©2014, John M. Khoury
Chapter 11
Foxhole "Living"
While I was at the front in a foxhole I had a limited idea of who was in the company. There was no mess hall, rec room or PX, to exchange scuttlebut with other GIs. There were no formations for reveille or retreat. There was no roll call. I could only relate to the buddies in my foxhole and to those in the nearby foxholes. A foxhole on the front line was a very lonely place. A dogface was told nothing and could not tell what to expect next. It was just follow orders.
From the first day we got into the line, it rained sometime during every day. We wore shoepacks, which were boots with the lower foot part made of rubber and the upper part from the ankle to midcalf made of leather with laces. Inside, the soles were lined with two heavy felt pads. With the mud and water we lived in, they were much better than the combat boots we might have had. The shoepacks kept water out, but they also did not allow any air in to permit our sweaty feet to dry. It also happened that when we got water in the boots, we just squished along until we could find a safe area to take them off and let them dry out.
We had raincoats that were almost useless, because they did not keep us warm and they did not repel rain. My shoulders were soaked inside the raincoat when we had a steady rain. These raincoats were waterproof only in the pockets, where they kept water from flowing out. This was very good, because we could wash our hands after eating or after going to visit Mother Nature.
It was small consolation that the enemy was also in the same circumstances as we were. We were living in a hole in the ground where we usually built a roof made of branches, covered with dirt and leaves to camouflage our position. This kept out some of the weather, especially at night, when the temperature would drop to a subzero, teeth-chattering coldness. We covered the dirt floor with small pine branches that cushioned the hardness and dispersed the mud. No fires were ever made in the hole, because they could be seen for miles at night and invited unwanted guests wearing German uniforms.
Cigarettes were smoked by almost every GI because they were included in our K rations and sold for five cents a pack of twenty when you bought them at the Post Exchange. To smoke a cigarette at night in a foxhole required lighting it quickly in the most secluded part of the hole and cupping your hands around the flame. Then every drag had to be taken near the bottom of the hole with your hands hiding the glow, which could be seen for a mile. I enjoyed a smoke then because it seemed to calm the nerves and gave a feeling of being in another world where civilized people lived.
In time, you found that while living in a hole you could adapt to conditions when things were quiet. You could use your helmet as a basin. Pour water in it and bathe by using a wash cloth and some soap and sometimes shave the beard. Living in that hole with two other guys who lived and sometimes died in the same clothes called for an outlook on life that was morbidly called "foxhole humor." Bill Mauldin's cartoons for the Army newspaper Stars and Stripes caught a lot of the experiences we had every day.
It was not unusual for a GI in a foxhole to get out and hurry a discreet distance away in order to defecate. This was always an involved procedure starting with digging a small cat-hole for the burial of the deposit, unlayering six plies of clothing, and balancing oneself so that nothing was accidentally soiled. Oftentimes, the enemy would inconveniently lob in mortar shells or 88mm artillery fire. What to do? Dive for the ground? Pull up your britches and run back to the foxhole? Or just say "To hell with them!" and finish your chore? As you accepted your fate in the war, you usually chose the third option.
I found that there came a time when nothing seemed to bother me. My hands thickened and my face was bearded and tough from the constant exposure outdoors in the cold and the rain and the snow. I could crush the lit end of a cigarette with my fingers or put my hands over a fire and not feel anything. Not only was this numbness physical, but it was mental, too. I plodded along shuffling from one position at the front to another, slogging through mud, following the Joe in front of me or leading the stragglers behind me. I moved like an old, tired, and demented man until that moment when another battle began.
The monotonous diet of K rations provided nourishment, but I dreamed of fresh food such as steak or chicken or even an egg. Every day for weeks I had to open a box that contained my rations: a packet of powdered coffee or lemonade or broth that I dissolved in chlorinated water in my canteen cup. The entree was a can of Spam or chicken or cheese eaten with a few salted crackers. The dessert was a prune and raisin fruit bar, or a nonmeltable chocolate bar. Then, to top off the repast, there was a pack of four cigarettes. The entire K ration came in a wax-coated box that was cleverly converted into a small heater by cutting a hole on each side near the bottom and lighting the top edge. This made it possible to heat water to a boil in a canteen cup for soup or coffee. For variety, I would cook the Spam in the broth or make some other concoction. I never got sick, but I know I lost any excess fat on my body.
Though hot meals were seldom served at the front, Charlie Brigandi, one of our cooks, told me that they always tried to get hot food to us when there was a quiet time on the line. They would drive a Jeep up with a trailer that held big kettles of hot meat and potatoes and hot brewed coffee and would park a few hundred yards behind our foxholes. Then a few men at a time would go back to the chow line, fill their mess kits and canteen cups, and return to their holes. They would be followed by a few more men who went to the chow line. Charlie said that the cooks were always nervous there, because sometimes the Germans spotted the activity and mortar-fired the chow line. That would end the hot meal as the kitchen crew scurried back to the rear. I truly believe he felt guilty when he could not bring us hot food, but it was a welcome treat when he did.
Contents 
(If you would like to order an autographed copy of "Love Company," please contact the author, John M. Khoury)