It was arctic in the night air and the Marine slept deeply. He woke to the sounds of gunfire, and stretching, breathing lightly and regularly, realizing that he was in a foreign country, curled far away in a half water-filled mud hole, and in the dark, snuggling his half-numbed head into the worn sleeping bag.
The Marine woke again at first daylight and, putting his arm out, he felt the stinging air where aching memories surrounded him. He looked at the frozen tomb where the dead grass wore a frost-rimmed coat. A shadowed figure came out of the tree line with a rifle slung over his shoulder like a medal.
?Reveille! Time to get up!?
The Marine slowly cocooned out of his mold-infested bag, and felt with his hand the light frost that surrounded him. He could still hear the receding voice of the unidentified fire-watch Marine announcing the wake-up call. He looked at his watch. By now the cow truck should be on its way, the early ones anyway.
The Marine, still disoriented, with his feet nestled in the cooling bag, stood up, shook his head and reached over for his ice-covered boots.
?Come on, the chow
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