My numb feet swelled in my boots as I squatted with the others in the frozen mud.
McCombs had scrounged some charcoal somewhere and made a fire in a 305mm Skoda shell the Germans left behind when they retreated.
We crowded around its scant heat, holding over the flames our tins of bully-beef skewered on bayonets.
Everybody had snipers deployed all along the lines, so our chief amusement was putting a helmet atop a stick and waving it above the trench wall.
We’d take bets on how long before it was shot through.
This seldom took longer than a half-minute.