As a part of the writer’s group I work with, aptly titled “Writer’s Bloc” — the “k” omitted on purpose — I set out to put something down out of a long distant memory. The subject of the assignment was “a piece of mail.” The memory I eventually picked was not entirely accurate or truthful perhaps, but in spirit one of my favorites. The time I chose was WWII. The experiences are still vivid to me and it was a period of history I was curiously fond of, in spite of the “seriousness” of it all.
Yesterday, December 16, 1944, was the last date in history when the United States had its military backbone broken on the battlefield — and then miraculously repaired — all in the span of six, torturous, days. The last great push of the Wehrmacht to turn the tide of the war one, final, time forever — became infamously known as “The Battle of the Bulge” named for the way the Nazi Army pressed against the Allied lines to “bulge” the defense to the point of bursting — and it is no secret the Allies almost lost WWII right there in those muddy, frozen, trenches.