The Bronze Star

         Dan cradled the tarnished metal star in the palm of his hand. The attached ribbon was wrinkled after being folded in the container for almost fifty years. In his other hand he held a snapshot of a young soldier leaning on a fence and smiling cockily at the photographer. The photograph captured the vitality of a young warrior decked out in his dress uniform. The young man was his uncle, a member of the 325th Glider Infantry Regiment of the 82nd Airborne Division. The world knew them as the All American Division. This exclusive fraternity of warriors banded together and fought for liberty and freedom on the fields of Europe during the Second World War. The cocky grin of the young man in the photo told nothing of the trials which he experienced during his trek across France, Belgium, and Luxemburg. No, that story was hidden deep within the unpolished metal trinket Dan held in the palm of his hand; it was a Bronze Star.

         Dan closed his eyes. Armed with information gleaned from dozens of sources, he let his imagination spirit him back in time to December, 1944. Even today, veterans still confirm how very cold Christmas was along the border between Belgium and Luxemburg that year. Snow had fallen steadily for several days. It began days before Christmas as a gentle, powdery, dusting, which quickly transformed into large wet snowflake clusters, obscuring vision and quickly forming great white mantles of unblemished snow. Eventually, the pristine blankets of snow were crisscrossed with garish scars where the Tiger tanks ripped through the forest and frozen fields. It was the last major German offensive of the dying Nazi war machine in the Ardennes; it was the Battle of the Bulge.

         In his imagination, with his eyes still closed, Dan felt the frigid bite of the wind on his face. He imagined the sound of clanking tank treads, men in snow white camouflage trudging through the cold frozen fields, and he could almost hear them cursing as they sank to their waist in holes concealed under the deep snowdrifts. Eventually, he heard the shrill whistle and felt the horrendous concussion of incoming artillery shells, bursting through the treetops, raining shrapnel and wooden projectiles on the vulnerable soldiers curled into fetal positions in the holes they dug for protection. He paused momentarily and sensed the smell of fear mixed with the cordite and burning remains of trees and human flesh. And, most disturbing were the screams--he imagined the screams from the wounded, shouts of commands from battle hardened sergeants, and the almost silent whispered prayers for personal safety. Although Dan had never been there, the old medal he held in his palm and the photograph clutched in his hand projected his imagination vicariously through the chasm of time from the safety of his home-study to the havoc of the winter battlefield.

         The squad consisted of three men and a Corporal leading the squad. It was usually comprised of eight soldiers; but, manpower was a premium after seven days of fighting and the dead and wounded had not yet been replaced. Cpl. Horace Boutwell was the leader of the heavy machine gun squad. Although his name was Horace, his buddies shortened the formal and stuffy moniker to Harce. Horace, didn't mind, since that was what his family used, and these men were as much family as was his own blood back home in Oklahoma.

         He joined the war on July 10, 1944, just after the Normandy Campaign. He missed the D-Day battle but was well acquainted with the rigors of war from months of slogging across France and Belgium. Yesterday, he spent Christmas in a hole somewhere around the village of Fraiture. He was promised a Christmas supper of turkey and dressing, and was pleased when the mess unit delivered on their promise. Unfortunately, the turkey leg was frozen and was therefore discarded in favor of a can of K-ration. It was a Christmas to remember.

         His orders were to lead a heavy machine gun squad assigned to overlook a crossroad. The Germans had pushed the Allied forces back with the inertia of the initial assault, resulting in the ugly bulge on the map which defined their front lines. Fortunately, the Allies had arrested the ugly bulge. The American soldiers scraped and fought tenaciously as they sought to stop the forward advance of the Germans. Along the line, one Airborne soldier responded to a question from a tank-killer squad when asked where they should be take up position.

         The seasoned soldier drawled, "Well, buddy, just pull your vehicle behind me... I'm the 82nd Airborne, and this is as far as the bastards are going.”

         And that was exactly how Horace felt as he looked out over his assigned crossroad; he would not go back anymore. He had fought too hard over the last several days; he had lost too many buddies in the snow reddened by their blood. Even though he and his squad members were tired, cold, and battle weary they were not going to retreat.

         It was bitter cold. The cold metal of the Browning .50 cal. heavy machine gun threatened to freeze to the warm exposed flesh of the soldier’s thumbs--that was if his thumbs could find any warmth. The four soldiers of Cpl. Boutwell’s squad busied themselves with continual small tasks, anything providing motion which helped keep them warm. The German attack had come suddenly before the men had been issued deep winter clothing. They pulled their light jackets and blankets tightly around them; eager to coax a bit of warmth from any rag they could find. Their feet were frozen, having been wet for days from the melting snow which filtered into their boots. Undoubtedly, many were in danger of losing toes to frostbite. And yet still, they were expected to fight; and they did.

         The silence of the winter scene was suddenly broken by the blurting staccato firing of the .50 Cal. Members of the squad hastily scrambled for the safety of the frozen sides of the fox hole. Private Jenner assumed his position next the machine gun, feeding the ammunition belt into the breach of the machine gun as it gobbled live cartridges and discarded empties into the fox hole. Givins and Horace trained their weapons on the tree line, looking for the enemy, but seeing none. Out in the field great geysers of snow erupted as the rounds chewed up real estate and splintered the tree line adjacent to the crossroads. Mackey, a young Cajun boy from the heart of the Louisiana bayou, ceased firing and stared at the spot where he had concentrated his fire.

         “What the hell was that about, Mackey?” Horace prompted.

         “I dunno, Harse,” Mackey drawled. “I could have sworn I saw movement in the tree line. There were several of them running through the trees.”

         The men stared intently at the tree line. Pvt. Givins checked his M1, making sure it was prepared to belch death if needed. Horace grabbed the binoculars and scanned the tree line. All he could see was torn earth and splintered trees where Mackey had laid down fire.

         “I don’t see nothing out there,” Horace replied, realizing it didn’t mean there wasn’t a division of screaming Huns preparing to erupt from the trees. “Givins, you keep a sharp eye on our left flank. I’ll watch the right.”

         He directed his attention to Jenner, the youngest of the group. He had yet to turn twenty. If he survived this fracas, he would reach that milestone next month.

         “Jenner!” Horace grabbed the youngster by the vest and pulled him near. “Listen, I want you to go about seventy-five yards to the left of us. The sarge has another heavy machine gun squad watching our flank. I want you to let them know we think we saw movement in the trees. He’ll send a runner back to the staff. Now, after you do that, you get your butt back here as fast as you can. And stay down; I want to eat some of that birthday cake next month. So, I don’t want your bony ass shot. You understand?”

         “Got it, Harce!” he confirmed as he grabbed his M1 and slid out of the hole. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”

         Horace assumed Jenner’s position next to the machine gun. He checked his Thompson submachine gun and began his vigil of watching the right flank. There was nothing else he could do except be cold, and he was doing that right nicely. It would be dark shortly. The overcast skies assured an early dusk. Horace hoped Jenner would be back before dark. It got really dark in these woods and it was just as dangerous to be lost in the forest as it was to be shot at by the Germans.

         Jenner had been gone about a half-hour when the tree line adjacent to the crossroads erupted with enemy fire. Tracers streamed at them from across the territory between the squad’s location and the trees. Horace braced for the in-coming rounds but was surprised and a little confused when his position did not receive fire. All the enemy fire seemed to be focused to the left of him, in the vicinity of Sarge’s heavy machine gun team. All he could do to help them was to return fire.

         “Mackey,” Horace yelled, “give ‘em hell!”

         “On it!” Mackey shouted back as he opened up on the tree line.

         Horace fed the cartridge belt into the machine gun as Mackey laid down a carpet of screaming lead into the heart of where the enemy fire was erupting.

         “Mackey!” Givins yelled, “Here comes Jenner! Watch out for Jenner!”

         A quick glance to his left flank revealed a scrambling soldier, ducking around trees and popping in and out of shell craters, frantically trying to rejoin them in the relative safety of their position.

         “I see ‘em,” Mackey responded as the machine gun continued to belch its deadly rounds.

         Horace felt a shove against his back as Jenner finally dove into the fox hole with the rest of the team. At about that time the machine gun paused.

         “Good to have you back, kid!” Horace yelled. “Get over here and feed a new belt into the .50.”

         The two men scrambled over each other as they changed places. Jenner fed a new cartridge belt into the machine gun and tapped Mackey on the head. “They’re all yours Mackey. Now, shoot the bastards!”

         There were plenty of targets. About a company force streamed out of the tree line headed for the crossroads and into the ditch on the near side. Mackey and Sarge’s .50 cal. continue to spit death and destruction into the crossroads. The two .50 cal had the German infantry pinned down in the ditches. A dozen dead and dying enemy lay in the field bordering the tree line. Scores were huddled in the ditch wounded. Still the machine guns fired.

         Through the cacophony of noise, Horace heard the distinctive “whoomp” sound of a mortar round being fired. He barely had time to yell, “In-coming!” before the earth shook near them. Dirt and debris mixed with shrapnel rained down on the squad. Mackey stopped firing long enough to hug the edge of the fox hole for a second.

         “Keep firing Mackey!” Horace yelled.

         He didn't have to tell the Cajun. Mackey shook his head clear and began firing again, stopping only long enough for Jenner to feed a new cartridge belt into the machine gun.

         Horace glanced over to Sarge’s position just in time to see them take a direct hit. It seemed as if the mortar round dropped into the center of the squad like it was a big red bull’s-eye. The firing ceased from that team. Horace’s squad was on their own now. Another mortar round hit close to them. Again the men instinctively ducked until the dirt and debris stopped raining down on them. The enemy was out of the ditches and charging up the hill now. Mackey was chewing them up furiously as they advanced. The noise was deafening and the adrenaline was flowing so strongly it seemed they were invincible. The entire squad was laying down fire on the advancing Germans.

         And then their world turned upside down. The ground seemed to slam up against them yanking every last bit of air from their lungs. Their ears were so overwhelmed with sound that it reduced itself to only a ringing, void of all other noise. They totally lost all equilibrium, unable to discern if they were standing, falling, or floating. Time seemed to stop in the midst of the battle.

         Slowly their world came back into focus, the ringing in Horace’s ears decreased and the sounds of the battlefield returned. However, he couldn't hear the .50 cal. spit its lead. They weren't firing. He had the sensation that something was not right. He felt around him until his hand struck an object. His helmet—obviously he had lost his helmet in the fray. He carefully oriented it and placed it on his head. His world was still focusing, his hearing still returning.

         He felt a jab in his side and then heard, “Auf Ihre Füße!’

         Horace squeezed his eyes shut and then looked up at the German soldier poking him in the ribs with his weapon.

         “Auf Ihre Füße!’ The German soldier shouted impatiently.

         “I think he wants us to stand, Harce.” Givins said quietly. “I can understand some of it. I think he wants us to stand.”

         Givens stood up, placed his hands behind his head and waited for this buddies. Horace slowly stood and assumed the position. Jenner groaned and pulled himself up and shakily stood with his buddies. Mackey remained on his hands and knees.

         “Harce, my leg’s all messed up. I don’t know if I can stand,” Mackey groaned.

         "Damn-it, Mackey stand up before he shoots you. He can’t leave you here. You gotta stand up.” Horace urged.

         Horace reached down to help his friend up. Instantly the soldier swung the butt of his weapon into the side of Horace’s face. Fortunately, he was able to deflect most of the blow off of his shoulder. However, the blow sent him to the ground.

         “Auf Ihre Füße!’ the German shouted again and grabbed Mackey by the scruff of his collar and pulled him to his feet.

         Mackey grimaced but remained standing. Horace stumbled over to join them. Four German soldiers surrounded the men. They apparently were discussing what to do with their four Airborne prisoners, when a sergeant joined the group. After some discussion, which seemed to be somewhat heated, it was clear the four German soldiers had their orders.

         “Schweine! Wir haben einen kleinen Spaziergang zu nehmen.” A scruffy old German urged, “Eilen Sie, gehen wir!

         They shoved the Airborne prisoners towards the crossroads. The men began walking and stumbling towards the rear of the German lines. Horace reached out and put his arm around Mackey.

         “Mackey, you gotta stay up with us.” Horace whispered to his buddy, “You slow us down and these bastards will shoot you and leave you to freeze along the road. Just suck it up and put one foot in front of the other. You got that?”

         “I understand, Harse. But, this leg hurts awful. It’s all I can do to stay conscious.” Mackey returned.

         “Damn-it, Mackey!” Horace hissed. “Don’t you pass out on me! Don’t you do it! Hear me?”

         “Yeah, I got it, Harce.” Mackey grinned through the pain. “Wouldn’t dare do it, you mean son-of-a-bitch.”

         “That’s right; you’ll have to deal with me.” Horace directed his attention to Givins. “Where’d you learn German, Givins?”

         “My grandma’s German. She always spoke it around the house.” Givins whispered and shrugged, “I really didn’t want the guys to know I spoke German.”

         “Well, I’m glad you do, buddy,” Horace returned. “It just may help save our asses. Keep listening to them and see if you can figure out where the hell they’re taking us.”

         Horace glanced back at Jenner, who was intently trying to pick up on the conversations between Horace, Mackey, and Givins. He winked at Jenner and whispered, “Just stay loose kid. You follow my lead when we get our chance.”

         Jenner nodded his head in understanding.

         “Halten Sie es ruhig!” the German guard shouted. “Halten Sie es ruhig!”

         “He wants us to stop talking, Harse. I’m not sure but I think it pisses him off.” Givins smiled at Horace and Jenner chuckled slightly.

         Horace grinned at Givins, confident the guards would not be impressed with this humor. He glanced at his watch. It was near 10:00 pm and he was surprised the Germans were taking them through the forest in the darkness. Apparently they were in a hurry, as if they were going to miss the party if they didn’t hurry. The going was difficult; Mackey kept stumbling and pulling Horace down.

         They stumbled onto a road where they stopped for a brief respite while the German’s consulted their map. There was considerable traffic on the road. A dozen half-track troop carriers rambled by. Parked off the roadway idling were six Tiger tanks and about a company of men huddled into little groups. An SS major approached the German guards and gestured toward the captured Airborne squad. Horace assumed the German soldiers were trying to pawn the prisoners off to someone else—let them be someone else’s problem. The SS major would have none of it; he gestured for them to proceed off into the forest adjacent to the road.

         “Sie kommen auf diese Weise!” the German soldier barked to Horace, shoving him towards the dense forest in front of him.

         The other Germans gestured for the prisoners to follow. They wandered on into the forest for a short distance until they broke into a small clearing were they huddled up for a moment. One guard watched the Airborne prisoners while the other three gathered barely out of earshot. Even with the overcast sky, the whiteness of the snow reflected what little light was present and made it easy to see. A full moon would have made it nearly as bright as daylight; however, the subdued light still permitted them to see well in the darkness. The Germans conferred with each other momentarily, with a young man of about sixteen watching the four prisoners. They were obviously arguing. Horace assumed they were the subject of the discussion.

         After a moment he heard the old soldier exclaim, “Es ist eine Bestellung, tun Sie es!”

         “What was that all about?” Horace whispered to Givins.

         “Not sure,” Givins returned, “But, I don’t think it’s good. The big guy just ordered the kid to do something…something the kid isn’t crazy about. This could be bad, Horace. Remember Malmedy?”

         A little over a week earlier, on December 17th, eighty-one American G.I.s were captured by the 1st Panzer division on the outskirts of Malmedy. The American soldiers were led into a field and massacred. As the wounded lay in the frozen field crying and asking for help, English speaking SS officers walked through the field shooting those who cried out for assistance. The rumors of the horrific event spread through the ranks of the G.I.s like wildfire.

         “What’s bad?” Jenner interjected.

         “We’ll find out soon enough.” Horace answered, “Just be ready to move fast.”

         Two of the German guards walked away, heading back toward the busy roadway. The remaining two soldiers looked closely at each other, tightened their lips and glanced briefly at their comrades disappearing in the forest. All it took was that glance away and Horace sprang to his feet and crashed into the young soldier. Surprised, the other soldier rushed to help his friend but could not shoot because the two combatants were entangled with each other. That inattention was his undoing. Immediately, Jenner threw his body into the remaining German, who dropped his weapon as the two fell to the ground. Givins grabbed the fallen weapon and drove the butt of the rifle into the Germans face as he rolled off of Jenner. Again and again Givins bashed at the German’s head, until he was certain there was no life left in the man. The two Airborne soldiers rushed to Horace’s aid, who was lying on the young German soldier, with his arm firmly locked around the German’s throat and at the same time his other hand pushing his face into the snow and mud.

         “Horace, you can let go!” Jenner blurted, “He’s dead.”

         Horace let go of the young soldier and rolled onto his back. He sucked in great gulps of air and felt his pulse beat rapidly in his temples. The war had become personal. He hadn’t shot at a man across a battlefield; he had used his hands. He saw the young German’s face, he felt the fear possess him, and watched the life leave him. But, he knew if he had hesitated, he would be the one lying dead in a frozen field instead of this young boy he called his enemy. But, there was no time to ponder the philosophy of life and death. He had to go. He had to get his squad back to his lines. Only then, on a later summer afternoon, as he sat on the bank of a river fishing, could he wonder about deep moral questions.

         “What now, Harse?” Givins asked.

         Horace scrambled from the ground, picking up one of the discarded German rifles, checking the bolt to load a round.

         “Shoot ‘em!” Horace ordered.

         “What?” All three Airborne soldiers questioned.

         “What the hell for?” Continued Jenner.

         “Damn-it, they're dead; they won't feel it!" Horace proclaimed, "Their buddies are listening for the shots. They gotta think they shot us. Now, shoot ‘em!” Horace insisted.

         Several shots rang out. The listening Germans stopped briefly in their tracks and then turned to other business, satisfied their comrades had performed the necessary chore. Horace and his three buddies began the trek back to their lines. At first they crawled parallel to the roadway until they found a blind spot in the road where they sprinted across unobserved. Then they stumbled in the darkness back towards their lines, with Horace carrying Mackey most of the way.

         Dan’s brain registered pain in his hand. He looked down and saw he was squeezing the bronze star tightly. The point of the star was digging into his palm. The pain propelled him back to the present. He stared at the little star with the ribbon attached. It was such a little thing. Yet it had an eternal story associated with it.

         There was more to the story. Dan eventually discovered it through his research. His Uncle Horace never spoke of it and, as a result, no one knew the rest of the story. The commendation request submitted by his superior officer told of Horace reporting back to his Captain after he stumbled across the front lines, carrying Mackey. The report stipulated it was Horace's intellegence of the enemy's strength and location which warned a confused and desperate band of soldiers of the impending attack. The Allied forces adjusted for the coming attack, for which they were able to prepare. The commendation report also indicated, that instead of remaining back at the aid station, Horace returned to the line, insisting on helping to secure the section during the attack. All of that was a matter of record; it was what the military authorities called “heroic conduct in keeping with the highest standards of the Airborne troops.”

         However, Dan never knew this story. He didn’t know about the Bronze Star. Oh, he knew his uncle served in Europe while his father served in the Pacific during the Great War. But he never understood what that meant. He never knew until after his uncle, who he remembered as being a gentle man, was gone. It wasn’t until he had done his research and held the tarnished little medal in the palm of his hand that he began to understand to some small degree the magnitude of the rest of the story. And so, Dan did the only thing he could do. It would create a tribute to the gallantry of a man he thought he knew. He turned on the computer, addressed the keyboard, and began to type.


***********************************

Acknowledgment:

         I realize acknowledgements usually go at the front of a story/book. However, I have placed this acknowledgement at the end of this story so as to not spoil the story for the reader.

         I have taken great literary license to build this short story. Although it is a work of fiction, it is steeped in historical fact and family history. I never spoke to Uncle Horace about this. I received glimmers of the account from my father, his brother. Perhaps Horace’s son Ron has more detailed information. All I ask is that the readers receive this in the spirit of the intent to honor what I believe was a true hero.

         With the exception of Horace Boutwell, the names, character of the squad members, and the details are purely fictional. What is fact is that Horace Boutwell was the leader of a heavy machine gun squad, he was captured in the Battle of the Bulge, he overcome his captors and escaped, he led his squad back to safety, he shared information regarding enemy strength and direction of an impending attack, and he participated in the subsequent battle. Also, it is a fact that he was awarded the Bronze Star.

Dan C. Boutwell