“Well, we all know Johnny Boy was behaving himself. Here.” William tossed a twine-wrapped package to John, who had just walked in from a jump.

“For me?” he asked, catching it with ease.

“You’re the only sorry soul who gets presents around here. I haven’t even heard from my mom yet.”

William grinned, but the sadness in his eyes told a different story.

Why had he not yet received letters from home?

“That reminds me.” Tom pulled the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and placed them on the table by the fire. “Johnny Boy’s on top on the scoreboard, but I know you’ll play nice and split these.”

“Jolly nice of you, ol’ chap,” William said, wobbling over on an imaginary cane and adjusting a phantom monocle. He took one from the box, tapped it on the table, and put a match to it.

Tom rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re taking on the affectations of the English. Jolly nice?”

William exhaled slowly, letting some of the smoke escape through his nose. “Affectations? Do you inhale dictionaries since you don’t inhale tobacco?”

“Cut it out, you two,” John said as he pulled out his army knife to slit the box open. Inside were some of the things he’d asked for. Raisins, soap, chewing gum, and peppermints. He sifted through the letters, and Tom watched him slip one from Dottie under his pillow for reading later. They were all familiar with Dottie’s large, loopy handwriting. Unless there was something of a private nature, the boys all passed around their letters as if a note written to one was intended for all.

He pulled out a brown paper bag and handed it to Tom. Likewise, goodies sent were meant to be shared. Tom opened it to find six pairs of homemade wool socks and laid them out on the table next to the cigarettes.

“I’ll take a set,” said William, “unless twelve feet have suddenly bloomed from your skinny legs.”

“Which one?” Tom stood and held them up one at a time, swinging his hips as if he were some pin-up girl modeling them.

William let out a catcall and John’s shoulders shook with laughter.

“The gray ones. With the red border.”

Tom balled one up and threw it at William. It struck him in the forehead. Right on target.

William took off his own pair, full of holes. Tom’s and John’s were in the same ratty condition. Their toes poked out of the frayed ends. Army supplies were made for cost, not for constancy.

John grinned. “Hold your nose, Tom. We could send William and his feet to Hitler and get him to surrender.”

It wasn’t true. Tom was learning that this was the way guys talked, a novelty to him, having been raised without siblings. And a father who ruled like the general he imagined himself to be.