The Fire in Ice

By Jim Purcell

There is a killing face to winter, which hides its blade until the right time, when its prey is defenseless. Like a thug in an alley, killing-winter averts the light and holds back its lunge until the mark has wandered too far from the street, the lights and the rush of people. I have seen this killer before, when it turned its steely gaze toward my comrades and I.

An infantry battalion in the U.S. Army in 1986 had about 500 people in it. I was a 20-year-old soldier that December, with the rank of specialist in the Intelligence & Security section for my battalion, when everyone was notified at our base that the unit would be undergoing cold weather training in Denmark from mid-December to mid-January. I had just arrived to the 4th Battalion, 41st Infantry Regiment, which belonged to the 2nd Armored Division (Forward) when the news came down.

The 2nd Armored was a storied unit where, unlike everyplace else in the Army, soldiers wore their “Hell on Wheels” unit patches over the left breast pocket by tradition; a tradition begun by one of its former commanders, the late Gen. George S. Patton, Jr. In Germany, they were known as a tough unit that did their share, which was saying it all. It meant a lot to become part of a new unit, especially an infantry unit. Generally, one never knew when they actually ‘belonged.’ One day, someone woke up and they just knew that the unit was their home. It happened when it happened.

The base 4/41 Infantry was located at was named Lucius D. Clay Kaserne, after a famous American general who was important during the 1948-1949 Berlin Airlift, and it was one of the coldest the Army had to offer anywhere. It was the most northern of any infantry unit in Germany. When I stepped off the bus along with the other replacements from Frankfurt, where I received my orders to the 2nd Armored Division (Forward), I was struck by the stark cold. It was at least 10 degrees colder than in the south of the country and every building was encased in snowy ice. The wind lashed anyone who ventured outdoors. There was no color to the sky, the place or the people; it was all shades of gray, white and black. Still, green-wrapped mummies huddled about their normal day, clad in heavy jackets and boots. Coming from my post in North Carolina only a few weeks before, following a wonderful Indian Summer, I was unprepared for the reality of this new environment.

My battalion was not the only one on the post, but would be the only unit from Clay Kaserne to go to Denmark. In all, there were probably 4,000 or more soldiers assigned to the kaserne, which hosted another infantry battalion like mine, an armored battalion of M-1 tanks and various support units. At the time, little Clay Kaserne was even in the news as it was one of the first overseas places where the then-new Bradley Fighting Vehicle was being fielded by mainline Army units. Reporters from the U.S. and Europe had been known to hang around the nearby town of Osterholz-Scharmbeck wanting to get soldiers on the record about the new weapons system. One of the first things I learned at the unit, the very first hour I was there, was told me by a young corporal at the Division’s Reception Center. With the 20 or so of us from the bus all sitting down, the young man came into the classroom we were in and began with a few “do’s and do nots.” He said, “The Chow Hall (Army-speak for the Dining Facility) is located here…,” he indicated the building on a map. “And, do not talk to any reporters about anything at anytime for any reason whatsoever.” So, I figured if they told me not to talk to reporters before they informed me of where the bathroom was then that must be important stuff.

I was sent to 4/41 Infantry from the Division Reception Center within an hour or so. I was new to being in Europe and in someplace that looked like the lot where the 1968 movie “Ice Station Zebra” was filmed, but not new to the Army. Soldiers in Germany were the same as soldiers in the States. For that matter, American soldiers were no different from soldiers anywhere else: They complained without stop, always had a rumor to pass among each other, could be tough as nails and always, always wanted to go either home or somewhere other than where they were at the moment. Being a soldier in the Intelligence career field, it would be unlikely to find my way into an infantry battalion. There was only one slot in any infantry battalion for an intelligence analyst. I drew that one job over at 4/41 Infantry, though, which was fine because I liked serving with “grunts,” as infantrymen were termed affectionately, better than anyone else.

                After bringing my bags to my new company, getting settled in, getting a meal in me and finally finding out where there was a toilet, it was time to report to my new bosses at the S-2 over in the Battalion Headquarters. It was a new place with familiar sounds of an Army during its day. Yet, as I walked through the door there was one familiar face: I had served with 1st Lieutenant Anthony P. Deal before. Well, not served with him really. 1Lt. Deal was the executive officer for my training company at the Army’s Intelligence School, at Fort Huachuca, Arizona, when I was there going through training. The executive officer is the second-ranking officer in a company, and he was known for being very ‘no-nonsense.’ There was also 1Lt. Robert Scherer, who was a head taller than Deal, and was in charge of the section. He had a face that was long and his looks were dark compared to the neon of Deal’s almost orange-blond hair. Then, there was Sergeant First Class Craig Fisher, who presented the inevitable stereotype of the ‘old school’ non-commissioned officer, with his graying moustache and salt and pepper hair. He was a solid man, a strong one and had an authoritative presence. Then, finally, there was Specialist Mike Harsh, who was my rank. Lanky and strong, Harsh was an Ohio boy who was doing his first tour in the Army, like me.

                When not deployed with the battalion in the field, the S-2 Shop was all about obtaining necessary security clearances for soldiers in the battalion; ensuring that its six arms rooms, which contained God only knows how many weapons and weapons systems , were run properly and accountably; ordering maps for the companies; and it was the repository for whatever small amount of classified information that may be on hand for whatever reason. There were some other things, but that was most of it. However, no one was thinking about any of that as everyone started gearing up for the deployment. No one knew what the heck was going to happen at “cold weather training,” suffice to say it was going to be damn cold. It was already cold at Clay Kaserne, apparently not cold enough, though, for the battalion to avoid going somewhere even colder just to do it.

                The plan was a simple one, really: the battalion would put its vehicles on a train and pull up at a Danish kaserne (“kasernes” are what we’d call “forts” in America) at the Danish base in Borris. Then, everyone would off-load and there would be gunnery for the units in the battalion that had Bradley Fighting Vehicles. This would go on for a week or so. Then, with that done, the battalion would head out to a Danish training area near the sort of  town of Oksbol for cold-weather maneuvers.

The S-2 didn’t have any Bradleys. We had an M577 Command Post Carrier, which is actually nothing more than a roomy armored personnel carrier used to haul some extra large radios and map boards for the battalion’s Tactical Operations Center, called a “TOC.” The TOC was comprised of the S-2 M577 and the S-3’s M577 Command Post Carriers. We would park next to one another and then roll out enormous tarps, 10 feet long, next to one another. Then, we’d raise the tarps with a PVC-boned skeleton and it would give a space for the battalion commander to lead his unit from and do the work of the business. The S-3 was the Operations Section for the battalion, and it was led by the battalion operations officer, in this case Major James Bowden. The battalion operations officer basically made sure the unit’s companies were doing what the battalion commander wanted them to do in the field. When company commanders needed guidance they called him, and when they needed to do something the battalion commander wanted then he called them. Bowden’s staff supported that effort. In all, there were about a dozen or so people assigned to the S-3. And, they did have a Bradley assigned to them, which was used by the operations officer when he wasn’t using his tactical vehicle, a High Mobility Multi-Wheeled Vehicle (HMMWV).

                I had come to the 2nd Armored from an airborne unit, which had nothing to do with vehicles. Airborne units get rides from helicopters and jump out of airplanes to get around. They didn’t do armored vehicles there, so there was a lot to learn. Being the new guy, my job was to help Harsh in the Motor Pool get the M577 ready for the deployment. It was freezing, sweaty, dirty, greasy work. No one had the time to really show me anything about the unit, other than the M577, which was called a “track.” The canvas for the TOC was located above the back ramp of the track, at the top of the vehicle. I cannot count how many times Harsh and I rolled and unrolled the damn thing looking for holes or places to be mended. It was a job. The tarp had to be more than 150 pounds when wet. On one occasion, Harsh told me, “You don’t just show up here from some light unit and - Bang! - you know your ass from a hole in the ground here. It sucks for you.” I told him that, maybe next time I got orders somewhere, the Department of the Army should run them through him. He shook his head.

At Borris, the Bradleys were at gunnery drills day-in and day-out, practicing with their 25mm Bushmaster I chainguns at the range.  Meanwhile, the TOC practiced getting put up and put down by the guys from S-2 and S-3, performing radio checks and keeping each of the company commanders and the battalion commander in touch. The TOC also coordinated closely with the battalion’s trains, which was the fuel, food and ammunition supply point. Everyone thought cold weather training was going to be a ‘cake walk,’ even though single-digit Fahrenheit temperatures were normal for Southern Denmark in the winter. While bone-cold, the battalion was housed in barracks by night, and there hadn’t been a lot of wind. In fact, it was clear as a bell most of the time in Borris.

               

                There was another train ride, this one about 50 kilometers (31 miles) from the Danish Royal Army’s base at Borris. The weather started to set in quickly. But, it was Northern Europe, right next to the North Sea, in the middle of winter -- there were going to be storms. Deal told Harsh and I, “If everyone wet themselves every time there was a storm around here they’d freeze off important parts of their body after a day or so.”

                I didn’t know a lot of the people who worked for the S-3 at this point, even though we’d been working and sweating next to each other for weeks putting up and tearing down the damn TOC. Most of the time, everyone was covered in some kind of dirt, diesel fuel exhaust, grease or sweat so conversation wasn’t tops on the list.  Life was rugged and work was everywhere from dealing with the canvases, to the vehicles to portable generators. Everyone was good at their job, and they were all tough and that was as much as anyone could have expected. I was in ‘doing as I was told’ mode and trying to learn.

                The battalion off-loaded from the train at Oksbol and by that time the weather was bad. There were high, frozen winds that started shearing through the layers of extreme cold weather jackets and gear soldiers were wearing. Breathing became hard as the air punched out one’s insides with every breath. It started sleeting from the moment 4/41 Infantry arrived at the railhead in Oksbol. In the most punishing state I have seen before or since, armored vehicles, Bradleys and every other sort of vehicle in the battalion’s inventory were guided off long railcars as the show was starting to begin. Once off the railcar, SFC Fisher popped into the commander’s hatch at the top of the M577 and barked commands loud enough for Harsh to hear over the radio headset put in the track commander’s and driver’s helmets. Meanwhile, Scherer and Deal opened the rear door and slid in.

                At Oksbol, the rest of the battalion headed into a separate direction from the S-2 and S-3, so the two tracks that made up the TOC were on their own. Like ships crashing through the angry Atlantic, the two, 13-ton vehicles smashed through icy snow and through the worsening gale to a spot on the map where there was nothing. The ride was tumultuous, as anything not strapped or bolted down flew around the crew cabin of the vehicle. Scherer, Deal and I were thrown about while Fisher, in our track, and the S-3’s SFC Arvid Johnson, in their track, guided the aluminum giants to a completely deserted location, literally in the middle of nowhere, just before nightfall.

                It was about zero degrees Fahrenheit as a handful of S-2 and S-3 soldiers unfurled the frozen tarps, banging out icy spots with hammers and wrenches to erect the command post. The two tracks’ heaters were on high and it turned out the S-3 folks even brought along a pot-bellied stove to put in the TOC when it was up. This would have been gratifying to me if NCOs and officers were not huddled around it at all times. It reminded me of when pups are born, when smaller ones are edged out of nourishment from their mother by larger, more ‘ranking’ siblings.

                After better than an hour putting up the tarp bitch that was the TOC in frozen weather it was finally up. Covered in snow, ice and sweat afterward, SFC Johnson looked at me and told me and the S-3’s driver, Bruce Fogle, to take the portable generators out of their cradles on the vehicles and set them up, one on either side of the TOC.

“Right, Sergeant Johnson, on the way!” Fogle barked enthusiastically.

I ran to catch up. “I’m Purcell, the new guy in S-2,” I introduced myself.  We both climbed the top of the S-2 track and started reaching for the first of the generators when Fogle said, “Hi, I’m Bruce and this stuff sucks. It really, really sucks. Yeah, it does.” I couldn’t help but laugh, despite getting hit with biting wind and sleet to the point of pain in my exposed hands and face. “I can see your point,” I responded smiling.

The night had been long and hard on the soldiers of the TOC. The weather made doing everything a lot harder than it was supposed to be, but then that was probably the point of the whole exercise. I did get a chance to actually meet some of the guys from S-3: Fogle; a private first class named Bob Crumby; and specialists Anton Guyton and Randy Sellers; as well as sergeants Jud Myer, William Beadle and Frank Wells. Everyone else assigned to the S-3 seemed to be an officer, which meant they didn’t work at all in putting anything up.

Fisher and Johnson worked hand-in-hand in the field. If one told you to do something, it meant the other one ordered it too. Johnson was about to dismiss most of us for sleep when Major Bowden breezed into the TOC. We’d strewn lights inside from the generators so the place was lit. “Alright, alright, everyone seems to have been on their game so far. OK, Sergeant Johnson, tell your men to go out and dig the officer’s quarters through the snow, put up a tent and then we will be alright,” Bowden said. The three or four junior officers huddled against the pot-bellied stove acted like they hadn’t heard Bowden. Johnson’s face said he was going to make a comment but then he looked at four of us and said, “Alright guys, get at it.”

By about 3 a.m., the officer’s quarters were dug, padded and put up. I was asleep on my feet, which were barking from the cold. Fisher informed me this was a good thing, as if I lost that sensation of pain it would mean frostbite had started to get hold. With that piece of wisdom in mind, I found a light truck that had caught up with the TOC before I got off duty and SGT Beadle was good enough to let me catch some sleep there.

It was about 7:30 a.m. when the sun came up and Oksbol was freezing and clear. The cold was an invisible force one had to break through to move. It was a lot better than the night before. The NCOs let the guys at the TOC sleep in a little and if anyone was on guard through the night it wasn’t me. But, if I may, who the hell would want to be out there? Oksbol was between the Filso and Ho Bugt lakes, which not that many people from south of Hamburg have heard of, I’d venture. It was 196 miles away from Copenhagen, 372 miles from Berlin and 280 miles from our home base at Clay Kaserne. The sun was only up from about 7:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m., or thereabouts. The average temperature during the winter was 0 degrees Fahrenheit and Oksbol’s closest neighbor, Billum, was about three miles away and there were bus terminals in Kansas that were more active than that place was. It was about two or three miles to the North Sea, and in the middle of a Danish winter that wasn’t a hotspot for anyone I knew. So, the need for a guard, while perfunctionatory, was not a real need for the force. No animals were alive above the frozen snow and I didn’t see any trees. Mostly, Oksbol looked like a frozen tundra and no one was stupid enough to be there but us.

Between 1945-1947, more than 37,000 refugees from World War II were sent to Oksbol. Winters were hard and deaths from frostbite and exposure were frequent. During World War II, the German Army held the town for a while, until they abandoned it. I suppose they figured that if anyone wanted to claim victory for that slice of Denmark they could live with it. Of course, before all that, the place had been a post for the Danish Royal Army, which it now was not because the Danes had a lot more sense than all that.

I just about opened my eyes when everyone heard Major Bowden: “I want everyone in front of the TOC right now! I want every NCO and enlisted here now!” He was hot about something. At least it was a clear day with some sunshine. I’d take an ass-chewing in the sunshine in a minute over an ass-chewing in the rain. The difference was being wet and miserable instead of just miserable. Nevertheless, the wind was moving pretty quick, so it wouldn’t be as good as, say, getting my ass chewed out in Miami, which I would have paid for if I could.

When everyone was assembled in three ranks, which is rows, in front of the TOC, Bowden started blowing: “You people were asleep and I saw no work getting done, no guard, no radio checks getting done for more than two hours between 5 and 7 a.m. Where the Hell do you think you are!?”

Bowden went on in his rant, informing everyone that, when he was a captain in the 82nd Airborne Division, he had brought a bunch of clerks and cooks out on cold weather training in Wisconsin. He said it got down to 15 degrees Fahrenheit there. “Those people had no idea what they were doing, but they were motivated. They made every mistake in the book, and two of them died there under my command, but I was proud of those people...more proud of them than you right now!”

I was not the only one with an open mouth. Standing next to me in formation was the driver for one of the officers in S-3, Sellers, who said under his breath, “If this motherfucker thinks I’m going to make him proud by dying out here he is out of his fucking mind.” Sellers was a native of San Diego. He was 23, older than most of the guys who weren’t NCOs, and he had a misspent youth as a member of the Crips street gang. He always talked about how getting out of the gang was the best thing he ever did but he was still plenty rough around the edges.

Bowden continued, “You men need to start acting like men and stop acting like it is so cold around here! Those boys from the 82nd Airborne fought it...and a few paid for that fight with their lives! Strive to be better. Strive to be like them!” With respects to the major, he was reminiscing about a  winter training environment that was 15 degrees warmer than Oksbol so far, and that was before discussing the wind. No one was about to remind the weak-chinned, bird-nosed field grade officer, though. He dismissed us and in little groups we men processed his diatribe. I fell in with Fogle, Sellers and Harsh near a running vehicle that gave off some heat.

Fogle, in the meantime, with his perpetual smile on his face, mocked Bowden, “Men...I led a bunch of cooks right to their graves in cold weather training and I was proud of them! I want to be proud of you too...so pick out your hole where we’ll leave your frost-bitten body and we’ll send a note to your loved ones when we get back from training.” I couldn’t help but laugh, though even tears from my eyes threatened to ice up. The sun played a major difference on the effect of the cold on my face. The cold is more bearable in light. In the meantime, Harsh contributed, “That was some fucked up shit...yes, it was.” I said I had never heard an officer be proud of killing his men before and that I didn’t know what to do about it. “Tell your officers, Scherer and Deal. They are probably the only ones with half a brain in this outfit,” Sellers said. Both of the lieutenants had gone off with LTC Voessler before I woke up. It was true, I didn’t think either would have cottoned to the ‘Brave March to the Snowy Death’ speech. Still, it was only words and the best thing new guys could do is shut up. If anyone wanted to complain about the battalion operations officer it was going to be someone else.

Bowden made the guys at the TOC practice tearing down and putting up the headquarters  throughout the day, while making radio checks. I heard him tell Johnson that he’d get a refueler out to top off the two tracks. However, he wanted little stone walls built around the generators and improved officer quarters and pathways leading to the officer’s quarters also. In all, it was a bright, long and busy day. But, the weather was changing again and slowly became more overcast.

By the time the sun was setting at 3:30 p.m., I was on radio watch in the S-2 track fighting to keep my eyes open. Scherer and Deal came back. Deal told me there was going to be a bad storm and the S-3 would get the word out. It marked the first time anyone told me anything about what was happening. I said, ‘Yes, sir,’ but what could we do about it? We were as ready for the weather as the TOC could be. Maybe it was being from New Jersey that made me always hold the weather in contempt.

To a very real degree, the S-2 and S-3 for 4/41, and maybe every unit for that matter, has a lot more chiefs than indians, so to speak. From the sound outside the TOC’s flap, it was plain to hear Beadle and Guyton speaking loudly about Bowden’s HMMWV. “I want this thing cleaned off and spotless,” Beadle said. Guyton made the remark that the first time it rolls five feet it will be dirty again. “This isn’t going to be driving on anything other than over ice, snow and mud until whenever, and it’s almost night” Guyton said. Nevertheless, Beadle was firm. It went without saying that Beadle, whose job I never quite figured out and no one ever noted, liked the idea that the nearby brass could hear him giving an enlisted man hell for doing something that was both disagreeable, very military and without any real substance. I think he regarded it as very NCO-like. Of course, that was not the way with all NCO’s, or officers for that matter, but it was with a few of them.

Before the lieutenants from S-2 left again to join the battalion commander, the cold had already re-asserted itself as the temperatures dropped noticeably below zero. It was like a blanket of ice had settled over the TOC and, despite any pot-belly stove, onboard track heaters, kicking one’s feet about or being next to the engine compartment, icy pain slipped through the skin like a scalpel. Bowden was gone, as were the other officers. They went wherever most officers went when things weren’t happening, to some land unimaginable to specialists and privates (I was sure that whatever place that was had a nice bar and cake). The commander’s Bradley was gone now too, with Crumby, after it had joined up at the TOC during the afternoon. Sellers was gone also, being the driver for one of the absent lieutenants. It was a handful of us left, the two tracks and the storm. Meanwhile, that refueler Bowden ordered hadn’t showed up; it was as simple and hard as that. It was like the storm had been waiting for us to break-up, like some silent hunter hanging back until there was a straggler in the herd he could then isolate and kill.

Myers and Wells took to working with the rest of us, who were trying to weigh down the flaps of the TOC so as little heat as possible escaped. The two then assisted myself and Fogle when it came to raising the generators higher off the ground. All the while, the wind sped up, soft snow turned to icy hail and the wind bellowed like an angry storm god from Greek myth. While we were doing that, Fisher and Johnson were alternately taking turns barking into the handsets of the tracks’ radios, through static, telling the guys at the battalion’s supply area to get the fuel tanker to our location. Before the radios outright died from the storm, they were told the refueler had already been stuck going on a run to Charlie Company. The wind laughed at us. The storm didn’t show its true face until 5 p.m. or so, when it was made clear to everyone that the Army wasn’t in charge at Oksbol right then.

                The temperature fell fast, to an insane level I have never felt before or since. The new cold wanted to turn people into statues, I think, as the NCOs gathered around the pot-bellied stove, even Fisher, despite the fact the generators for the lights were now fast eating what was left of our gasoline. There was no communication anymore with the rest of the battalion, only heavy static over the air. Neither the S-2’s nor the S-3’S radios were able to get the smallest message out. Our tracks’ engines were the only real source of heat, though one could scarcely know that from the feel of it. Every nerve ending in my face, feet or hands was in pain. The storm now slashed at the TOC’s flaps as it raged in its full glory outside. The temperature had dropped to -25 degrees Fahrenheit by 7 p.m. and that wasn’t the worst of it. By 11 p.m. the temperature hit the last low that I cared to retain, at -38 degrees Fahrenheit.

                The tracks were in bad shape fuel wise, with both breathing fumes. The radios were still out. Now, our anti-freeze and even the remnants of whatever gasoline we had froze. I wasn’t the only one who thought not everyone might make it through this episode unscathed. Despite this, there was apathy everywhere. No orders were coming out of the NCOs. Johnson and Fisher were silent like the rest of us.

                While working down at the Motor Pool on the S-2  track before leaving, I noticed an antenna and its stand wrapped up on the top of the track -- a big one called a 254. It could be mounted to the track and it helped boost the range of radio signals. “Sergeant,” I said to Fisher, “I want permission to go put up the 254 antenna for the S-2 track.” Fisher said it was fine by him but neither he nor Johnson were going to tell anyone to go help me. “I’m not a brain surgeon, sergeant, but if we don’t get off our hands about now bad shit is going to go down here,” I said. Fisher agreed and told me to go put up the 254 then. The antenna was about eight feet tall, the case it was carried in was no doubt frozen, it was getting hard to breath in the TOC let alone in the storm beyond that flap, and the wind had sped up to more than 120 mph, as I would learn later.  I paused at the flap of the TOC and yelled, “No one!? You guys are the fucking experts -- I’m the goddamned new guy! It’s like that?”  I realized I was terrified. 

                   When I went beyond that door it was like oxygen disappeared. Even with a ski mask on I could barely grab any air out of the torrents of wind that beat me up. The ice storm was like a giant that was beating on my stooped-over frame. Icy blasts of wind were like white fire. My unprotected eyes were battered with snow and ice as I slugged along the side of the M577 until I came to the front of the vehicle, where I could hoist myself atop to the driver’s cupola. As I made my way up the icy front of the vehicle, the storm god screamed and beat me with his wind. I struggled, a breath and a movement at a time until I got to the bag and was bashing it with a hammer left up top.

                I opened the bag and started putting the antenna sections together when I saw Fogle crest the top of the track. There was no talking. We were lucky to be breathing. Behind him, there was Myers. As I moved toward them with the mostly pieced-together antenna, a gust of 120-something per mile wind caught me from behind, blowing me off the top of the 7-½ foot vehicle, slamming me into the ice below. I don’t know what happened from there. I woke up later, enroute to a large, hospital-like building that was on the grounds of the training area, probably left over from the old refugee camp. There was a major bruise on the side of my head, my lips were cracked, my shoulder barked angrily and my left knee was walkable, but not by much. I was OK enough to amble into the abandoned hospital like everyone else, but was incredibly sleepy with everything moving in slow motion. It wasn’t for me that the entire battalion took shelter from storm, but it worked out fine for me. I couldn't stay awake.

                Once inside, I got the story from the guys: Myers and Fogle got the antenna up. The TOC got a call out. A refueler somehow got out and the TOC was given coordinates to the abandoned hospital. Myers and Fogle had carried me from the snow, or I would have died there. Sure as hell, no one else would have been coming. Corporal Chris Larsen checked me out and diagnosed, “You had the hell beat out of you, pretty good.” He laughed like a veteran would to a rookie. “But, good job there, bitch.” He put me on bedrest a few days, gave me a knee brace, ice pack, sling for my arm and the Army equivalent of Ben Gay for my knee and shoulder. There were no doctors with the battalion so it was the best he could do.

                The guys at the TOC, enlisted and NCO’s, stopped by my bunk at one point or another to check on me. Finally, Myers and Fogle turned up. In my book, they were heroes and probably saved someone’s life; at least mine. They were never going to see recognition. Their heroism and initiative would have reflected upon their bosses’ lack of ability to handle the situation. ‘You guys saved my life,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’ Maybe the other guys in the TOC that night were just used to the kind of situation we were stuck in and knew it was going to work out. Maybe they had seen this kind of thing a hundred times before, I don't know. Maybe I just lost it and had to do something because doing something was better than nothing, I thought. I am not going to get stuck in the 'maybes.' It was what it was. I was just scared of sitting on my hands and not doing whatever could be done, but the guys backed my play. I didn't ask them. At that point, they didn't know me. All they knew was that I was wearing the same patch they were, and that we had the same shit luck.

                Fogle joked, "Well, that was fun. We have to do that again some time...or not." He was 17 years old, covered in thick, black oil from head to toe and had a smile that cut the night. Myer was more subdued, though still had his slanted smile: "You did OK. But, watch out where you're walking next time, specialist." Walking away, he looked over his shoulder and said, "Oh yeah, welcome to the 2nd Armored Division," and I heard the echo of his laughter as he walked down the hall. It all worked out, but I was lucky enough to be someplace where people had your back when you needed it. Such a thing is the definition of good luck, because other people would, if someone needed it, pick up the slack for them and stick their neck out too. Thank God for that.  

                No one died at Oksbol from 4/41 Infantry. I don’t know if that disappointed Bowden or not. He was later relieved by LTC Voessler saying that Bowden was the only S-3 he ever met who should have been afraid of getting killed by his own troops during peacetime. The battalion wasn’t able to leave that abandoned hospital for another almost two or three weeks. By that time, though, I was feeling a lot better -- which wasn’t hard to do after having my ass kicked by the storm and the fall. By that time, 4/41 Infantry was home, and a place I belonged. I still feel the knee and shoulder on cold days, but along with the pain I also remember the good and the bad of Denmark’s worst piece of winter real-estate ever.

("The Fire in Ice" was submitted to the "Nivalis" Short Story Contest 2015, sponsored by Fabula Press, on Feb. 6, 2015. It is a true story, or at the very least the way I remember it.)