The bleak winter landscape greeted them every morning, chewed on them all day long, then beat them to sleep each night. Skip began to think the Ardennes was cursed, and every time a mortar round exploded into the trees, he felt like thanking the Germans for destroying another piece of this fucking forest.
When nothing filled the long hours of day but snow and silence, a man could go mad. So Skip would stare into the white, imagining he was home in front of the fire, drinking coffee with Don and Alex, and ignoring the snow falling outside the window.
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