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Written in 2010.
He wasn’t an ignorant bumpkin. He wasn’t a humorless rock. And he sure as hell wasn’t a virginal farmboy from Backwater, Pennsylvania. He liked pretty faces, eyes especially. And smiles. A good kisser was better than a good lover in his book. He admired patience and humility, gentleness, kindness above all. Those were his turn-ons.

But right now, trapped in the blistering arctic meat locker of Bastogne, with two weeks’ worth of grime and grease festering in the darkest regions of his anatomy, the thought of hot water and soap was giving Dick Winters a painful and utterly useless hard-on.

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