They were all huddling together around a small fire in the basement of the department store, now a heap of twisted metal and building materials.
Above them, the cutting wind blew without remorse through the cavernous halls, the site of brutal battle for the past 70 days.
“Home before Christmas, they said…. Don’t even bundle winter kit, they said,” Markus murmured, watching his own breath form white little clouds against the glow of the fire.
There was no food other than some bread, hard as rock, and one leftover tin of soup. Alfred was trying to break the bread with his bayonet and make portions for the men.
They were all so numb because of the cold that they completely missed the telltale sounds of the approaching enemy grenadiers.
The hand grenade exploded almost on top of them, killing the Major and bursting the tin of soup into a thousand pieces. The automatic weapon fire that followed finished the job.
Dear Mother, I do not know if this letter will ever reach you, but I wish you Merry Christmas..