Toward the evening we got orders again: proceed to the southwest to take control of the highway between Bastogne and Neufchateau.

You should hear some of these officers butcher the names of French towns. Noofchatooey.

For the second time, we left our foxholes and assembled.

It was quiet. I mean, quiet for war. There was the usual buzz of conversation and the roar of the tank engines. But no sound from the enemy.

It was quiet. The sunset wasn’t magnificent, but it made some pretty pink and orange streaks on the horizon, like it was trying its best to put some kind of beauty in this ugly landscape. I stood with Hook and von Asselt by a tank. Just us three. We were warming ourselves and talking about home.

The war paused to take a breath and it was a good moment.

It was quiet.

It was too quiet.

And…

“I’m hit,” von Asselt cried. “Fish. Oh shit…”

Kennet had been thrown to the side by the shell blast. He picked his head up out of the dirty snow. Von Asselt lay face down by one of the tank treads.

“Oh God,” Kennet whispered. “Pete.” He crawled over, thick and clumsy in his greatcoat. “Pete, hang on.”

Hook was crawling over, too. “Pete. Oh Christ… Oh fuck…”

They rolled von Asselt over. Blood spurted up from a horrendous hole in his chest.

“Pete,” Kennet said, his voice cracking. He pushed his fist against the gaping wound but the blood kept erupting.

“You gotta stop it,” Hook said, trying to get his hands in.

“Get a medic,” Kennet cried. “Get a jeep. Hook, hurry. Jesus Christ, Pete.”

Hook went charging off through the chaos.

“Fish.” Von Asselt’s voice was a tiny thread of sound. Blood slipped from his nose and one corner of his mouth.

“Hang on,” Kennet said, as much to himself as the wounded man. “You hang onto me. Stay with me. Don’t you even think about checking out.”

A bloody smile. “Hate…to miss…the fun.”

“That’s right. The party’s just getting started. Hook’s gone for help. You stay with me. Hang on, Pete.”

Kennet had both hands clamped on Pete’s chest. Pressing. Pushing everything he had into his friend.

Pete gritted his teeth and with a moan of effort he lifted an arm and dropped his gloved hand onto the pile of Kennet’s bloody fingers.

“Sorry, Fish,” he whispered.

“No, don’t tell me sorry. You hang onto me.”

“You… Good ones. Buddy.”

Kennet widened his eyes to keep the tears back. “No, buddy, you’re the good one. The best one.” He tried to laugh. “Jesus, von Asshole, even with a shot to the chest you look like a Hollywood actor.”

A ragged exhale of breath which might have been an attempt to laugh along. “Take two…”