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night.
    “It’s the Krations," Fahey said. "Fill ya up, sure, but then you gotta deal with the other issues, like how that lousy food sits in your guts. I never missed home so much, even when we were rolling up on the beach at Normandy. Wait, I take that back. I missed home a lot that day.”
    He was from Boston, and had the heavy accent to go with it. Fahey liked to talk about his father’s ‘cah’--a six-year-old Chrysler that burned through oil at an enormous rate--and how he wished he was at a ‘bah’ while a girl in a little red dress--whose name changed on a regular basis--talked to him about going back to her place.
    “Krations aren’t so bad,” Grillo said, trying to convince himself it was true. “I like pork. I don’t like it every day, but I like it. Chocolate’s the best.”
    “If we ever get on top of the enemy, Sergeant Pierce over there,” he said, gesturing toward one of the many holes in the ground, “knows how to mix up a couple of cans of meat over a cooking fire and make it taste a like a four-course meal. At least we got warm guts last night. Thought I was going to starve in the damn forest.”
    Grillo nodded.
    Fahey dug out a four pack of Chesterfields and shook one loose. He lit it with a match and sucked in smoke, but kept the glowing end cupped in his hand so he didn’t give away their position.
    Grillo shivered, and thought about moving around. He’d been sitting here for over an hour, and the chill had sunk in. His clothes felt damp thanks to the cold, and he was pretty sure his jacket was frozen to the tree.
    He held his M1 Garand to his chest like it was his best friend. It was loaded with a full-eight round clip and he had a few extra in his pouch. Not enough if they came under heavy fire, but the rest of the squad’s ammo was spread thin. Him being the new guy, they’d stripped most of his rounds when he’d arrived and passed them out among the other men.
    Along with some ribbing, the guys had generally let him settle in. There were the usual shenanigans as they regulars broke him in, like asking him to walk the perimeter until he found his gig line. After the joking died down, him laughing it up with three others including Sergeant Pierce, they’d left him alone, because a mortar had exploded nearby.
    “Didn’t think I’d be spending Christmas in Europe,” Grillo said.
    “I didn’t think I’d be spending another Christmas in Europe,” Fahey replied.
    “What was it like last year?”
    “Like this. Krauts shooting at us. Us shooting at Krauts.”
    “I haven’t even fired a shot yet. Think I’ll fit in after I kill my first German?”
    “Brother, I hope you don’t have to shoot one, but you do, and you make sure the son of a bitch stays down,” Fahey said with a grimace.
    Something cracked in the distance and Fahey suddenly bled confidence. He rolled over, tossed the blanket to the side, and put his M1 to his shoulder. Grillo tore himself away from the tree, ice ripping at his clothes as he peeled himself off his perch. He dropped next to Fahey and raised his gun and tried to spot movement.
    “Where’d the noise come from?” he whispered.
    “From shut up, that’s where,” Fahey whispered back.
    Fahey scanned the tree line.
    Grillo followed the man’s lead. Bootcamp was one thing--practicing shooting at targets, how to look downrange, how to aim, how to exhale and squeeze the trigger. It didn’t teach you how to deal with fear, but that was all he could think about now.
    The morning was misty and that made visibility low. Plus, movement could come from any direction in a two hundred degree plus arc. The rest of the squad had the other sides covered, but even they could fall victim to a surprise attack.
    Another twig snapped in the distance.
    Grillo tensed and squinted his eyes. He should have been wearing glasses, but they kept fogging up in the chill air. He should have a pair of binoculars, but one of the other guys had the Baker’s only remaining