Dread filled the cold air of Bastogne. Soldiers didn’t know when Kraut artillery would fire next. When their last moments would be. If they would ever come out of this place alive. The cold was unforgiving. Unlike anything they had ever experienced. Frostbites were the norm. And with the lack of supplies, morals were low. Eugene was in his foxhole, counting the very limited supplies he had. The cold made his complexions paler than usual, his nose and ears pink, a grim expression plastered onto his face. He’s drained from all the countless working he’s done and the work that will follow.