[ WP ] Two wounded soldiers from opposing sides of the war find themselves in the care of the same nurse and snowed-in until spring .

He was writing letters on his bed, as he always did. Papers and pencils were in short supply around here what with every other soldier trying to write to their gal back home. But somehow he always had them. The nurses probably took pity on the man; one lone German captive amongst an army of pissed off Brits and Americans. And it would only get worse; we were well-off for now, but the snow just kept coming and the food stocks kept dwindling. How long until someone began to question why we were eating half-rations while the German here ate up all of our food? How many missed supply runs till he was thrown out into the cold, or worse? 
 
 I watched from my own bed across the room; there really was n't much else to look at around here. The hospital had once been a church, but the arched ceilings were undecorated, and the alcoves along the stone walls were emptied. A few stained glass windows remained, though half of them were broken in parts. And you can really only look at Jesus in various poses for so many days until you start to crave something new. So, I watched the German. 
 
 He'd been captured by the 42nd and brought back to St. Hubert with the rest of us. As I understand, the plan was to eventually send him to one of the POW camps in Britain, but the prisoner transport never came. Roads and bridges were a mess between here and the more civilized parts of France, winter was screwing shit up even more for the logistics divisions, and bringing this one guy across the Channel was n't a high priority, I guess. So he was treated alongside us in this makeshift hospital. 
 
 I dragged myself out of bed and hobbled over as quickly as I could without tearing my stitches. The sisters who were treating us had told me to stay off my feet ( at least, I think so: my French is n't exactly stellar ), but I was never too good at following instructions. `` Hey,'' I called to the German. `` Who you writing all those letters to?'' 
 
 He stopped writing and looked up at me. There was suspicion and anger in his eyes; justifiably so, given how some of the other guys around here had been treating him. Those purple bruises visible under the thin pajamas had n't been there when he was first brought in. `` No English,'' he answered. Then he looked back down at his paper, though I could see him watching me from the corner of his eyes, muscles tense in case I decided I wanted to take out some of my rage against the Nazis on him personally. 
 
 `` Yeah, I get that.'' I sat down on the end of his bed, causing him to flinch. He instinctively held the tip of the pencil straight at me, the only weapon he had at his disposal at the moment. I think he figured that if he jabbed a few of the guys enough times, they'd decide it was n't worth it to mess with him anymore. That strategy had n't exactly worked out for him so far. I held my hands up to show him I meant no harm. `` Relax, pal. I do n't want to hurt you. Just looking for a little friendly conversation, you know?'' 
 
 He did n't know. Because he had no fucking clue what I was saying. But strangely, this was the most satisfying conversation I'd had in a while. I was sick to death of hearing the other guys bitch about the snow. And the Germans. And their wounds. And the food. And any other fucking thing they could think about. I could see a few of them watching me now, glowering from their beds. Wondering why the fuck I'd be talking to a *German*. 
 
 The German watched me for a second, looking slightly confused. `` No English,'' he repeated a bit slower than the first time. Then he looked at me, trying to see if I understood. 
 
 `` Yeah, I get it.'' He did n't need to understand me. `` I do n't know who you're writing all those letters to, pal. I doubt you know anyone over here on our side of the fence, and the Postman certainly does n't deliver to Berlin unless it's out the bottom of a B-17, you know?'' 
 
 He just stared at me. I smiled, trying to show that I meant him no harm. After a moment, he finally smiled back. `` There you go!'' I told him with an even bigger smile. `` Now you're getting it!'' He continued smiling and nodded, confused about what the hell was happening but at least happy that I was n't there to sucker punch him. `` What's your name anyhow? `` He could tell that it was a question, but not what I was asking. So I gestured at myself. `` Bran-don,'' I said slowly, thumping my chest for emphasis. `` I'm Brandon.'' 
 
 That got through to him. `` Jonas,'' he answered, pointing to himself. He pronounced it'Yo-nas.' 
 
 `` There you go!'' From my breast pocket, I removed a packet of cigarettes. I'm not an addict like some of the guys around here, so my rations were lasting longer than theirs. `` You smoke, Jonas?'' I held the little carton out to him and shook it. 
 
 His smile grew a bit more. `` Smoke,'' he repeated with a nod. 
 
 `` Yeah, smoke!'' I thrust it closer to him, making it clear that he could take one. He reached in gingerly, still half-expecting this to be some cruel practical joke. I guess he had n't gotten a very good impression of the Allied side so far. But he put the cigarette between his lips and I held up the lighter for him, then we both just puffed in silence for a bit. 
 
 `` You're all right, Jonas,'' I mused. `` Easy to talk to. I like that.'' I stood up from the end of his bed. `` I'll let you get back to your letter writing, I guess. But it was good to meet you.'' I stuck out my hand to shake. Disapproving stares came from most of the men in the room ( the conscious ones, at least ), burning into my back. But Jonas reached up and took my hand, and we shook. 
 
 I limped back over to my bed and sat back down. Jonas went back to writing to whoever he was writing to; maybe it was n't a letter at all. Maybe it was just a journal. But after a minute or two, he looked back up and across the room toward my bed. I nodded in greeting, and he smiled back. Now we knew each other. 

