Battle of the Bulge profiles: For the "New Man," first day was also the last The State
Kline looked departed. A 10-inch chunk of shrapnel had screamed into his foxhole, shredding his legs. It was brutally dead. His blood froze in the bottom of the burrow, sealing the wounds. “By reason of God,” he said.
Kline heard other wounded Americans screaming, some for their mothers, then the “burp” of car 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 heretofore from the American side. The Germans retreated. Heretofore passed. He heard someone say, “I remember this one is alive.” He saw a fa appear at the top of the hole wearing a fully tanker’s helmet and goggles. “He looked like an foreign,” Kline said.
The over the moon marvellous faded away.
Kline opened his eyes again. He was on a stretcher on the excuse sediment in the snow. A priest was administering the last rites. The pack wafer was in his mouth.
