Tom ran some lye soap across his scalp one more time, as if he could bank the cleanliness by doing it twice. You could always rely on the army to give you the most basic of supplies, and the lye was no substitute for the store-bought kind. But he rubbed his palms around it to work up some lather. In the field, he’d shorn his hair with a knife and occasionally cut it when he could find scissors. Some guys preferred just to get a razor and shave it off, but Tom’s hair had always been his one point of pride. And a bare head would only have made him colder.

So it was a welcome change to have the strands feel malleable once again. He rubbed the soap across the rest of his body, and he had the luxury of time to feel every muscle. This was not the same body that had left Virginia for Georgia. He’d always been a lanky guy—tall and skinny—but this was the form of a man. And he hadn’t even noticed until now. Where he’d been thin, he’d now filled out with muscle. Especially his legs. The soldiers had gone through rigorous conditioning to make their legs strong so that they could withstand a landing. He washed down to his shins and his feet, full of wonder that a year and a half could make such a difference.

His father would be proud. His mother might not recognize him.

But…would Margaret find him attractive?

He’d have to survive the war if he was to find out.

“Powell! Hurry up—there’s champagne!” Muck called out to him this time, he and Malarky always the dog and pony show of Easy Company.

“Champagne. Please. Don’t pull my leg, Muck.”

“The way you’re feeling your legs, I don’t have to. You like what you see, pretty boy?”

Tom picked up his wet towel by its corners and slung it around and around until it was whip-shaped. He flicked it onto Muck’s bare back, and Muck yelped.

“I’m not kidding, man. We’re in champagne country. Actual, real, honest-to-God champagne. Not the cheap bubbly wine you can get at Woolworth’s. And the chow! You don’t hear the guys’ moans from here?”

“You’re for real? Here I come.”

Muck tossed a fresh, dry towel to him. “Hurry up or I’m taking your share.”

“Thanks, man.” Tom wrapped the towel around him, no longer minding its diminutive size because he could smell what Muck was talking about. Beef. Gravy. Was his nose deceiving him?

The chow in Holland had left much to be desired.