Back to Bastogne

You hear about combat vets going all to pieces during thunderstorms. Grandpa didn’t mind them. With him, it was snow. Half inch of it and he was back in Bastogne, yelling about his buddy Stuart who got run over by a German tank and pushed into the permafrost. Grandpa would run outside in his pajamas screaming STUART! STUART! and digging at the ground with his bare hands until we pulled him back inside the house. We’d watch the forecasts real careful, and if there was a hint of snow we’d strap him in a chair faced away from the windows.


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15 Replies to “Back to Bastogne”

  1. From watching my mom and dad experience similar fears before the, I know how terrifying those memories/visions can be. They are real for the person seeing, hearing, smelling them. In your story, I could see grandpa digging in the snow. Well written.

  2. Oh, that is just too too real. My Papaw John was that way about WW2. He hated the cold, wet nights. Always nearly roasted us all out with the fire, just to avoid the flashbacks. I understand him now in ways I never did, and realize what he was teaching through those long nights by the fireplace.


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