in the Sam's name of hell was he doing out there? I watched as he covered his head again and began his slow movement towards my hide position. He slowly moved across the field, and as he neared, I thought I heard the clink of glass against glass. Now I understood.

Booze run.

Moving where I could intercept him, I waited.

He slithered across the roadway, and stopped in the ditch in front of me. He rose to his feet, and gathered his gear, and almost fainted when I spoke.

"There ain't no way in hell you are going any farther without splitting some of that with me." I said.

He jumped at my voice "Jew Bastardo pendejo, you scare the shit out of me!" "What the Hell you doing out here for?'

"I'm here for my health dumbass, the hell you think I'm here for? Friggin guard duty, what else?"