When General Maxwell Taylor, back in the war zone after conveniently missing a tiny skirmish called the Battle of the Bulge, came through for an insp… - Donald Malarkey

Bastogne was challenging us in ways no other place had. We had no artillery power and no airpower. We were low on ammo and food. The men were cold, fearful, exhausted. I've heard a soldier loses his effectiveness in combat after about 90 days; we'd been in action for 107 since Normandy. This wasn't exactly how any of us had expected to spend Christmas 1944. As if our situation wasn't ominous enough, word filtered through Easy's ranks from a medic back in Bastogne: The Germans had closed the circle. The 101st Airborne was now completely surrounded, but as Winters would remind us, "We're used to that. We're paratroopers."

Buck Compton looked nothing like the soldier who'd walked off the line a few days before. Well-starched Class A uniform. Hair combed. He was taking quick drags on a cigarette. His driver was waiting for him in a jeep. "I've been reassigned, Malark," he said. "Some desk job in Paris. Director of athletics and entertainment or something." He'd wanted to stay with the company but Winters wouldn't allow it. "That's great, Buck," I said. "Dick said I could come say good-bye." "I'm glad you did. I'm happy for you." He looked around. "Don, there's something I need to know." He paused and looked beyond me, back toward the woods where I'd just made fresh tracks in the snow. Back to where the others were. "What, uh- what do the other guys think of me?" I couldn't lie. "They think you're a hell of an officer, Buck." "Really?" "Really. They wish you the best. Honest." He nodded, his lips pursed a bit. "Thanks, Malark." He looked at me and saluted. I saluted back. And we left to go to the different places we needed to be.

One afternoon, in the basement bar of the Regent Palace Hotel, I noticed two red-beret sergeants from the British 1st Airborne Division sitting down the way. In London, these guys were honored above all; nobody in a red beret was to be arrested for drunkenness. Eventually they noticed my 101st Airborne patch, the screaming eagle. "We owe a tip of the hat to the 101st," said one. "Got us across the Rhine one black night after we'd been trapped behind enemy lines." I jiggled the ice cubes in my Scotch. "I knew," I said. "That was my company, E Company, 506th." They scoffed a bit and looked around each other, obviously thinking that I was trying to take some credit that wasn't due me. "Oh, really?" one said with a touch of doubt. "Yeah," I said. "I was on the rescue team." "Well, of course you were, old chap- so was my dead aunt Lucille," said one, and they both laughed. My Scotch was settling in. I paused, then took another sip. "Say, how's that tank sergeant, the commander from the Seventh Armored Division who headed up that outfit known as the Rats of Tobruk? Guy was in my boat." Their eyes widened. "After we got him safely across the Rhine, he told me his wife had already been a widow and he was gettin' out of this 'bloody war.'" They froze in silence, then one of them cleared his throat. "To E Company," he said, holding up his drink. I clinked my glass with the others and nodded, then held mine high. "To E Company."