There may be no atheists in foxholes, Henry Gloval thinks, but he's never made a survey. All he knows for certain is that there are no heterosexuals in his. Because sometimes, all that keeps a man sane in the long, dark hours between attacks is the touch of another human, and if that person happens to be a man named Donald Hayes, well, the army's too desperate to enforce the regs against homosexuality.
It's not something they talk about; those long nights in the cold and the dirt, hands on each other's cocks, clinging to warmth and sanity and life.