''I thought it would be a straightforward operation, as those creatures call it nowadays here. But they made me a tool for their filthy plans...''
- A mother
Forest near Malmedy, Belgium. January 1945...
It was morning in the forest. With a small fox den in the middle of it. The den was small, hidden beneath a cluster of twisted roots. Morning light seeped through cracks in the frozen earth, casting faint golden threads across the snug hollow. Inside, a mother fox lay curled around her four tiny offsprings, their fur a soft medley of auburn and cream, their eyes not yet open to the cruel world beyond. Her first litter. Her pride. Her heart.
Her name was Noëlle. Given four new lives to the world in the first day of Christmas. For days, the rumble of human war had been a distant tremor, but now it was closer, a threatening growl in the ground beneath her paws. Still, the fox mother couldn't let fear claim her. Her kits mewled faintly, squirming with hunger. She nuzzled them, inhaling their warmth, memorizing their scent, before rising on weary legs.
The den fell silent as she pushed through the narrow entrance, blinking against the sharp brightness of the outside world. The winter air was brittle and raw, carrying the acrid tang of smoke and gunpowder. The once serene forest was scarred—trees splintered like broken bones, patches of snow stained dark with soot.
Her sharp ears flicked at every sound: the caw of a distant crow, the faint thud of boots on frost-covered ground, the crack of distant gunfire. It was a dangerous world, but the pull of her kits’ need was stronger than her fear.
She moved cautiously, her lean body slipping through the underbrush. Her nose twitched, seeking signs of prey amid the desolation. A rabbit, a squirrel—anything that could stave off her kits’ hunger.
But the land was not hers alone. The humans, with their strange smells and deafening machines, prowled everywhere. A sudden explosion tore through the quiet, and she froze, her body pressed low to the ground. The earth shook beneath her paws, and she glanced back in the direction of the den.
Her heart thundered. Her kits. They were safe, hidden. For now.
With a burst of resolve, she pressed forward, slipping through shadows and over broken ground. The fox mother moved like wind through the war-torn forest, her paws silent on the frost-crusted ground. Every step was measured, her ears swiveling to catch the faintest sound. The trees stood like broken sentinels, their bark scarred by shrapnel. Smoke lingered in the air, mingling with the sharp scent of winter. Her nose twitched, searching for the trail of prey amid the cold and ash.
Above, a crow cawed, its cry echoing through the desolation. She paused beneath the skeletal remains of an oak, her amber eyes scanning the ground for movement. The forest was no longer just a place of survival—it was a battlefield, and every rustle of the wind could mean danger. Yet hunger drove her on, her sleek form slipping between trees, seeking life in a world torn apart by death. After a long walk, a hint of movement caught her eye in the distance. She got close and crept through the undergrowth, her nose catching the unfamiliar scents of a British army camp. Smoke from their fires mingled with the faint aroma of bread and roasted meat. Her ears twitched at the sounds of human chatter and the clatter of boots. From the edge of the forest, she observed the strange scene—a cluster of tents, soldiers huddled around fires, their faces weary and smudged with soot. Celebrating Christmas. There was a tree, decorated with empty cans.
Movement caught Noëlle's
eye. A lean, gray-furred fox had slipped into the camp, his sharp gaze fixed on a loaf of bread left unattended on a wooden crate. Hunger drove his boldness, but as his jaws clamped onto the bread, the sharp crack of a rifle split the air.
The fox stumbled, a crimson stain blooming on his side. He dropped the bread and collapsed near the edge of the camp, his breaths shallow and ragged. Noëlle froze, her heart hammering. A soldier approached, picked up the loaf, and turned back toward the campfire.
But then he saw her.
Noëlle stepped forward, her honey eyes locked on the wounded fox. She moved cautiously, her body low to the ground. The soldier raised his pistol, the metallic glint catching the weak morning light. For a moment, they stared at one another—predator and prey.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Then, the man hesitated.
Noëlle seized the moment, grabbing the scruff of the wounded fox in her jaws. She tugged with all her strength, dragging him back toward the cover of the forest. The soldier lowered his weapon, watching as she pulled the other fox into the shadows.
From the safety of the bushes, Noëlle turned back. Their eyes met again. Hers burned with fury and defiance, while his reflected something else—shame. He looked down, then reached into his pocket. With a soft motion, he tossed the bread toward them, the loaf landing near the bushes.
He gave a small nod, as if to say, ''Go. Survive.''
Before Noëlle could react, a deafening explosion ripped through the air. The soldier’s body was flung backward, consumed by fire and smoke. The ground trembled as artillery shells rained down on the camp. Soldiers shouted in panic, their meal of canned beans forgotten as chaos descended.
Noëlle startled, her instincts screaming at her to flee. But the wounded fox groaned beside her, unable to move. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed him once more, dragging him deeper into the woods.
The forest shook with every impact, trees splintering, the acrid smell of gunpowder filling the air. The thunder of war was all around them, but Noëlle pressed on, her determination unshaken.
Then, a shell landed too close. The explosion knocked her off her paws, a wave of heat and force blinding her senses. Darkness swallowed them both.
After several minutes, a faint rustle in the cold morning air made Noëlle’s ears twitch. Slowly, she opened her eyes, the world swimming into a hazy blur. Nearby, she heard deep voices speaking in a language she didn’t understand—harsh and clipped, but not the same tones as the men from before.
German soldiers moved cautiously through the wreckage of the British camp, rifles slung over their shoulders, boots crunching on debris. Their eyes scanned the destruction left by the artillery, but one soldier froze, his head tilting at the weak bark that came from the forest’s edge.
Noëlle barked again, a desperate, broken sound. Her body ached, her fur matted with blood and dirt. The soldier approached, kneeling down as his sharp eyes spotted her and the male fox beside her. He called out to his comrades, his voice low and steady.
More soldiers gathered. One knelt to check the male fox, shaking his head solemnly. “Tot,” he muttered. Dead. Noëlle’s blurry eyes tried to focus as the men shifted their attention to her. She felt something pressed against her mouth—a small tin of water. She lapped at it greedily, her parched throat soothed for the first time since the explosions. A few small crackers followed, which she nibbled at weakly.
Gentle hands lifted her from the ground. Noëlle’s body hung limp, exhaustion weighing her down. In the arms of the soldier, his warmth seeped into her, momentarily numbing the pain. Her blurry gaze fell on the lifeless body of the male fox. A soft whimper escaped her throat—a quiet scream of grief.
“Shh, shh,” the soldier murmured, stroking her head gently, his voice soothing. Noëlle’s trembling eased, though her heart felt heavy.
The soldier carried her through the wreckage, stopping before a man of higher rank. Straightening, he saluted and spoke quickly in German, explaining the situation. The high-ranking officer’s cold eyes glanced at Noëlle, his face betraying no emotion. He waved his hand dismissively, his voice sharp. “Lassen Sie sie hier.” Leave her here.
Noëlle’s half-closed eyes flickered open at the exchange. Though she didn’t understand their words, she sensed their intent. Suddenly, fear rose within her as she raised her head and twitched her ears, catching the faintest scent in the air.
Suddenly, she barked, her gaze snapping toward the woods. The men turned quickly in the direction she indicated, a British soldier emerged from behind a shattered tree, his rifle aimed at the group.
The German officer reacted first, drawing his pistol with practiced precision. A single shot rang out, and the British soldier fell to the ground. Silence followed.
The officer muttered, “Unglaublich!” Incredible. His voice was steady, but Noëlle could sense the restrained excitement behind his cold demeanor. He spoke again, his tone now a mix of command and admiration, but the words meant nothing to her.
In the soldier’s warm arms, Noëlle felt a fleeting sense of safety. But a sudden memory surged through her—a den hidden beneath the roots of an old tree, her kits waiting, hungry and alone. A pang of guilt cut through her comfort.
She wriggled free, her paws hitting the ground before the soldier could react. She bolted toward the woods, her limbs weak but driven by a primal need to return home.
“Fangt das Tier!” the officer barked. Catch that animal!
The soldiers sprang into action, shouting and spreading out to block her escape. Noëlle darted in all directions, weaving between broken crates and tree trunks. Each time she veered toward the forest, another soldier appeared, cutting her off.
Her heart pounded, terror surging through her veins. Her instincts screamed at her to keep running, but the soldiers were relentless. Finally, one managed to grab her scruff. She snarled and thrashed, but her strength was gone.
A burlap sack was pulled over her, shrouding her in darkness. The muffled sounds of the soldiers’ voices surrounded her as they tied the sack shut and carried her away. Noëlle’s world was reduced to the scent of rough fabric and the faint sway of the soldier’s steps.
Her heart sank, the image of her kits waiting in the den burning in her mind...
To Be Continued...
“The Battle of the Bulge was one of the deadliest conflicts of World War II, fought in the bitter cold of the Ardennes forest. It marked the final major German offensive on the Western Front, costing over 100,000 lives on both sides. The frozen wilderness became a graveyard for men and machines, but also for the untold stories of countless animals caught in the crossfire—silent victims of a war they could never comprehend...”