A Midnight Clear Monologues

The Ardennes Forest, December 1944. A squad of six US infantrymen is sent to occupy a house to use as an observation post as the German Army is expected to advance through that area. However, the Germans seem oddly friendly.

I'm not exactly sure what country we're in. Could be Belgium, Luxembourg, France, or even Germany. I don't know what day it is. I have no watch, so I don't know what time it is. I'm not even sure of my name. The next thing you know, they'll be making me a general.

Griffin was a mortician in civilian life, and he seemed to be spending most of his military life producing work for his army counterparts.

It's thanks to Griffin and his military mortuary skills that I've made my recent headlong leap to three stripes. We lost half our squad, attempting one of his map-inspired, ill-conceived recon patrols. When I say 'lost', I mean 'killed'. Nobody in the army ever admits that someone on our side is killed. They're either lost, like Christopher Robin… hit, as in a batter hit by a pitched ball… or they get 'it' like in hide-and-go-seek. Or maybe they 'get it', as with an ambiguous joke.