General Taylor spoke but we couldn't hear a word he said; a formation of C-47s passed over about that time. But we heard the names of the dead. All 4… - Donald Malarkey

The previous July, two months after V-E Day, I was on a three-day pass and wound up in the "U" section of one of Hitler's stadiums in a city called Worms. In the morning, the head of the facility came to me, the ranking noncom, and asked us to come salute Patton, who was coming by for an inspection. At the appointed hour, we heard sirens. Motorcycles led Patton's staff car in, flags flying. His car stopped. I called our group to attention. Patton looked us over and said something about the 101st Airborne Division I'll never forget: "If I had two divisions of you bastards, I would have had the Germans blowing straws up their asses by Thanksgiving and you would have been home by Christmas."

We'd heard from guys in Bastogne that the 101st was making headlines back home. We'd broken the German siege. Beaten the odds. All at a time when newspapers were looking for good hero stories and citizens looking for hope. But, believe me, we soldiers in those Bastogne foxholes weren't feeling particularly heroic. What we mainly felt was cold. Our beards grew longer, our patience shorter. The snow resumed, now halfway to our knees. It would snow again every day for a week. Somehow it didn't seem to bother the German planes, which were harassing us day and night. We had been on the front lines for fifteen days in Belgium, on top of seventy in Holland and twenty-three in Normandy. A total of 108 days, not that anybody was counting. In war, you count days the way prisoners mark walls. Will this ever end? Will we ever make it out alive? Will I get home to be with Bernice and pick blackberries? Will Skip marry Faye Tanner and live happily ever after? Such questions rattled around in your mind here and there, between the short spurts of combat and the much longer nights.

I didn't cry after learning Skip Muck was dead. That would come later. Much later. Not that it didn't hurt. Hell, I'd never felt pain so deep. He was like my brother. No, closer than my brother. But by January 9, when he'd died in a shelling about one hundred yards east of where I was, I was too mentally numb to really react. Too tired. I didn't sleep a wink for two nights after Roe broke the news to me. And after seeing Toye and Guarnere carted off, and Compton leaving, it was like dumping ice on a guy who was already frozen stiff. But the main reason I didn't crumble at his death is I couldn't. That wasn't allowed. With Compton gone, I realized I had to step up and lead. After Guarnere went down, Winters had promoted me to permanent sergeant status. Now, Buck was gone. From day one, you're taught that the good of the whole is more important than just you. That you can't let your emotions get in the way of the task at hand. So like a doctor who deals with pain and death each day, you just bury it somewhere deep down inside, thinking it'll go away on its own.