Battle of the Bulge profiles: For the "New Man," first day was also the last The State
Kline looked unsympathetic. A 10-inch chunk of shrapnel had screamed into his foxhole, shredding his legs. It was brutally polar. His blood froze in the bottom of the niche, sealing the wounds. “Acknowledgement God,” he said.
Kline heard other wounded Americans screaming, some for their mothers, then the “burp” of appliance guns as the Germans executed them. He had already ripped off his dog tags and thrown them away. They had an “H” on them — for Hebrew.
The shelling resumed. This chance from the American side. The Germans retreated. Metre passed. He heard someone say, “I assume this one is alive.” He saw a countenance appear at the top of the hole wearing a deviant tanker’s helmet and goggles. “He looked like an outsider,” Kline said.
The everyone faded away.
Kline opened his eyes again. He was on a stretcher on the coach in the snow. A priest was administering the last rites. The tummler wafer was in his mouth.
...
