An Unexpected Gift
The Ardennes, January 1945
It started to spread, belly, muscle, throat, spine, thawing, bringing back to life. Back from the dead, that was how it felt to Mick. So cold for so long, he had forgotten the simple power of warmth to make him feel human again. He tucked his hands under his armpits and curled his feet as tight beneath him as he could manage. He winced at the scratchy uniform chafing his thigh; finally he had thawed out enough to feel it.
He pulled the hay closer, tighter, smothering a sneeze. A quick glance over to Jack, checking he hadn't disturbed his first decent sleep in weeks. A shaft of moonlight cut across his chubby, not-quite-formed features, picking out an almost-dried tear track. The kid was tough, but everyone had their limits and it was this brief respite from their frozen drudge that had proved his breaking point.
Shorty snored. Loudly. That man had the rare gift of being able to sleep anywhere. Mick smiled, something else he hadn't done for so long it seemed like a lifetime ago. They had stumbled across the barn on their way back from another futile recce for food. If they'd managed to find anything of use they would have pressed on to get back to the squad but they knew as soon as they saw it that they couldn't pass up the chance of a warm, comfortable night. The animals were long-since slaughtered but their stalls remained, an unlikely sanctuary. Even the smell was comforting, earthy, real, vibrant, alien to a big-city boy.
Mick shivered as the chill seeped further from his bones, working its way out, making way for heat and life. The stirrings of hunger, old pain, the ache of loneliness, he welcomed them like past lovers, sense memory working its powerful magic. An image, stark and clear, a laughing French girl whose name he remembered only as a string of lilting sounds. Her welcoming body, creamy skin against the rough serge of her mannish pants, callused hands moving against his chest as she spread for him, full of laughter, full of life. A tightening in guts and groin as he ran his hands over his belly, conjuring her whisper, "Viens, mon chéri." Cold, hunger, the relentless whump of shells, all had gathered to render him sexless, lifeless. The joy of desire flowed as he fought with buckles and straps, fumbling, reaching, stroking. He buried his face in the soft hay, stifling his groan as he came. The wave of release flowed through him, reaching from core to tip and he knew that tonight he would dream of a nameless beauty and a warm bed.
For a few, short hours he was a man again, stretching out within sleep's comforting embrace. Wrenched back to unwelcome reality, he mumbled in protest as Jack shook his shoulder, his whisper an urgent hiss, "Mick! Wake up! Mick."
Mick moaned. His eyes snapped open as he felt the hand clamp over his mouth. "Shhhh!! There's someone coming."
Too-brief sleep cast aside, he tensed, reaching for his rifle, slowly, carefully. He clambered from his nest, inching toward the edge of the stall, Jack a half-step behind. He caught Shorty's eye across the other side of the barn and they stepped forward in unison, a practised drill, expecting the worst. They thought they were far from the nearest German patrol, but they'd been wrong before. They reached the end of the line of stalls and Mick held up his hand; they froze, senses craning. A quiet rustle from just outside the barn door drew their attention and Shorty crossed to Mick's flank. With a nod of understanding they crept forward, weapons gripped in sweaty palms.
The door rattled open, just a foot or so, then closed again and silence fell once more. Forward, step by careful step, peering through the early morning light. The sight by the door stopped them dead. No Germans. No threat. Just a girl, no more than eight, with braids in her hair and summer in her cheeks, placing a basket on the floor of the barn. Startled like a young deer, she jumped up and turned to run. Mick held up his hands, palms out; he knew she wouldn't understand him but he spoke anyway, "It's okay, sweetheart. We're not gonna hurt you."
And then she smiled. A breathtaking, brilliant smile that caught three young soldiers' hearts and imprinted her forever in their memories. She opened the door, turned, waved, and skipped back to the farmhouse, her mission of mercy accomplished. As their fear evaporated, they grabbed the basket, casting aside the red and white checked cloth that had kept its contents safe. Fresh bread, warm from the oven, cheese, an apple and a flask of fresh, aromatic coffee. Giggling like kids at Christmas, they feasted and forgot horrors past, present and future.
Sated, they tucked the flask back into the basket, checked their kit and prepared to move out. Mick picked up the cloth to replace it over the basket; as he shook it a scrap of paper fell at his feet. Holding it out to catch the daylight peeking through the door, he saw the girl's face smiling back at him. The photo was at least a couple of years old but it was definitely her. Mick stowed it in his breast pocket, over his heart, safe. A gift given freely, unexpected, welcome, cherished. As they headed out, hugging the treeline, Mick glanced over his shoulder and saw her standing at an upstairs window, waving furiously at the three departing strangers. He returned her wave, with a wistful smile. The nameless Belgian farmgirl who had reminded them all of the kindness of strangers and the power of innocence.
He would hold her memory in the dark days to come.