Snowballs in Hell, 1944

IN THE FIERCE, SNOWY DECEMBER OF 1944, FIVE AMERICAN SOLDIERS KNELT IN A DITCH. The ditch bisected a Belgian glade. For days these men had been pinned down by a German machine gun. They were freezing and huddled, shoulder to shoulder, lined up like a stubby-legged centipede.

Between the five of them, they shared a single bullet; in whispers, they argued over who should hold it?

Sarge—a sergeant—won the bullet by pulling rank. He was positioned in the center. To his right, hunkered private Bronx–foul-mouthed and chatty. On the right flank, next to Bronx, was Brains, a bespectacled and bookish Georgian. To Sarge’s left lay Tex, a thick-necked, young cowboy who often spoke of home, wrangling, and rustling. On the left end was the only man at home in the cold, Tom, a chaplain from North Dakota.

Dawn approached, and the birds were saying the usual things, like: “Good morning,” and “How’d you sleep,” or, “I had this dream about…”

But, in the sunshine, the German MG-42 gunner crew was deadliest: the pieces of frozen corpses littering the glade had discovered this in the instantaneous way of war. Hawk-eyed Brain claimed the crew of the machine gun had dwindled down to four or five men–some of the enemy must have moved on to join the Bulge. Five frozen American GIs weren’t worth these soldier’s time.

“Give the bullet to Brain,” said Bronx, “he’s the best shot.”

Brain, a coward, protested. “I cracked my glasses.

Bronx blew into his hands and reached for the glasses. “They look fine to me. Hand’em over; I’ll fix’em for ya.”

Bullets whizzed overhead as they always did when the Americans grew loud or struggled.

Sarge elbowed Bronx. “You idiots, stop that. I’ve got an idea.”

Morale was dropping like the temperature. Bronx blew a raspberry. “Hoe about surrender? How do you say ‘I surrender’ in German, Brain?”

Sarge was low on patience. “Quiet. I said I’ve got a plan–they can’t have too many bullets left.”

Bronx laughed. “I’m sure they got five.” This brought a ripple of chuckles through the ditch, which Sarge ignored.

Sarge grabbed Bronx’s forearm. “If we try rolling westward, into the trees, they’ll empty their gun over us.” West was rightward of the Americans–toward Bronx and Brains.

But then, Tex spoke for the first time in hours–he’d fallen asleep overnight. “I’m not sure this ditch is wide enough. I’ll get my ass shot off. Or my pecker.”

“Smartest thing you’ve said in… ever,” said Bronx. This brought on more giggles. And more machine gun bullets.

Whenever Tom, the chaplain, whispered, his voice carried high and clear; he was used to preaching for a large congregation. “Not yet. I don’t want to leave these behind. I worked through the night.”

“These?” said Bronx. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“This feller’s playing in the snow,” drawled Tex. His voice was as low and muddy as Tom’s was high and crystal.

The sun peeked over the trees, and the Americans wriggled and dug down into the ice. On previous days the gunner had taken potshots in the sunlight.

“I can’t feel my toes,” said Tex.

“I guess your rodeo days are over,” said Bronx. “I got an idea–we all line up, and Brains shoots us through the head?”

Brains called out: “We surrender. Wir geben auf!”

Sarge scraped his hand along the inside edge of the ditch to fling snow at Brains. But, most of it hit Bronx.

“Okay!” said a heavily accented voice from the machine gun nest.

Bronx wriggled in excitement and edged closer to Brains. “What’d he say? What’d he say?”

Sarge scratched his mustache. “He said ‘okay,’ jackass.”

Tex mumbled, adding: “Donkeys are actually intelligent animals, you know. They had one at my grandpa’s when I was a kid who– ”

“–could recite fuckin’ Shakespeare. Shaddup,” Bronx said. “Guys, I’m standing up. Let’s go. They said it’s okay.”

Sarge slapped his hand down on Bronx’s back. “Don’t you dare. It’s a trap.”

“Ain’t a trap, they got that–what’s it, Geneva thing–Convention? Alright, C’mon.” And as soon as Bronx stood, bullets whizzed. He fell across the backs of the three soldiers to his left–Sarge, Tex, and Tom. “My shoulder! They nearly took my arm off, the Jerry bastards!”

Sarge was furious. “Private: that was a direct order. If we get out of here, I’m having you court martialed.”

“My arm! I think I’m bleeding to death!” Bronx flopped and kicked on top of Tex and Sarge.

Tex managed to yank him down into the ditch just as more bullets flew overhead. “It just grazed ya’, buddy. I think I got a bandage somewhere. I’m sure Tom does.”

“No, Tex–I’m dying’! Tom, pray for me. Tom? What the hell are you doing?”

Tex drawled. “I told you, Tom’s been playing in the snow.”

Bell-like and high came Tom’s voice: “I intend to deliver us from this ditch.”

Bronx laughed and moaned. “With a bunch of goddamn snowballs?”

“I didn’t want to resort to this, but if they won’t be chivalrous–would you be so kind as to pass me some rocks?

They all exchanged puzzled expressions, and then passed handfuls of rocks and pebbles leftward to Tom.

Bronx moaned. “I’m about to pass out, you guys–”

“Keep him awake,” said Sarge. Tex grabbed Bronx’s ear and twisted it until the man squealed.

“Alright–I’m awake. You guys? I think Tom is blessing some friggin’ snowballs.”

And they all heard it: “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.”

Sarge tried to lean over Tex’s back. “Tom, do not do what I think you’re about to do.”

Tom rolled on his back. He held a giant, perfectly spherical snowball. “Private Brains, as I recall, that nest is about forty meters to our northeast?”

“Thirty-five.”

Tom lightly kissed the snowball. “Go, my child.” He flung the snowball upward, arching out of the ditch.

A distant splash.

From the gun nest came shouting: “Scheisse!” followed by silence, and then: “Hey–no fair. No rocks! Meine cousine trägt eine Augenklappe. Von einem felsen! I tell you my cousin wears an eyepatch. From a rock. Be careful!”

Brains waved his hand up out of the ditch–no bullets fired. “Can we surrender now?”

“If you win this… snowball tag. No rocks.”

Sarge spread his arms and tried to pin everyone down–not that they’d shown any interest in moving–that was just Sarge’s way; he just liked to pin people down.

“You gentlemen have a deal,” said Tom.

German boots came crushing out into the snow and mayhem erupted; Tex charged immediately without even making a snowball: he simply flung handfuls of snow left and right. The first German snowball struck him directly between the eyes, and he sat down hard on his broad butt, surprised not to be dead. “Guess I’m out, boys.” Therefore, sitting down became the signal for: “I’m out!”

Bronx stayed in the ditch, he was a leftie, and his left arm had been wounded. With his right he attempted to replicate Tom’s amazing arch-shot but never came anywhere close to the anyone or anything.

Sarge and Brains also stayed in the ditch, but on their knees. Sarge ordered–as always–and commanded Brains to sight for him. In this manner, Sarge pegged a German teenager in the ribs, much to both of their surprise. The kid sat as his compatriots cursed him.

Tom was a miracle: he could throw snowballs two at a time; he nailed another German within seconds, a man crouched behind a shrub. However, this German–the man who’d insisted against rocks–refused to acknowledge he’d been hit. He was also the gunner. From this point, Tom began assailing so viciously that the remaining Germans had no choice but to retreat toward the trees.

(One of these Germans–a man of fifty–simply fled, deserted, and lived out his days in Costa Rica. He never saw snow again.)

When Brains next looked up to sight, he caught an icy ball in the cheek, smashing his glasses and badly wounding his left eye. Sarge avenged Brains, landing a glancing blow across the German’s own sergeant’s shin. Then, with a salute, the German sergeant sat.

It was down to three against three–if you counted the mostly-incapacitated Bronx.

Tom was simply too formidable and forced the remaining three Germans to stand frozen behind oak trees. With an astounding, arched shot, he pegged the gunner in the back; once again the gunner refused to acknowledge defeat. Tom silently prayed for him and struck another German teenager in the boot as he attempted to dash between the trees. Unfortunately, this was it for Tom, as the tree-dashing had been a ruse. The third and final German caught Tom in the crotch. He took the Lord’s name in vain and sat.

Sarge was ready, however, and pegged the sneaky German in the shoulder. The German hesitated, sighed, and sat.

Meanwhile, the German gunner, having smelled weakness, circled around and fell upon the defenseless Bronx, whereupon he reared back and hit the wounded man in the neck as hard as he could. He’d been aiming for the head. Also, he’d slipped a rock into the snowball.

This left the German gunner and Sarge.

The Sarge did hated bad sportsmanship, so, enraged he drew his sidearm–single bullet chambered–and commanded the gunner to surrender. The gunner declined. Sarge shot him in the chest.

The remaining Germans held true to their word and allowed the Americans to surrender. When the Americans won the nearby Battle of the Bulge, the Americans were scooped up by a victorious returning battalion and successfully pleaded for the lives of their German captors.

However, years later as his insomnia worsened, Sarge could only tell himself he’d been too worked up to remember that no one was actually dead in that game, and he passed away unconvinced whether or not he’d done the right thing.