It was common for your nerves to feel frazzled, sitting back on your figurative haunches in the cold, wearing your army issued leather jerkin to keep the frostbite at bay.

To say it was cold was an understatement.

Snow continued to fall, though gentler than it had been before— just a day earlier, the frost whipped sky had flooded the temporary camp with heavy snow, nearly toppling some of the tents over.

Everyone knew your Lieutenant Colonel didn’t need the added stress of unstable weather, so as a collective it was difficult not to feel at least a little hope as the clouds seemed to ease up, an icy blue painting the heavens above once again.

Thomas Buller, a fellow private better known as Tommy, and a good friend of yours, was no exception.

Seated alongside a few close friends from your tight-knit battalion, you huddle closer to the small fire, your boots resting in the small puddle of melted snow around it.

Good naturedly, he claps a friendly hand on your back, rubbing his gloved hand over the pad of your shoulder.

“I’m sure we’ll drive them out soon,” he starts, tone chipper, speaking of the enemy forces that had attempted a surprise attack but had ultimately failed. “After that, we’ll be scot-free from the bloody cold, back at home with drinks in our hands.”