When they arrived at their camp, they rolled out into foxholes, wiping snow from their eyes as they dug in. Tom’s gloves bore holes in the fingers, and he had to be careful to hold the metal barrel of his rifle with his palm, lest his skin freeze to it. They were fired upon almost immediately, two bombs hitting nearby, and the men had to take cover to avoid shrapnel. The smell of gunpowder permeated the air, its metallic tinge almost suffocating.

It was over almost as quickly as it had begun—friendly fire. Americans in P-47s who thought they were Germans. But the actual Germans advanced, and they were soon surrounded.

Death seemed certain as night arrived early and the cold almost made it welcome.

General McAulliffe sent what he likely hoped were encouraging words to the troops: “We are giving our country and our loved ones at home a worthy Christmas present, and being privileged to take part in this gallant feat of arms is truly making for ourselves a Merry Christmas.”

Tom felt numb. They didn’t need words. They needed reinforcements.

They lay still on Christmas morning, submerged in darkness, afraid to light much-needed fires because doing so would give away their positions. Tom roused himself from the stupor that had descended on all of them. He turned his thoughts to how, in a few hours, his mother would clip candles to the tree and light them. And Margaret. Whatever her traditions were, he hoped that she was joyful.

He clenched his hands and tightened his body and willed himself to get warmer by tensing up.

“Powell,” whispered Malarky as they dug into a foxhole. “You got anything in that canteen?”

Tom opened it up, unworried about the musty smell that emanated from it. He’d had a little water, but it was ice now. He held it upside down over his mouth, but nothing came out.

“We’ll have to drink snow.”

“I gotta drink something,” said Malarky. “My piss is yellower than a rapeseed field. What about yours?”

Tom hadn’t bothered to notice. When he’d gone into the woods, he could barely open his eyes since his lashes were stuck together. Let alone look at the color below.

He shrugged and formed a snowball with a small clean patch of snow that had fallen into their hold.

“Man, don’t you throw that at me. We’ve got enough with the bullets flying over our head.”

“I’m not going to throw it. Here.” Tom handed it to him and then made another for himself. “Take some bites of this. Warm it in your mouth before swallowing so your esophagus doesn’t freeze.”

“Where did you pick that trick up?”

“Just something I learned taking care of farm animals.”

“Thanks, man,” Malarky said as he took a bite. “This helps.”