Author's Note: First story here, though I'm no stranger to writing--been focusing on my fanfics for way too long, lol (check 'em out through the link on my profile page if you like!). Anyway, this story is just a little something I found on my computer. Probably wrote this a year or so ago, haven't really worked on it since, but I never wanted to completely abandon it either. This is my attempt at bringing it back to life. ;-) Rated T for language, violence, blood, gore, and mild sexual content later on.

Hope you enjoy, and please review!

Chapter One: Not the Merriest of Holidays

Winter 1944. Bastogne, Belgium, Planet Earth. “The Battle of the Bulge,” World War II.

In the snowy forests of Bastogne, Belgium, a young paratrooper’s helmet could be seen peeking out from the top of a hole. The soldier quickly ducked down after only a moment, however, realizing at once that he was exposing himself to possible enemy fire. Sinking back deep inside the foxhole, as far as the small, cramped space would allow, the American paratrooper silently scolded himself for his careless motion--he knew he’d have to be more aware in the future if he wanted to get out of this alive.

The young man shivered in the frosty weather. Snow and debris kicked up from the more-than-occasional mortar rounds that had taken up residence in or around the trooper’s foxhole, making it uncomfortable and cramped. Nonetheless, the soldier was so tired he decided to sleep for a bit, folding his arms and staying close to his foxhole partner to keep warm. It’s not like there’s any room to stay spread out anyway, he thought as he closed his eyes.

Just as the trooper began dozing off, two German burp guns opened up, spraying the hidden and scattered foxholes in the area. The soldier instinctively grabbed his helmet with his left hand and set up his M-1 rifle over the top of the hole with the right. His partner did the same.

The soldier went into auto mode and, scanning the blank white expanse for a target, placed his right hand under the trigger guard. He looked down the front sight of the rifle expertly, and thought he saw two figures lying prone on the ground. That was enough scouting for the trooper; he placed his finger inside the trigger guard and fired ten rounds into the general area of the figures.

The German guns went silent.

Everything was quiet for a moment, until the soldier’s partner lifted his head above the edge of the foxhole, turned to the soldier, and grinned.

“That was mighty good shooting, Mike!” the other trooper exclaimed. Michaels nodded, keeping his eyes fixed down the sights of his M-1.

“I wouldn’t celebrate just yet, Kennington. There were two gunners, and there’s no telling whether I hit one of ‘em or they just got jumpy. You should keep your head down,” Michaels warned.

“Aw, Sarge, don’t be so damn modest. You definitely got the Kraut.” I doubt it, Sergeant Michaels thought to himself.

Despite the sergeant’s fear of return fire, none came for the next few minutes. Even Michaels eased up off his rifle after a while.

“You know, I bet it was just some Krauts answering the call of nature, getting lost, and finding that they were close to our lines. When you shot one of them, his buddy probably thought better of taking all of us on and ran,” Kennington said to the sergeant.

“Yeah, maybe,” Michaels replied. He leaned back in the hole but held his rifle diagonally across his chest.

With nothing better to do, Michaels watched as his foxhole partner dug into one of his pockets and, shivering, pulled out a D-ration chocolate bar and split it in half. Kennington held out one of the halves to Michaels.

“Merry Christmas, Mike,” the trooper said, taking a bite out of the chocolate bar. Michaels considered the candy bar, then slowly took a bite himself. “Hey, what do you think you’ll do after the war, huh? I was think--”

Kennington’s head suddenly exploded in blood, spattering Michaels’s helmet and face.

“Medic!” Michaels screamed, then, shrinking into his foxhole, he looked over his buddy’s wound. It was a clean shot right into one side of the helmet and out the other, probably made by a sniper’s bullet. Michaels could see that Kennington had died instantly, and regretted calling the medic for a dead man.

“What’s the problem, Sarge? This boy’s dead.” Michaels started at the voice; he hadn’t expected the medic so soon.

“Yeah, sorry, Doc. I thought there maybe was a chance, but…” Michaels didn’t continue. The medic left, carrying Kennington out with him, and Michaels leaned back once again in his foxhole. He placed the half bar of chocolate Kennington had given him on the ground next to him; he would savor the gift from his late friend later. For now, the sergeant simply took out a cigarette from his pocket, fumbled with the light, and inhaled deeply.

Sergeant Roman Michaels sighed and said, “Merry Christmas, buddy.”