On the outskirts of a demolished Ger- I man town huddled in a machine gun emplacement were two American soldiers. The tall, lean but rugged private lay slovenly in the mud and snow. His beard of three weeks coated with a thin layer of ice was all that showed as the sergeant bellowed his command to clean the machine gun. Every inch of his six foot four-inch brawn and muscle turned slowly as he opened one eye and drawled, "O.K., Sarge, but this is one hell of a time to get ideas like that." He brushed the fallen snow from his face with the frozen glove that enclosed his right hand. "Well, Sarge," he said, "You know this place reminds me of back home in Arkansas."
"An Arkansas Private,"
Manuscripts: Vol. 13
, Article 9.
Retrieved from: https://digitalcommons.butler.edu/manuscripts/vol13/iss1/9