It was arctic in the night air and the Marine slept deeply. He woke to the sounds of gunfire, and stretching, breathing lightly and regularly, realizing that he was in a foreign country, curled far away in a half water-filled mud hole, and in the dark, snuggling his half-numbed head into the worn sleeping bag.
The Marine woke again at first daylight and, putting his arm out, he felt the stinging air where aching memories surrounded him. He looked at the frozen tomb where the dead grass wore a frost-rimmed coat. A shadowed figure came out of the tree line with a rifle slung over his shoulder like a medal.
"Reveille! Time to get up!".
The Marine slowly cocooned out of his mold-infested bag, and felt with his hand the light frost that surrounded him. He could still hear the receding voice of the unidentified fire-watch Marine announcing the wake-up call. He looked at his watch. By now the cow truck should be on its way, the early ones anyway.
The Marine, still disoriented, with his feet nestled in the cooling bag, stood up, shook his head and reached over for his ice-covered boots.
"Come on, the chow truck just got here," his Corporal said. "I do not know if there is going to be enough.".
"I will be there in a second," the Marine said, and sat down in the mud, forcing his moist-socked foot into the boot, with the sun starting to peek through the trees.
The Marine stood up studying the meadow with the thick fog sifting through the trees. He leaned over to pick up his rifle, put his arm through the sling and slung the cold steel against his back. Making his way out of the foxhole with full gear, smelly and filthy, he climbed in the combat area that surrounded him.
"Good morning devil dog," his Gunnery Sergeant said.
The gunny was short and heavy, white-faced, with broad cheekbones; gray haired with dark green eyes, a thin-bridged, curved nose line an Italian's, a long upper lip and a broad, thin mouth.