continued to fall all about, Balto lifted the wounded man on his back and lead the others to an unused foxhole.

“Stay here,” he bellowed, barely making himself heard over the roar of the shelling.

The recruits gladly dove into the hole and curled deep down inside it.

That done, Balto turned and started running as best he could back the way he’d come. Though the man on his back weighed at least 140 pounds, Balto felt no difference. He ran on, side-stepping more clumsily now whenever a shell landed nearby. Finally, he spotted the red-cross-emblazoned helmet of Doc Roe and carried the wounded man to him. Doc Roe looked up in surprise when Balto appeared over his hole. He quickly yanked Balto down. In the instant they met each others eyes; Balto wondered how Roe had been surviving here. The tan malamute had lived in Georgia before the war, and had likely never even seen snow. Now, here he was, freezing in the cold but only concerned for others.

“Christ, Sergeant,” Roe shouted, “you trying to get yourself killed?”

“He’s wounded, badly,” Balto shouted, setting the young man down in the hole, “Can you help him?”

“I could try, but I got no morphine,” Roe replied, equally loud, but almost a whisper over the shelling. Balto reached into his trousers and took out his personal first aid kit.

“Here,” he shouted, “Take mine. I don’t intend to get wounded.”

Doc Roe nodded and set to work on the young man.

Balto leapt from the hole and ran full out through the barrage until he saw his foxhole. Diving headfirst into it, he came down almost on top of Ben Young. Quickly dragging the rest of himself in, Balto hunched down as low as he could and made room for Ben. Ben, still terrified, clung to Balto like a child. Balto held the boy close and tried to comfort him.

“We’ll make it, Ben,” Balto replied, “We’ll make it.”

The young husky just clung to him and cried.

21 December, 1944

That night, as usual, Mr. Baker arrived home before his daughter, and after parking his car, he went to the mailbox, withdrew its contents, and entered his home. As he set down his briefcase, he flipped though the many letters and bills that he held. Bill, letter for my mother, letter for my wife, bill, bill, letter for…Jenna? What’s this? George Baker set aside the rest of the mail without a second glance and turned Jenna’s letter over many times, examining it as though he had never seen an envelope before. Just then, his eyes fell upon the sending address. Scratched in pencil was the name Balto Tyrell.

George immediately felt a deep anger rising up inside him. How long had his daughter been writing to Balto? Hadn’t he explicitly forbid her to do so? And what exactly were they talking about? Curiosity engulfed him and he tore open the envelope. The letter was dated the 5th of December.

Jenna, my love,

I must tell you now just how much you really mean to me. Over here, when it gets rough, all I have to do is picture your face and the war seems to melt away. Your amber eyes burn into my soul, and many nights I dream of holding you once more. I hope that-

Mr. Baker crumpled the paper in his hands and made to throw it into the trash can. But suddenly, he stopped. If Jenna were to even glance inside, she would see the letter and suspect him. He snatched the letter from the trash and crammed it back into the envelope.

Just then, he heard footsteps outside, and saw in a glance that it was Jenna. He quickly stuffed the envelope into his coat pocket and began casually sorting through the discarded mail as Jenna walked in.

“Hello dad,” she called happily, “Have a good day?”

“If busy is good, then yes,” he replied.

“Anything for me?” she inquired, motioning to the mail in his hands.

“Not today, dear,” he said, setting the bills and letters aside and opening his briefcase, “Are you expecting a letter from someone?”

“Yes,” she replied, “I’m expecting a letter from Balto.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Baker chuckled, “Almost two years have passed, and he isn’t dead yet?”

Jenna’s eyes flashed with anger, and she walked within inches of her father before she spoke.

“If you really hate him that much, then talk to someone else, because I won’t listen,” she said, “I don’t care what you think of him, and I refuse to abandon him.”

Jenna turned and walked down the hall into her room.

Her father stood speechless in disbelief. He glanced shamefully at the crumpled letter in his pocket. He couldn’t tell her now. She would just have to wait for the next letter. It will come, he assured himself, and after all, he’s been writing to her for well over a year now, what’s there to stop him from continuing?

Chapter Six

The Fallen

23 December, 1944

It had been three days since Easy Company had arrived in Bastogne, and already men were being treated for trench foot due to extreme cold and frostbite. Yet even though they would likely loose their feet in consequence, everyone insisted that they would stay on the line until the siege was lifted. The 101st had been moved further out, and though everyone could tell their line was stretched far too thin, they prepared for the coming assault.

As the sun rose over the desolate winter wasteland, Balto glanced around his foxhole at the other men and wondered if he looked as bad as them. The huskies’ faces were sunken and their fur was covered in ice. Most stared expectantly out into the clearing that stood as the unofficial ‘no-man’s land’ separating them from the Germans.

Today, Balto thought, the attack will come.

Absent-mindedly, he removed his helmet and gazed wishfully at Jenna’s photograph. He hoped she would get his letter soon, but he knew that it would be at least three days before there was even a chance of that. He put his helmet back on.

Less than an hour later, the attack came.

First came the halftracks and the infantry. All along the line, rifles cracked and machine guns clattered, sending a wall of steel toward the Germans, who replied back likewise. Bullets laced the ground and grenades exploded sporadically, sending shards of metal slicing through the air and any person unfortunate enough to be nearby. Within moments, the cry for a medic was heard shouted in both German and English as Americans and Germans alike fell to each others’ fire.

Balto stood in his foxhole firing his rifle at the oncoming Germans when a medic rushed past him and dove onto his belly in the snow. Inch by inch, the medic crawled out toward a wounded husky about thirty feet out into the clearing. He reached the casualty without incident, but as he began to drag the wounded husky back, Balto saw a German rise out of a shell hole and aim at the medic.

“Doc, look out!” Balto shouted, leveling his rifle at the German and firing. Balto saw the German’s muzzle flash an instant before his bullet found it’s mark in the German’s head. The medic dropped to the ground. “No!” Balto cried, leaping from his foxhole and skidding to a stop beside the medic. “Doc! Doc! Get up!” He lifted the medic by the shoulders, and only then did he see the bullet hole his helmet.

Just then, two Germans appeared and fired point black at him. As bullets whizzed past and thudded into the ground around him, Balto raised his rifle and expended his last two rounds, nailing both Germans in the head. He then tossed his rifle back toward his foxhole and dragged the two casualties, the wounded ‘trooper and the dead medic, into it. Once they were all safely sheltered from enemy fire, Balto opened the medic’s bag and began tending to the wounded husky.

He was bleeding heavily from a bullet hole in his leg, but Balto quickly tied a tourniquet around the wound, and within moments the blood had stopped flowing. The husky, who had been unconscious from blood loss, shook his head and gazed up at Balto though bleary eyes.

“Sarge?” he murmured, “Am I going to die?”

“You’re gonna be just fine, pal, just fine,” Balto replied, lifting the husky to his feet, “C’mon, you’re getting off the line now.”

“Aaaa! My leg!” the husky whimpered.

“It’ll be fine, son,” Balto insisted, “C’mon, don’t look at it! Look ahead.”

Just then, a jeep screeched to a halt in front of them, and Balto hailed the driver. Within a minute, the wounded husky was strapped to a stretcher on the front hood.

“Thanks, Sarge,” he whispered, giving him the thumbs-up.

“Thank me later,” Balto replied, turning to the driver, “Get him to the aid station fast. That leg needs attention.”

“Yes sir!”

The jeep roared to life and sped off.

Hours later, the sun had already set as Balto snapped awake in his foxhole. The dead medic had been buried, and his supplies distributed to Doc Roe and the rest. Now, all that remained was a small brown spot of dried blood in the snow.

Across the frozen land, Balto could hear someone crying. The wind howled among the trees, muffling the whimpering every few moments, but each time when the wind died down the cries continued. Finally, Balto climbed out of his foxhole and moved toward the source of the sound.

He found the paratrooper more than half a mile away, well beyond the American lines. As he prepared to lift the young husky onto his back, a whispered voice reached his ears. A German voice. He swung his rifle up and advanced warily to a clump of bushes nearby. Cautiously, he peered through the foliage and spotted two figures by a tree. One lay on his back, and the other reached down, plucked something from the fallen one’s belt, and placed it in his pocket. Just as Balto leveled his rifle at the German, he moved, and stepped through the bushes of to Balto’s left.

Balto watched as the German looked long and hard at the wounded paratrooper, perhaps noticing him for the first time. Finally, the German approached him, and Balto stepped out of his hiding spot, his rifle aimed at