In Hagenau, Germany, after months trapped in the snowy hell of Bastogne and Foy, Edward “Babe” Heffron looks at the bunk beds gratefully. It had been close to three months of sleeping on the ground in foxholes or on the floor and he is sick of it.

Babe drops his bags on the floor next to his bunk and practically jumps into the bed. The cot is, by no means, exceptionally comfortable nor high end, but it still feels like heaven to him. He sighs and closes his eyes, letting the thin mattress support his weight.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Babe groans, stretching slightly against the mattress. His stiff joins crack and sore muscles ache. He can’t remember the last time he had the chance to so much as look at himself in a mirror; his cheeks are dusted with ginger stubble and normally-gelled-and-combed 1940s hair is mussed up and slightly frumpy. He does not give a damn in the least. “I could sleep for years!”