They were huddled in trenches, braced against the freezing wind. Soldiers pressed up against the mud walls and other warm bodies. Only an hour before bullets had filled the air but not a person was stirring now. Snow had begun to fall. 

Michael was a long way from home. An American fighting with the French. The American army had left many soldiers around this year, defending several key points in this area. They had held, so far. How long that would last was anybody’s guess. 

A clock tower clanged and every soldier within a mile jumped out of their skin. It was 12 am on Christmas morning. Many of the soldiers didn’t remember what day it was but a few did and looked around and grinned at those who caught their eye. German soldiers grinned at one another as snow fell on their worn, mudcaked faces. 

“Merry Christmas,” a French soldier said to Michael.. Michael repeated the phrase and took a long drink from a bottle of spiced rum being passed around. Somebody was humming and it caught all along the trenches. Michael laid down his gun and closed his eyes. Someone was singing in French, under their breath, muttering about hearth and home and presents and fathers and mothers and sons and daughters. Michael was overwhelmed and he began to cry quietly. The soldiers who saw began crying themselves. 

German soldiers spoke to each other quietly and some began playing cards as the snow fell harder. One man laughed and everyone heard and some laughed with him and nobody on the battlefield remembered what they were here for. There was more laughter and soon many soldiers were laughing and playing cards and drinking and some just leaned up against one another for warmth. 

Many of the men took out letters from home and read them and one man read his aloud and soon all the soldiers gathered in circles to hear about girlfriends and wives and sons and daughters. Much of it was in French and Michael spoke only a little but he listened and cried along with them. One young solider with a young wife and two babies couldn’t get past the first paragraph and his friends spoke to him in quiet tones. Michael had to turn away. 

“You have letter?” One of the soldiers asked. Michael shook his head. 

“No,” Michael said. 

The soldier looked at him and then offered a small smile and grasped his shoulder and then turned back to his friends. Michael laid back in the snow and tried to remember the last time he’d written to his family. Had he even written them once since he had been in France? Had he even thought about writing them since he’d been in France?

No, he hadn’t. Not even when he’d gotten a package of books and pictures and not even when his girlfriend back home had sent him a “special” letter and not even when his CO had told him that they were heading out to assist the French and would he like to send out anything just in case, you know, he never came back? 

No, of course not. He always expected to come back. It had never even entered his mind that he wouldn’t come back. Who joins a war thinking they wouldn’t come back? Michael had joined the army to protect his country and find new adventures, ones that could not be found in tiny little shit-weasel town in the heart of Missouri. Why would he stay? 

“I don’t want you to go,” his sister had said, eyes full, arms wrapped around him. He had patted her on the head and pulled her away from him. 

“I promise I’ll be okay. Okay? We’re gonna go over and whip those Germans and be back before you know it.” 

He had ruffled her hair and walked downstairs, carrying a single suitcase with a single change of clothes and only a few books. His father and mother were weeping openly at the door and he had been filled with revulsion. Michael was filled with revulsion. He had hated his father in that moment. 

“Why are you crying?” Michael had asked, stiffly and formally, looking at his mother but talking to his father. 

“I love you,” his father had said. Michael had nodded and left his house and got in the truck with his friends and that was the last words he had ever spoken or written to his family. All of these people around him singing of home and hearth and wanting it back and he had it and just didn’t want it. He would never forgive himself. He never could forgive himself. His father and mother and sister loved him. Did he have a letter? Yes, he had a fucking letter. It was in his locker at base over thirty miles away. 

When they had arrived at the French base it had been clear from day one that protecting the city was a ludicrous exercise. Two units of American soldiers had been left to staunch the wound left by earlier German incursions. There were nearly as many American soldiers left as there were French by now, and neither group could afford to lose another man to the cold or to battle. Hell, even the Germans were on the ropes; no new reinforcements had come for nearly a week now. 

Eventually they would be overrun. Michael knew this, the French soldiers knew this, and the German soldiers knew this. He was angry that he knew this. What was he supposed to do with this? Why fight a battle his superiors knew they would lose? It was mind-boggling. It was bullshit, to tell you the truth. How could the American military leave so many American men to die, let alone the French ones? This city needed ten more units just to hold it through the spring, and they had the hilarious task of holding it till summer. No way. No fucking way. 

“Okay?” A French soldier asked. Michael nodded impatiently and turned away from the man, who shrugged and went back to his card game. He whispered to his friends and pointed to Michael, who pretended not to notice and it made him even madder. 

“Something you wanna say?” Michael said. They all looked at him and shook their heads. 

“Il va s’habituer à elle,” A soldier said, looking at Michael. All the other soldiers murmured their approval and went back to what they were doing. 

“What the fuck did you say to me?” Michael said to the soldier. The soldier looked up, made eye contact. He was young, just a few years older than Michael, with a scruffy five o’clock shadow and darkened eyes. He held Michael’s gaze for a moment, shook his head, and went back to his game. 

“What?” Michael said. 

“He’ll get used to it,” an American soldier said. 

“What?” Michael said. 

“That’s what he said. ‘He’ll get used to it,’” the soldier said. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Michael said. 

The soldier frowned at him and shook his head and went back to reading his book. Nobody was paying him any attention anymore. The singing had grown louder and louder on both sides of the battlefield and Michael was ashamed. He laid back in the snow and listened to them sing. The bottle of rum came around again but they didn’t pass it to Michael and it was gone before he could protest. 

“I’m sorry,” Michael said. Some soldiers looked up at him and nodded but most just kept on with what they were doing. The French soldier who had passed him the bottle of rum before patted him on the shoulder.

“Battle on Christmas is no good time for any.” 

He had forgotten how long these men had been here; this wasn’t their first Christmas under siege. How could he be so stupid? If he could just get out of here, he would be better. He would. He would.

This time last year he was in his warm bed on the top bunk. All of the soldiers were allowed to sleep in till seven that morning and were given two hours for breakfast instead of the usual thirty minutes. The officers had set up a huge spread for them and they all gorged until they couldn’t move from the tables. Some of the more grizzled soldiers ate sparingly and then left, preferring their own company to the company of others and that was fine because those guys were assholes anyways. Their CO’s had organized a football game in the snow and the whole day was full of presents and food. A week later Michael’s unit was shipped out to add reinforcements deeper in Europe and then four months after that they had been left in the care of the French and now they were here. 

He wondered how the war was going. Updates were scarce; both French and American leadership were paranoid about messages being decoded so anything they got was very general and not really worth the paper it was printed on. But it was something and Michael had found that in a pinch those telegrams were actually really good toilet paper. Was wiping ones ass with military documents considered treasonous? He didn’t know. Thank god the French had a sense of humor. That was before the Germans began lobbing mortars and sent them all scurrying for cover.

Jacob Allice was an American soldier from California who had become his best (and only) friend in his unit. They had gone through basic training in Georgia together and been shipped off together and had bunked together the whole time. Jacob had been to France before with his parents and he knew enough of the language to make friends. 

“I like it here,” Jacob had said, laying in his bunk one night.

“What do you mean?” Michael had asked. 

“Here. In the military. In France. It’s all so much better than it was back home.”

“It’s not too bad.” 

“Nah. Wouldn’t it be a trip just to stay here after the war? Americans are gonna be treated like heroes, you know.” 

Michael had laughed. The next morning bombs started dropping and he watched Jacob be ripped to pieces in front of him. The base was destroyed and they dug in hard and stopped the mortar strikes but the damage was done. Both sides took a side and sat at one end of the battlefield, and bullets fell like rain. That was nearly a month ago. Michael had thought for sure that the Germans would’ve given up by now, but they hadn’t. Maybe now that they had no more reinforcements they would give up. 

The clock clanged again but this time only Michael jumped. Everyone else was huddled close together, playing cards and reading books and drinking. Only he was alone in the snow. He wrapped his arms around him but was still cold. One group of men had dug out a hole and put in some kindling and built the tiniest fire imaginable. They had crackers on knifepoint and were roasting them over the fire, laughing. Michael could still hear the Germans singing and the French singing and it sounded a lot alike. It sounded a lot like home. 

“Hey,” Michael said. The soldiers turned to him.

Michael took out his pack of cigarettes and offered them around. He and 24 other soldiers took their first puffs at the same time and exhaled at the same time too and it looked like smoke signals. Michael took another drink. He closed his eyes again. The cigarette smoke filled his lungs and he let out a stream of smoke into the air and drug the cigarette down to the butt and put it back in the pack. The other soldiers did so as well and he put the pack back into his rucksack for later.