Hook gave a single, solemn nod. “I’ll bring it personally, but only if I get to read it.”

“You can read it if I’m dead.”

“Oh, I’m reading it while you’re still kicking,” Hook said. “You gotta hit the latrine at some point.”

“When do you think I write in it?”

“Yeah, you seem like the type who does his best work on the crapper.”

Kennet blew a smoke ring at his mate. “Tell it to Sweeney.”

That night, he cracked the spine of his notebook, turned the flyleaf and pressed it flat with his palm. He set aside the photograph of eighteen-year-old Astrid, which he planned to use as a marker. Addressing the entries to her was no more a conscious decision than breathing.

15 December 1944

Cherbourg

Dear Astrid,

You can still see the beating Cherbourg took, but you can see signs of restoration, too. Cold and grey today, and very muddy in the fields where we’ve set up our tents.

After we set up camp, one of our half-track drivers came up to me and said, “I heard you speak French. Get in, let’s go find some booze.”

I grabbed Hook, we got in the track and drove into a local village. We found a shop and bartered cigarettes and C-rations for four bottles of cognac.

We went tent to tent, doling out good cheer to our mates. Except the very religious Pvt. Anderson, who doesn’t drink, but isn’t disapproving of those who do. The field where we’re bivouacked is a sea of mud. The perimeter has become prime real estate, but Hook and I didn’t hustle fast enough, so we’re bedded down smack in the swamp. But we’re snuggled up to our bottles and managing to keep warm.

On the move tomorrow. Don’t know to where.

16 December 1944

Dear Astrid,

Battalion is now in camp at Barneville. So far, war is rain, mud and shivering cold.

I imagined this journal would be the definitive narrative of the American soldier’s experience.

So far it seems to be a weather report.

19 December 1944

Dear Asta,

Yesterday we received orders and moved 120 miles to the south, near Rennes. Stayed in camp today, and supposedly we’re moving to Saint-Nazaire on the coast, to clear out some lingering German resistance. The Krauts there are surrounded on three sides but managing to get supplied by submarine. I hear Saint-Nazaire is the training ground for new, inexperienced troops.

I might kill someone tomorrow. What a thought.

I hope I don’t fuck this up. Pardon my language. We soldiers don’t have much to do right now except smoke, sweat and swear.

Allow me all the alliteration, darling.

20 December 1944

Asta,

Saw no action at St. Nazaire. News from the southeast is bad. Nazis attacking on a 50-mile front in Belgium. Panzers overrunning 1st Army positions. We’re heading there, still green.

24 December 1944

A,