One day the leaf buds appear again on the trees; and in the rear area, where we have been stationed since the fall of the Colmar Pocket, French villagers begin spading their gardens. The men grow restless. With an uneasy eye they watch the coming of spring. The snow melts; the streams rise; and the earth turns to an endless bog as the winter closes.[1]

Our training program has been intense. A putting together of the maneuvers and maps gives us an easy tip-off of the forthcoming action.

The emphasis has been on street fighting, river crossings, and the reducing of permanent fortifications. That can mean but one thing. We are preparing for the big jump-off into Germany itself.

We see the fields drying in the warm winds and know that the ground will soon be ready to support armor.

Hope and fear walk hand in hand. We can see the end now, but we are going back up. And always in a man’s mind is the one lead pill, that one splinter of steel that can lose him the race with the finish line in sight.

We argue a great deal over the attitude the Germans will take out fighting on their own soil.

Some believe the resistance will collapse once we have crossed the Rhine; others think the enemy will make a last ditch stand, fighting increasingly harder as we drive into his homeland.

There are rumors that Germany, pounded by bombings and attacked from all sides, it is tottering; it is rotten internally and cannot hold out, once the crust of its defense is broken.

Equally strong rumors say that the entire country is a fortress similar to the Colmar Pocket. It must be ground down slowly and agonizingly before the final victory.

News has suddenly become important. The men cluster around radios and newspapers. Each bit of information is discussed, analyzed, and applied to our situation.

With the vast pattern of strategy now clear, we no longer feel like an isolated group fighting on a lost front. Each movement of the British, the French, or the Russians, directly affects our own destiny.

The phrase, “If I live,” becomes less common.

The early March sun hangs overhead; and beneath it, men, carefully cleaning their weapons, again talk of home.

I have seen too much to grow optimistic. The road across Germany is a long one; and each mile of it must be bought with somebody’s blood. Why not mine?

My luck has been extraordinary, but there is an end even to the extraordinary.

So until the last shot is fired, I will go on living day to day, making no postwar plans.[1]

~~~~~

[1] Murphy. 262-263.

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