I leaned back against the wooden benches as the truck hit another mud pit, jolting us violently. With a cigarette in hand, I exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl as the rain drummed like gunfire against the canvas roof.
My unit was heading toward a new post, and I could feel every vibration of the road through my spine as I waited. Suddenly, the commander's shout cut through the noise—we were closing in. The truck screeched to a bone-rattling halt, iron brakes screaming against the wheels.
I crushed my cigarette out on the bench and leapt from the back, scrambling through the downpour toward the shelter halves. By the time I dove inside, I was shivering and soaked to the bone.
In the shadows of the cramped tent, a voice grunted. "You're late, soldier. And you're making my blanket wet."
I couldn't see his face in the dark, but a bundle of dry fabric was shoved into my chest. "Take these," he muttered.
I didn't say a word. My teeth were chattering too hard for a "thank you" anyway. I quickly stripped off the heavy, sodden uniform, the wet cloth clinging to my skin like a second layer of ice. I pulled on the fresh clothes, felt the sudden bloom of warmth, and collapsed into the bedding. Before the other soldier could complain again, I was already drifting into a heavy, dead sleep.