Grandfather The Springfield rifle jammed. That's what always broke his sleep; the constipated click of the trigger not followed by the explosion or the kick of recoil. He was powerless as the Mauser fire flew past, peppering the edge of the foxhole behind him.

Joe was slumped in the hole, eyes frozen open in an empty gaze. He'd been dead for three days. Thanks to the cold, no flies crept into his corpse, no smells of decay pervaded their position. K Company was bogged down, defending Wurlitz against an onslaught that had never been anticipated. God-damnit, he was cooking eggs on Monday.

The Big Red One had been captured, their supply line cut.

The convoys were out; no food or water, warm clothing or more importantly right then, ammo. He was running out. Aside from the bodily discomfort, he was still alive. That would change when he ran out of bullets. Until them, he would live with numb feet and the buzz of deadly lead mosquitoes zipping by his ear. He was just waiting for one to draw blood.

In the dream, he pried the Springfield out of Joe's icy grip. "Joe" wasn't his real name; they made it a point to make their formal acquaintances after they got out of that damned fox-hole. It was better that way. Names came with families, hometowns, hopes and dreams. They also came with obligations. Harry took one of his dog-tags without looking at the real name. He tucked it in his pocket and went back to killing Germans. He'd killed a few, to be sure; he knew how to shoot. But killing a few in the presence of many wasn't anything to be proud of. Killing wasn't anything to be proud of. But he did just that. The rest of company K had positions around the town; some in the shelled, historic buildings, some around the densely-wooded perimeter. It would be getting dark soon. The setting sun burned his retinas, though it didn't make him any warmer. It did make him stay low to squint out his targets He laid low, praying for night, when he could retreat under cover of darkness and try to regroup with his battalion; praying for rain to wash the snow away; praying the frozen ground wouldn't claim his feet. Praying he would live long enough to see at least one more sunset. It wasn't long before he took fire. And it wasn't but a moment after that that Joe's Springfield jammed.

In that long-ago acquired primal impulse, he reached under his bed as he woke up. He didn't often do that; when he returned from the War, he'd slept with a .38 Special under his bed. But that was thirty-five years ago. He sat up, shaking. The sun wouldn't rise for another half hour. He blinked in the darkness, fumbling to reach the pull-cord on his bed-side lamp.

A lifetime working in a steel mill made him accustomed to getting up before dawn. It was ironic; he didn't even have to go to war because he worked at the steel mill back then. He went anyway.

He locked up the dream in the Pandora's Box of his mind and, laying his feet on the frayed carpet, opened his dresser drawer. A pack of Pall Malls lay tucked under his whites. Smoking killed him, literally. Emphysema stole his energy and his breath, and smoking a cigarette came at a price every time he lit up. He'd more than once tried quit but he'd always had a pack, just in case. Just in case Ardennes came back. He limped to the kitchen for coffee, pouring a cold cup from last night's pot. He drank it straight; cold suited him better right then. He took the coffee and his cigs and headed for the bar. Not really a bar; more a breakfast nook. There wasn't any liquor. He quit drinking after nearly running his car over the Albany Viaduct. It was a small bar; the trailer didn't have room for a big anything. Rita was still asleep, as she would be. Mary Anne would be stopping by with Liam later that afternoon. Of what little he could call his blessings, Mary Anne had given him a grandson. Seeing Liam would make up for the shitty dream.

He wasn't infantry. It's common knowledge that all soldiers in battle are there to fight, but in reality that wasn't the case. The blacks that drove the Big Red One were there to drive convoys. The office staff was there to push papers. His 103rd Combat Engineer Battalion was there to build infrastructure blown to bits by the Allied assault. He was an engineer, and a cook. He wasn't infantry. Until the middle of December in '44, he wasn't doing much at all, just taking guns and equipment apart, cleaning them, and putting them back together. Christ, he could do it in his sleep. They were defending a thirteen mile stretch along the Siegfried Line, where the Germans were pushed back. It was cold, and they stayed inside a lot, just posting the minimum on the front to look out. It was a no-battle battle-line. Then, on December 16th, the Germans advanced. Mortars started hitting Clarveux, where the 110th Infantry command was staying.

Mortars were hitting everywhere. Then they started taking fire. Then came the SS Panzers. They were hopelessly outnumbered. No one expected the Germans to hit there. In hindsight, it was the perfect place to hit. Harry's mind about that time was a patchwork of confusion and peril. He was forced to take one of the guns he'd spent so much time maintaining to go out and hold them off. Not just him, everyone had to fight: cooks, staff; hell, if the Army had clowns, they too would've had to go out there and spray lead through their oversized flowers. They couldn't get air support because the winter cloud cover made that impossible. Later, he learned they were headed for Bastogne, and on to Antwerp, to capture the port. It was a long way to there, and Harry and the rest were the first stepping stone.

He sipped his coffee and sparked his smoke, leaning on his shoulders to keep his lungs from burning his chest. The Army he was once so fervent to join became the mirror of the black hole the War left him with. He threw his medals away when he got back, and he never went to the VFW. He didn't need to be reminded of hell. Once he'd been there, he could never forget it.

He could still feel the searing burn in his feet as he had to march; tread, rather, to the front, which had spared him as it passed. Not that it would have. He would have been in that hole still if not for blind luck. The Germans were using new guns, that he knew. They were accurate and automatic, some kind of switch. That made them even deadlier. He could only wonder how the forces in the way of their drive to Antwerp would fare. He had to duck in a prickly bush to avoid being seen by an SS Panzer. He knew one thing by that - This was the Nazi's last shot. They didn't bring SS Panzers out for just anything.

His bones were weary as the bitter cold embraced him in the promise of death. He was convalescing from his time spent fighting to liberate Paris. That's why they sent him to Ardennes; it was quiet. But this was far worse than the hedgerows. His Battalion wasn't fighting for survival in a wintry hell.

When dawn poked through the windows of the trailer, he reflected on his life. He did that in the War too, but under different circumstances. Dawn offered at least a few minutes of time to contemplate his life before it would be in mortal danger. Now, his contemplations were a habit. He thought of Mary Anne and Rita, the hell he'd put them through. He found it easy to blame his harshness and temper on the War, but it made for an easy excuse, not a penetrating reality. There was something else in him, a demon he'd had since before combat. He couldn't name it. He called it alcohol, but quitting didn't banish it. He used to cruise the red-lights of Green Street in Albany when he was young, before he met Rita. He was a gambler, and she never put her foot down, so long as he paid the bills and brought home a bucket of shrimp on payday. How often she must have prayed for him. He didn't pray much himself. Mary Anne was another story. She couldn't even live in the house until she was eight, he was so bad. Then she turned into a teenager, and rebelled. They were distant. If he didn't have emphysema, he wondered if she'd even be bringing Liam to see them. To see Rita, for sure, but not to see him. Even when she did, they barely talked, like familiar strangers throwing about small-talk to break the uncomfortable silence.

He'd calmed down a lot since Mary Anne's up-bringing. His demon was dying too. Sitting at the bar beat sitting in the dark in his bedroom for a week at a time, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. He remembered his mother not giving him an easter basket when he was a kid because he didn't do something she asked of him. Is that why he wouldn't allow them to celebrate holidays? Is that why Mary Anne had to put a small Christmas tree in her room? The years made his memories blurry.

He made another pot of coffee and heard the thump of the paper hitting his door. He opened it up to a cold morning and grabbed the day's news. He read it at the bar as he drank. Nothing interesting. Jimmy Carter was elected president last year. He wouldn't last two terms, Harry thought, too nice a guy. He got a letter from Carter two days ago, hand-signed, commending his service in the War. He was going to chuck it, but he got distracted, and now he forgot where he'd put it. He'd get to it eventually. He spent most of his morning on the Sports section, mentally generating point-spreads for games. Football season was coming up; he'd have better luck with football games. He had a knack. Rita woke up, and he cooked her breakfast. They'd been married for so long that conversation was accomplished in a minute or less. She ate and took her place on the recliner after turning on the television. Some people feared their marriage becoming a routine; they'd never tasted true chaos. Routine suited Harry just fine.

At noon, Mary Anne arrived with Liam in her arm. He was reaching out, smiling and laughing. Harry let her in.

"Hey, Dad." She said.
"Hey, Mary Anne."
"How are you feeling?" Liam reached out to him from her arms.
He pushed his hand to his chest. "The usual..."
He knew she wanted to tell him to quit smoking. Had he been a better father, she would have.
"How's Liam?" He asked.
"He's doing good," She said, "he likes being naked."
Harry laughed, and then he coughed a bit.
"He's a kid," He said. "nothing wrong with that..."

She handed Liam over to him. She went to talk to her mom. That's how it usually went. He got Liam first, while Mary Anne and Rita talked. Rita would get her turn, but Mary Anne would be at her side. He knew he could never change that. Time healed all wounds, but he didn't have enough time left to heal the damage he'd done. He set Liam down on a blanket. He sat up, wobbled and giggled at his grandpa. Harry watched Liam stare around in wonder, with a world full of possibilities and promise. Unblemished. Clean.

He hoped Liam would never have to inherit his demon. Never have to see war.