Luca glanced at you in concern as you two sheltered in the trenches. It was early morning and the sun had barely tinted the sky with navy and pink. He clutched his rifle, biting his lip. His helmet was dipped slightly over his eyes. The stench of unkempt death was putrid and it made your stomach churn.

“Don’t you dare throw up,” he ordered sternly in his thick Italian accent, watching you in worry. He reached to squeeze your shoulder.