*peeks around the corner* Um... hi guys. Sorry for dropping off the radar like this. As I mentioned in the last chapter, things have just been really hectic. Well, I suddenly have more free time since my social life is currently disintegrating - thank you, corona-panic - so I am hoping to get more writing done :)

Anyways, how is everyone? What's the situation like where you live? Schools closed, events cancelled? Empty stores because of panicked people thinking the end is upon us? Honestly, it's all so surreal to me.

But enough of that. The chapter is rather short, but I still hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think of it or feel free to drop me a PM if you want to chat.

New Year's Eve turned into New Year's Day. Frances lifted the canteen she tinkered with in a mock toast. "Here's to 1945", she said to no one in particular, sardonic humour dancing in her tone. "Let's hope things get better soon."

The Battle of the Bulge had left a few dents and scratches on her optimistic disposition and generally positive outlook on life. War wasn't pretty, she'd known that already before signing up. Her neighbour, Old Duke, had told enough stories of the Great War to his eager audience of wide-eyed kids and impressed teens for Frances to understand that it wasn't all guts and glory. It was pain and dirt and boredom and gore and about a hundred other things she couldn't even begin to describe.

But before, she'd never experienced such prolonged hopelessness. She'd never had to fight nature like this before, like it was an enemy in its own right. Each day was a struggle for survival – a battle against hunger, hypothermia, frostbite and illness. Sure, they'd marched all the way to Atlanta in the middle of winter in basic training. It had been a miserable four days, sleet and snow turning already rough paths into muddy tracks, shin splints and blisters making each step agony.

But there, they'd had a goal in front of them. They had known that it would all be over when they reached Atlanta.

In Normandy, they had waded through too many flooded fields to count. They had walked in sweltering heat with mosquitos feasting on their blood and downpours of biblical proportions where even their heavy-duty rain ponchos failed to keep them dry.

In Market Garden, they had been stuck in muddy foxholes, outmanned and outgunned on all sides, inexperienced replacements where capable, trusted friends and comrades had left gaping holes.

Now, though, there was no way to escape the snow like they'd escaped the heat of summer. No way to forage or scrounge food. No way to warm up because lighting a fire equalled signing death warrants out here – not just your own but that of your comrades as well.

Their lack of supplies had been remedied by the arrival of Patton's Third Army and the restoration of the communication with the supply dumps. But the cold remained. Greatcoats, overshoes, woollen hats and scarves and winter ODs couldn't stop the sweat they worked up while digging foxholes from syphoning their body warmth straight from their skin. Blankets couldn't cure the illnesses they'd caught from being exposed to this damned cycle of thawing and freezing.

In short, Frances' spirit was in desperate need for something more substantial than bitching and joking with her friends, making it through another day without injury or illness or not losing anyone on the latest patrol.

.

"I just…" She swiped a hand through her greasy, dirt-caked hair and sighed. "I'm sick of this damn forest, ya know? It's a given that we're gonna have to push the Krauts outta Foy at some point, so why drag things out?" Not waiting for a response, she blew out another sigh and mumbled: "I'm sorry for dumping this all on you, you don't need any more shit to worry about."

Mia's lips quirked into a sad, sympathetic smile. "It's alright", she assured. "Talking about it is good."

Frances offered an indistinct grunt. "I used to love snow", she confided, staring at a streak of dirt running down her knee. "Andy and I always built snowmen with the kids from the neighbourhood." She smiled, heart aching with longing for home and her family.

Glancing over to her current fellow foxhole occupant, she asked: "Did you build snowmen too, you and your siblings?"

"Yes. But we mostly had snowball fights with the other kids. The whole street was-"

Crack!

.

They ducked down at the solitary gunshot ripping through the air.

"What the hell?" Frances shifted her grip on her rifle. "Was that a sniper?"

"I don't know."

They stayed low, taut as springs, peering over the lip of their hole.

"There's no patrols out. Is Louise on assignment?"

Mia shook her head. "No."

A frown pulled down Frances' brows. "So …"

"Medic!"

Mia leapt out of the foxhole. Frances couldn't do anything more than stare after her.

"Medic!", Perconte's strained voice hollered again.

Legs aching from the cold, lungs burning with each breath she took, Mia bolted through the trees. The wind bit her face, stung her cheeks. Jumping over a root that jutted out of the snow, she dodged a fallen tree.

She arrived just in time to hear Lipton question: "Hoob, where are you hit?"

"In my leg!", the wounded man gasped, writhing underneath all the hands trying to keep him still. His face was pale and twisted in pain and he was shivering. Blood stained the snow under his right leg.

In the jumble of reassurances uttered by the men crowded around him, Mia heard Hoobler hiss: "Hurts like a son of a bitch! Think I maybe hit bone."

Dropping to her knees by Lipton's side, she cast another assessing glance over her patient. "Let go, Sarge."

He obeyed without hesitation, stepping back to allow her better access to the injury. The fabric of Hoobler's blood-slick pantleg was already cut open, revealing a substantial amount of blood pouring from somewhere.

"Keep him warm", she instructed the hovering men, who kept up frantic murmurs of "You'll be alright, it's gonna be fine".

They scrambled to peel themselves out of their coats, tucking the garments around Hoobler's torso.

.

"How's it looking, Doc?", Buck wanted to know, looking at her.

"How is he?", Perconte joined in, turning to the woman beside him.

Mia deftly ignored the squelching sound it made when she applied the tourniquet. "Keep talking to him", she said, shooting a glance up to Hoobler's face. "Try to breathe, okay? Stay calm."

He managed a jerky nod, clinging to Hashey and Perconte with a vice grip. "H-hey Lip", he stammered out, "you said I was a great shot?"

"You are", the First Sergeant assured him. "You're a great shot."

There was still too much blood obstructing her view. She felt her way to the entry wound. Hoobler cried out weakly, panting from the agony shooting up his leg.

"How're we doing, Doc?", Buck pressed, his voice fraught with anxiety as the men did their best to keep Hoobler conscious.

She pulled her eyes away from the hole in Hoobler's leg. "I see nothing", she told Lipton quietly, adjusting her grip when the limb jerked in her grasp. "We have to bring him to the aid station."

"Alright, let's get ready to move him", Lip addressed the others.

Hashey coached his friend: "Relax. Take it easy, Hoob."

.

Tension drained from Hoobler's muscles, his feebly kicking legs going slack.

Mia's hands stilled.

"Stay there, Hoob", she heard Lipton urge.

A beat of deafening silence followed. Mia made herself look up.

Hoobler's eyes were closed, face tilted slightly towards Perconte. Bundled under the shed coats, he looked like a sleeping kid – apart from the stubble. Buck's hand rested under his chin. Mia didn't need to check for herself to know that he didn't feel a pulse. His bright eyes bored into hers, helpless and horrified.

She looked away. A ragged breath broke past her throat and she sat down in the snow.

One by one, everyone sank back in shocked, devastated silence. She distantly heard Buck tell Perconte to call a jeep. Hashey sniffled.

Her fingers slipped twice before she managed to open the knot of the tourniquet. She didn't ask what happened. The angle of the bullet wound told her all she needed to know.

She felt sick.

When Maxine heard of Hoobler's death and how it had come about, she swore for a solid minute without repeating herself. Then, she reigned in her emotions, took a deep breath and said: "I'm sorry, Lip. I shouldn't have lost my temper like that."

The First Sergeant offered a consoling smile and shook his head. "It's alright, ma'am. We're all on edge."

"You could say that", she agreed tiredly. "Have you told Lt Dike yet?"

His mouth twisted in that particular way when he disapproved of something, but didn't want to say it. "No, I…uh… haven't had a chance to."

Maxine could already feel a headache building behind her eyes. She levelled him with a steady look, brow arched. "You couldn't find him." It wasn't a question because there was no doubt. Not after weeks upon weeks of the same.

"No, ma'am", Lipton admitted reluctantly. "I reported it straight to Captains Winters and Nixon instead."

Maxine nodded firmly, swallowing a growl of frustration. "Very well", she said, lifting her chin.

Her shoulders set and her spine straightened infinitesimally, hands brushing down her thighs as if she was smoothing a skirt - a lifelong habit that showed itself whenever the Washingtonian adopted what Luz had once jokingly labelled her 'high-society airs', Lipton had noticed. The picture of sophisticated grace, a cunning mind and sharp wit hidden expertly beneath polite smiles, charm and assured eloquence.

"I'll tell the CO." She smiled at him, briefly returning to her regular, more casual self. "Thanks Lip. Try not to worry about Dike too much, okay?"

He found himself smiling back, trusting her to handle their leader's absence. Maxine was nothing if not dependable and with her determination and strategy, she'd already compensated for their lack of a reliable commander multiple times.

.

Maxine was well aware of how much frustration and unease their current leader – or lack thereof – caused in the company. The man's frequent disappearing acts and complete inability to make any decision whatsoever had brought her numerous headaches and many a restless night.

So far, she'd been able to prevent any major crises that could have resulted from Dike's non-existent leadership. At first, she had asked countless questions, wanting to push the man into giving proper answers, thinking for himself and explaining his rationale behind the tactics he wanted to employ.

Though when he'd continuously ignored her inquiries or brushed them aside with vague non-answers, she had soon abandoned that approach in favour of another: ask questions on only the most crucial points, wait for the end of his meandering speeches and then hash out the details with her fellow officers. Since Dike was hardly ever around to observe and because his orders were never specific or precise, they had quite a bit of leeway in that regard.

Nonetheless, she knew that she was merely delaying the inevitable for as long as she could. It was only a matter of time. And when it the storm hit… Maxine was under no illusion that the fallout would be catastrophic.

.

She found Dike eventually and formally reported the death of Corporal Don Hoobler. She highly doubted that the man could put a face to that name.

"The bullet cut the main artery in his leg", she said, purposely blunt.

The lieutenant shifted, mouth twitching uneasily.

Maybe it was petty and vindictive of her, but she felt a vicious surge of satisfaction at his discomfited reaction. As she'd told Grant, she'd learned from the best when it came to expressing her honest opinion in the subtle layers of a conversation while remaining perfectly civil on the surface.

"He was wearing so many layers, by the time they managed to locate the wound, he'd already lost too much blood. He was dead before they could take him to an aid station."

The CO's mouth opened and closed a few times in a highly unflattering imitation of a fish on dry land before he eked out a response in his typical fashion – all talk no meaning.

A few minutes later, Maxine returned to the foxholes of 2nd platoon, feeling more cheerful and upbeat than she'd had in a week.

Her good mood didn't last long, sadly, as their not-so-esteemed commander decided to call a meeting with the platoon leaders and the First Sergeant. Which, to her misfortune, meant that she'd have to endure the man's skittish ineptitude and empty platitudes for the second time in the span of one day.

She sighed, swinging hazel eyes heavenwards in a silent prayer. Lord grant me the strength not to strangle him.

"Planning a murder?"

Frances sounded far too chipper for it to be proper, Maxine noted somewhere at the back of her mind, even as her lips tilted to match her friend's mischievous grin. "Why, Frances", she replied with put-upon loftiness, sniffing delicately. "I would never entertain such dissident thought."

She dug a battered and fairly old pack of smokes from her coat and plucked out a cigarette with cold-tinged fingers. The North Carolinian snickered as it was common knowledge that the Washingtonian rarely smoked and usually only did it in times of immense aggravation.

"No, but seriously", Maxine continued, expression clouding. "I might not be fond of the man, but he is our superior. Insubordination will only bring us more trouble."

Message received, Frances dipped her head in deference. "You're right, Max." She sighed. "It's just frustrating."

A snort emanated from her right, accompanied by the snick of a lighter. "I know. I'm also sick of losing people."

.

Frances nodded solemnly. As tragic as it was, Hoobler's death was just one on a list which grew longer each day. Their company consisted of the dead, wounded and ill… and the remained could be summarised under the labels 'exhausted' and 'tense'. And 'freezing'. Despite the winter clothing, having little shelter from the weather, which had once again turned towards snow and light fog, meant that they were all constantly cold.

She tapped her hand against her knee and asked, in a rare moment of overt, rash doubt: "How are we supposed to make the attack on Foy with Dike leading us?"

Maxine's lips pressed together, elegant brows puckering. A heavy sigh escaped her, smoke curling as it clashed with the cold air. "We have capable leaders", she offered calmly, "and outstanding NCOs, all experienced in battle."

Frances heard the note of admonishment in the other woman's voice and ducked her head. "I'm sorry."

"You're worried and frustrated", Maxine acknowledged with a shrug. "You don't have to apologise." She paused. "You know, you'd make a good sergeant."

Frances smiled. "I think I'll pass. I'm not too big on giving orders."

Soft laughter danced in Maxine's tone as she agreed.