Tom stopped by his bunk and pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt that he’d kept from boot camp. Light and cotton and definitely too little for the cold day, but they were all he had until they had a chance to do laundry.

The mess hall was almost deafening as hardened soldiers became boisterous schoolboys with these newfound delights. Half of them were in towels that barely covered anything, coming straight from the showers, as Tom had. The other half had chosen food first, and they were still wearing their fatigues, stiff with sweat that might have permanently frozen into it.

Tom got in line and his jaw tingled in anticipation when he saw that they were serving up beef tips and gravy—his nose had been right—as well as mashed potatoes and chocolate cookies. Two chocolate cookies, and he hadn’t even had to ask for the second. Mourmelon-le-Grand might as well have been paradise.

He found his way to Malarky and Muck. Muck set a bottle onto the table with such force that Tom wouldn’t have been surprised if it had shattered.

“Told you so. Champagne. Look at the label. Compliments of the people of the region for liberating them.”

Tom looked around. The soldiers on KP duty were carrying boxes and boxes of them.

“Anyone seen Winters?”

“El Capitán took a train into Paris. Said he always wanted to see it. Should be back tonight.”

Paris. Tom smiled at the memory of his stolen journey to the City of Lights. How had it fared in the past few months? Had shops reopened? Had it returned to its glory days?

He’d have to ask the captain when he returned. And maybe, if they were in Mourmelon-le-Grand long enough, he’d get to go back.

Dick Winters, in fact, didn’t return until the next morning. Tom heard him come in, laughing with a few of the guys. Apparently, he hadn’t checked the train line and had taken the last one into the city—with no more returning for the night. So he’d found a room in a small hotel and eaten chocolate croissants and jam for breakfast.

“None for us?” Tom heard Malarky ask him.

The captain pulled out a large paper bag and tossed it to him. “Would I ever forget Easy Company?”

Tom sat up straight and instantly regretted it. His head was pounding, and he couldn’t recall how much champagne he’d drunk. Only that it had been a lot. They hadn’t bothered with glasses; they’d just passed the bottles from man to man, and it was impossible to tell what they’d consumed.

Dearest Margaret, he composed in his head. Someday I want to take you to Paris and stay in a hotel overlooking the green lawn of the Eiffel Tower and eat chocolate croissants and jam for breakfast.

“Mail call!”