Disclaimer: This is a fictional story based on the TV series Band of Brothers. I do not own any part of the mini-series, and do not know the real men portrayed in the series. This piece of work was written to be enjoyed by fans of the show, and means no disrespect to any of the men who fought for their country.
This is set during ep. 6/7 (Bastogne/The Breaking Point), but has no real spoilers for either.
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The snow is falling, numbing your ears where it rests on the brim of you helmet, and numbing your fingers until you can't feel them gripping your gun.
They're singing in their foxholes again. Hymns and carols and war songs.
It's Christmas Eve and you can think of so many places you would like to be. Freezing your ass off in a foxhole near a small Belgian town you had never heard of before last week does not even come close to the top of the list.
You recognise the tunes that are coming from the other side of the line, if not the words, and you hum along until you foxhole partner gives you a strange look. Further along your own line, someone starts singing songs you do know the words to, drowning out the voices of the enemy.
It reminds you of the tales your father used to tell when you were small and his scars were aching. Stories of days in France, where the trenches of the enemy were so close that you could hear their whispers. And a truce on Christmas, when all that came over the top were voices loud with song and prayer.
You try to find a comfortable spot on the frozen ground beneath you and pull the blanket closer, trying to preserve as much heat as possible. There will be no truce here; a temporary stalemate has broken out instead. Both sides send out patrols, both lose men, and neither gains any ground.
You think warm thoughts, as if that will help with the numbness in your bones. Having a peaceful drink with your father by the fire. Chopping wood with your brothers. Helping your mother with the Christmas meal. Visiting your sweetheart and exchanging presents and sweet kisses. Homesickness hits you like a hammer, and you are grateful your foxhole partner has fallen asleep as tears drop down your cheek.
You curse the weather. You curse the supplies that are so slow getting to you. You curse the paratroopers sitting in the foxholes in the opposite line. You curse the paratroopers sitting beside you in your own line. And you curse yourself. Because you volunteered for this, drawn in by the extra 100 deutsch marks in your pay packet.
You curse Hitler because he started this, but you're the one sitting in the snow, you're the one who has to finish this for him.
And you curse the Allied Commanders. Churchill and Roosevelt and Stalin. Because they refuse to surrender, drawing out the inevitable. Can't they see that it's a foregone conclusion? This war will end with the whole of Europe being lead by your Fuhrer.
The singing has stopped on both sides now. Officers telling men to be quiet before they attract the attentions of a sniper. As you dry your face the sky is growing light again.
Christmas Day.
All you have to face it with is a helmet, a gun and a curse.
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A/N: I have no idea if the German paratroops were paid more than their collegues, but I know that the American Paratroops got an extra $50.