In which case I hope, honest to God, you are blushing too, as you read these words to the last and learn the truth: joining the Army helped put you behind me, but war has only confirmed that I will love you until I die. I’ll die with no patriotic fervor, no idealistic notions of the good fight or freedom or the cause. I will die only wanting you to my bones. On the way to my death, I’ll be lusting for you in the worst of ways, the best of ways, the most holy and tawdry of ways. Because I died loving you with every beat of my heart.

Holy Schmitt

By mid-morning on December 31st, the men of Company B were still standing around Jodenville, pent-up with nervous energy and uncertainty. Their temporary barracks had become such a fetid den of humanity, they congregated outside, despite the freezing temperatures.

War is indeed hell, Kennet wrote. But winter war has its own special, hellish delights. Take the Army-issue overcoats: they give an already overloaded soldier a few extra pounds to lug around. The length keeps your legs warm when you’re standing still, but it trips you up when you’re on the run. Still, the coat is a godsend when you fling yourself down in the snow to take cover or give hell. Or stand around on a street corner in Belgium to kill time.

The moons of Kennet’s fingernails were blue and he had no compunction about slipping his freezing digits into the armpits of anyone standing next to him.

“Buy me dinner first,” Chris “Jock” Fragiacomo said, shoving Kennet away. “You slice of frozen fruitcake.”

Soldiers clustered by the tanks’ exhaust pipes, laying their gloves on the chugging machinery to warm before slipping them over chilblained fingers. More than a few pairs were lost when the tanks drove off, and then a fellow was really fucked.

Keeping hands warm enough to shoot was such a priority, even the principled Private Anderson wasn’t averse to stripping the gloves off the fallen, whether friend or foe. Yesterday, Private Arnold Schmitt shot a German scout who wore a wool cap with earflaps beneath his helmet. It sat rather smugly on Schmitt’s head this morning, and Ingle offered fifty dollars for it.

“Serious offers only,” Schmitt said.

“I’ll give you a hundred bucks and a hand job,” Jock said.

Schmitt pulled the cap lower and chewed the air a moment.

“Holy Schmitt, he’s considering this,” Ingle said.

Schmitt shrugged. “I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I’m not getting laid before I die. A frig from Fragiacomo might be a satisfactory consolation prize.”

“Fuck you, satisfactory,” Jock said. “I’d ruin you for anyone else.”

“He already ruined me,” Boyd O’Hara said quietly.

“Damn right,” Jock said. “I don’t— Wait, what?”

O’Hara was walking away and the squad was doubled over laughing.