Quincy Writers Guild

"Battle Fatigue" (An excerpt from "In Death's Dark Shadows: A Soldier's Story")

 

The following episode took place during the opening blows of the Battle of the Bulge.

 

After a series of wild, close quarter actions, the Germans were finally pushed from the center of town and the squads once again occupied houses lining the streets of central Rocherath.  All was quiet, the battle won.  Again each squad's strength had been whittled by casualties as they lost a man here, and another there.  Some squads could barely muster half-strength.

 

The survivors collapsed within the ruins.  One hardly noticed the howl of passing artillery anymore--it had become commonplace.  Only the crackling of burning buildings disturbed the brooding silence as flames lapped at rooftops and danced lightly along exposed, charred beams.  Rolls of smoke boiled from the clutter of crumbling homes and darkened the streets now clogged by rubble and the hulks of scorched tanks and demolished vehicles.  Dead Germans lay everywhere--in the streets, in the buildings and the muddly, snow-slushed yards.  Several smoldering corpses dangled grotesquely from knocked out tanks where the crews had met their fate by bullet and fire.   The pathetic personal effects of residents had spilled from homes and lay strewn across muddy yards, debouched 

by the tempest of war. Fences were broken and trampled down. Trees laid bare and felled. It was as if a monstrous tornado had devastated the town and left it for dead.

 

It was the same within the houses. Every room had been ransacked by battle. Broken glass and scores of spent cartridges littered floors smeared by muddy boots and blood. Curtains had been ripped from windows. Wallpaper hung loosely from plaster that had been blasted, holed and lacerated by explosions, bullets and shrapnel. Furniture had been smashed and overturned. It looked as if a herd of wild animals had stampeded the place, crashed through it, then left, leaving a path of destruction in their wake.

 

The moans of the wounded disrupted the silence, aggravated by the haunting sobs of a soldier huddled in a corner, teetering on the brink of complete and total psychological breakdown. A medic entered the house, burdened by his satchel of sulfa powder, battle dressings, morphine syringes and other medical paraphernalia and quickly made his way to the wounded. The medics were life savers, angels of the highest order and highly revered by the combat soldiers. After stanching the leaking blood and sometimes performing rudimentary surgery he attached evacuation tags to each casualty, listing the nature of the wounds and which life saving measures he had taken to stabilize his patient. Litter bearers were summoned to evacuate the worst cases. Those with less severe wounds, the walking wounded, were given directions to an aid station and hobbled out of the house, trying to gain their bearings among the ruins and devastation. Others, those who bore minor scrapes, cuts and superficial wounds, ignored their injuries and remained on duty.

 

The medic moved on to visit the next house and the room was consumed by the whimpering of the poor fellow sobbing in the corner. His nerves were shot. He knew he couldn’t be spared – every man capable of wielding a weapon was desperately needed. In a gesture of compassion, a soldier tried to console his trembling buddy, looking helpless as he gently patted his comrade’s quaking shoulders, massaging them while cooing soothing words: “It’s alright. It’ll be okay.” But everyone knew it wasn’t. The poor fellow shivered and wept unto himself, oblivious of a world gone mad. Others dared not look at him, as if his affliction was contagious and could be transmitted simply by sight. They turned their faces, half embarrassed for themselves and half for the wretched creature trembling in the corner. The soldier’s comrade draped an arm around his buddy’s heaving shoulders and glared hatefully, not so much at the others, but more at the monster of war, the beast that had sucked the very soul from his friend, his buddy, the man once sound and robust who had shared foxholes and rations with him in deplorable weather conditions. They had exchanged ribald jokes and tales of home and recognized each others’ loved ones by the photos they carried. They were as close as brothers, comrades in arms who had shared countless dangers on many fields of battle. But now his buddy was gone, lost to a world none of them could fully comprehend – not fully. He had simply reached his breaking point. It was heartbreaking and it could happen to anyone – and that was the true horror of it. No one dared to look at him except in fleeting glances, for they feared they may be looking at a mirror image of themselves. No one wanted to admit it could happen to them and they diverted their attention to the ruined streets beyond their windows and doors.