Tom had begun to believe they’d never leave Holland, as the Airborne had stayed behind and helped the British soldiers pull back from Arnhem, retreating in rubber boats across the Rhine. But none too soon, the orders came for them to head to Mourmelon-le-Grand near the city of Reims in France.

The barracks—previously used by several German infantry and cavalry units and showing significant signs of wear—nevertheless had hot showers. Tom took everything off—his fatigues, the grenades around his belt, his socks, his underwear, and left them in a pile on the floor next to his bunk. He took the issued white towel and wrapped it around his waist, pinching its corners since it was too small. Whoever ordered these provisions either thought the army was made up of children or they were too cheap to realize what a man-size towel might mean to a soldier who had been on the front lines for months.

No matter. He could hear the shouts of his fellow soldiers coming from the communal bathroom, shrieks of excitement as hot water touched their skin. He padded along the cold tile floorboards until he arrived at the room so thick with steam he could only make out blurry shapes of his friends.

He made his way to an empty showerhead and dropped the towel, not caring that it would become wet and useless but only craving the exhilaration of the hot water pouring down over his head. His chest. His feet.

The portable showers in Holland had never been heated, and many of the men decided not to shower at all rather than risk the hypothermia that would come from a cold shower in the colder outdoors. But this…this was the very definition of heaven. Better than peach pie. Better than catching fireflies. Better, even, than going to bed with that college girl. The steam permeated the pores of his skin, making it seem as if it was being absorbed into the depths of his body. He breathed it in like a thirsty man in a dry desert.

“Powell, you dog, you’ve got soft hair. Who knew?” Malarky stepped over from the adjacent showerhead, as there were no walls between them. He ran his fingers through Tom’s hair.

“Yeah, I thought the dirt had permanently frozen on it.”

“Good thing you’re showering. Word is that we’re going to get passes to go to Reims. French girls, Powell. French girls. Ha!” He slapped Tom on the back and hopped around the showers like a little boy who’d just received his first bicycle at Christmas.