The squad huddled closer and took inventory. Silver was dead. Hank Berliner and Corporal Riley wounded. Schmitt was in a state because his best buddy, Nichols, was missing, and nobody could say where he was or recall where they’d seen him last. Schmitt was beside himself, and for the first time, Kennet grasped how essential these wartime brother-bonds were, and just how much of a liability. The camaraderie was the glue holding the unit together. Not just spiritual glue but tactical: every soldier carried half a tent and half a sleeping bag. To make a whole shelter, you had to zip up with a friend.

The squad could feel the waves of anxiety radiating off Schmitt, and all of them realized they might have to unzip and unstick from a treasured partner, and do it fast.

“He’s all right, Schmitty,” Anderson said. “Just lost in the shuffle somewhere.”

“I know,” Schmitt said. “I’d feel it if he were dead.”

The men could believe this. Schmitt and Nichols finished each other’s sentences and walked in lockstep. One itched and the other scratched. They also bickered and argued nonstop, needling at each other, pushing, mocking, jeering.

“Would you two just get divorced already?” was a frequent platoon quip, made with the full knowledge that only death could part Schmitt and Nichols.

Possibly, it had.

No more time to fret, though. Lieutenant Jorgensson came by to break up the meeting and get them hustling to dig. “You can expect a counter attack after you take up positions. Which means, ladies, we got about forty-five minutes before the show begins.”

Hook and Kennet scraped snow away from a rough square and began to hack at the frozen ground with their ridiculous little shovels.

Just keep digging, Kennet thought, quickly running out of gas. His toes were numb, his hands cramped and his lower back howling.

Dig for your life. Dig for gold. Dig for wishes.

He was so tired.

Ingle was singing the Brits’ parody lyrics of “Colonel Bogey” as he dug. The talent Ralph Ingle brought to the squad was endurance. He was tireless. Tireless. His eyes would be ringed with sleepless shadows but he never gave up. He never gave in. Men siphoned stamina off Ingle like gasoline. If Ingle whistled as they marched, they worked up some spit and joined in. If Ingle sang, everyone sang.

Hitler has only got one ball

Göring has two but very small

Himmler is rather sim’lar

But poor old Goebbels has no balls at all

The shared song helped in the task, but it was the first rumble of artillery that put a little more spring in Kennet’s step. His singing turned to cursing. Christ, if he lived through this war, he was going to have to re-train himself not to swear every other word.

If she were alive, Ma would have a field day washing the garbage out of my mouth.