It didn't feel very much like reality, though I suppose I should have been used to war, at that point.

Then again, if humans ever became 'used' to war, we'd have a problem. War is like chlorine; you can grow accustomed to the smell of it, but as you breathe it in, you become more and more sick. War makes you sick.

I was brown-haired, dark-eyed, and too gentle-looking to be a soldier.

Wacht am Rhine was the German code-name for the attack. It reapplied 'the battle of the bulge' in American lexicon from a struggle to lose weight to the largest battle in World War II. It was an attempt to cut the Allied forces in half; 200,000 men, over a 1,000 tanks, and thousands of other German machines of war sent to destroy us.

At the start of the battle, my outfit was quite a distance from the southeast breakthrough point. We were supposed to close the gap, so we traveled pretty much day and night, through swirling snow and freezing temperatures, to get to our assigned area, and when we reached it, it was deceptively quiet—we set up our guns on the hill, on either side of one of the forest trails.

I was burrowed in the snow, next to a few of my friends, Patrick Elliot and Ron McArthur. Jack Lark was on the other side of the trail talking to the lieutenant. Well, all three of us were freezing our butts off, trying to get some rest—it was about four o'clock in the afternoon.

I leaned my elbow in the snow bank, watching one of the guys re-position and then climb out of a tank a short distance away through the trees. It was overcast, the sky that sort of bleached white color, like someone's sucked all of the color out. A freezing wind whipped in from the north-east, making the trees whisper.

"Quiet today," Elliot grunted. He was McArthur's assistant gunner.

McArthur just shrugged. He stuck his head out of our foxhole a little, glancing around like a rabbit looking for predators. "Too quiet," he said. "Just a few small arms."

"Yeah," I said, not really in the mood to speculate if we were going to get killed or not today, and rubbed my hands vigorously,

"Still got all your fingers, WS?" Elliot grinned, his breath whistling a little. He was missing three of his front teeth, so he was a notoriously horrible snorer. Had a wife and three kids back in Wisconsin.

I never got a chance to answer.

All of a sudden, all these shells started coming in, exploding on trees, lethally sharp splinters peppering the snow all around us. My ears ringing, I sat up calmly, keeping my head down, and started to return fire, between the trees where I could see the artillery barrage was being sent from.

The lead tank about a hundred yards from us got knocked out. The shells started to slow, but the logs near the tank that had been set up to protect us from shell bursts had fallen from the brief attack.

"Man the gun," McArthur ordered Elliot tersely. "I'm gonna cut some more."

Elliot shifted forward, wrapping the pale, frozen index finger of his ungloved hand around the trigger, and I nodded to McArthur.

He got to where the tank was lying with the ax and had cut about four logs when I saw him—

A German sniper, 200 or so yards away. He took aim.

"Sniper!" I yelled.

MacArthur turned, and a gray blur caused a burst of red on his cheeks—he'd been hit, probably in the mouth. Instinctively, as was his training, he fell flat on the snow. I could see the sniper move in front of the fallen tank.

A rush of adrenaline forced me to my feet. I ran to where we'd driven the Germans back on the hill, cradling the machine gun, with my head on the swivel and my heart pounding. Ch-ch-ch-ch. There were small explosions of snow behind me as I dove behind the other snowbank, somewhere between crouching and standing.

I didn't see the second sniper, behind me. He was carefully hidden behind the branches of a leaning fir, his eyes narrowed and the barrel of his gun parallel with the back of my skull, even as I took aim at the other soldier.

Out of nowhere, he came.

The Time Traveler looked the same as he had sixteen years ago, except there was more stubble on his face and he was in a uniform with a Third Army patch. He shoved me, hard, to the snow, my shoulder slamming into rock and snow and pine-needles and sending a white pain down my side. The spray of bullets that had been meant for me sped over the tank in a lethal cloud. I couldn't tell if they hit anyone.

Pushing myself off of the snow, I saw him disappear through the trees, in the direction the Germans had gone. The other sniper turned and sprinted after him.

Dizzy, I lunged for my gun and fired, just missing the first sniper as he rolled behind the tank. Metal pinged off of metal.

The shells had reduced my muffled my hearing, like I was in deep water, but I thought I heard someone scream 'Get down', so I did as they said, throwing my hands over my head. There was an explosion, and when I turned back, the destroyed tank was sizzling and charred.

I scrambled to my feet, but the man was long gone.

The same man in the drawing.

The same man who had pulled me out of harm's way when I was nine.

The same man had saved my life, again.

"Johnston!"

My name pierced through the muffled shock, and I could see a medic gesturing for me to come over. The dizziness wearing off, though my hearing would be shot for a few days, I picked up my fortunately still intact gun and slung it over my shoulder.

When I reached him, he was bending over McArthur. There was a pool of blood on the snow, scarlet on white. The bullet had torn through McArthur's cheek and made a mess of the top row of his teeth and his gums, the exit wound just above his jaw and a few inches from his ear. He was trying to stand. I grabbed his forearm to pull him up and the medic and I supported him and brought him back to one of the foxholes. In a few days, he'd be sent to a hospital, and from there, England, and from there, home. Chicago. I've heard from him since. He recovered all right. He'd be able to talk again, somewhat.

"Will," Jack Lark said quietly, behind me.

I knew immediately, from his tone of voice. My heart sank and my throat tightened, but I set my face in a hard mask and turned. A few of the guys were carrying Elliot's body out.

He'd died almost instantly. Been hit in the chest four times by the bullets that were intended for me.

The bitter irony pricked me like the icy air.

Just like that, two of my closest friends were being carried away:

One on a cot, the other in a bag.