By the time the barrage started in earnest, he and Hook could just cram themselves in their hole and sit on its ice-cold, rocky floor.

“Barely enough room to swing a shovel,” Hook mumbled. They got on their knees and chiseled at the rough walls, elbowing and bashing each other, scraping dirt into their helmets and throwing it out the top. Frantically digging a little more width here for extra ammo, a tad more length there to pile grenades. A smidgen more leg room. It didn’t have to be palatial. A few steps above wretched would do.

A shell exploded and the ground lurched around them like an earthquake. Kennet let out a yell and his mouth filled with dirt. He choked and the handle of his shovel hit Hook’s head, a split second before the edge of Hook’s shovel caught Kennet in the face. They grabbed onto each other, spitting mud, gravel and curses, shaking all over.

“Goddammit, where’s my helmet?” Hook said.

“You just had it.”

“I must’ve thrown it out.”

“Stay down.”

“I’m just gonna look for it quick. I can’t sit out here bare-headed, darling. You know how easily I catch cold.”

“Well don’t lose your fucking head. I already looked at one shot-up face today and you know how it upsets me, sweetheart.”

Maybe we can just joke and curse this whole goddamn war away, Kennet thought, as Hook raised his brow above the rim of the foxhole and crouched back down again, grim-faced.

“Fuck, that last shell took out Ellis.”

“Squirt?”

“No, the other one. Tall Ellis. Guess he didn’t dig deep enough, poor bastard.”

“Fuck.”

They grabbed each other again as another shell went off, raining down dirt, rocks, snow and, like an absurd punctuation mark, Hook’s helmet.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, putting it on. “Thanks, fuckers,” he yelled up at the sky.

Kennet fell back against the wall, putting his face against his kneecaps and dissolving into a bizarre mix of laughter and despair.

“Happy New Year, Fish.”

“Oh my God.” Kennet picked up his head, tears making icy tracks on his face. “Did you bring the champagne?”

“I forgot.”

“I can’t rely on you for anything.”

“Holy shit, I clocked you good with the shovel. Right on your cheekbone there, it’s bleeding.”

“Oh.” Kennet swiped his wet face and his hand came away red. “I thought I was crying, not bleeding.”

“Well, ain’t that a fucking metaphor for war?”

They looked at each other. Two filthy, freezing and fatigued fellows. With only each other to rely on.

“If it’s not an inopportune time, o magic fish,” Hook said, “I’d like to call in my three wishes.”

They flinched at the fall of another shell, slamming their hands over their ears, screwing up their faces and squeezing their eyes. They shook off the dirt, exhaled, smiled weakly at each other.

“You were saying?” Kennet said.