I found Hook and he threw arms around me and pounded my back with his fists. His face was covered in blood but he said it was from a surface wound on his scalp. It bled like hell but no great damage done.

A bunch of men were badly wounded and many others dead, but none from my squad. I’ll write “Thank God,” but I won’t feel good about it.

None dead today. But tomorrow is coming.

Tomorrow makes a sound when it arrives, not when it leaves.

One poor guy from our platoon snapped his cap. He was crying like a baby but Anderson had him in hand. He had the guy’s rifle across his shoulder and was walking him along like you’d help old folks across the street. Talking low and soft about this and that. Two gentlemen out for a stroll instead of two soldiers limping out of battle.

The night of the 30th was a real bitch. The temperature dropped and the wind kicked up, bringing first sleet and then snow.

We were assigned a sector of the town to defend, and the entire platoon squeezed into one house, bedrolls crammed shoulder to shoulder and head to foot. Packs, weapons and equipment in big piles. Mud everywhere. Two toilets for fifty fellows with nervous stomachs.

All night long, men coming in and out, blasting cold air across the floor, the wind snatching the door right out of your hand and slamming it. The crying fellow wouldn’t stop crying. Some of the wounded were moaning. Those who couldn’t sleep lit up to pass the time, and the air was full of smoke and anxiety.

Hook kept my bedroll warm while I was on guard duty. Then I came back and we switched off, me snuggled up to his sleeping bag, trying to ignore my frozen feet. God, my feet are so cold all the time. Working at Pine Camp in 1941 was nothing like this. You froze during the long, hard day but at least at night you could warm up.

I slept a little. Fitfully. Jolting awake out of mixed-up dreams, not knowing where I was. My feet hurt so bad and I couldn’t nod off again. I lay awake, smoking, thinking about my brothers. Wondering if this war could go on long enough to suck Little in, then Paps would have four boys fighting. Four stars to hang in the window. A fourth charm to hang on his chain.

In every fairy and folk tale ever told, wishes are only granted in threes, not fours.

Little has to stay out of it. He just has to. If he’s written into this story, it’ll be the end of us all.