The cold in the forward observation trench was not a temperature. It was a physical weight. It pressed against the wool uniforms, seeped through the thick leather boots, and settled into the marrow of the bone.
Lieutenant Corin pressed his gloved hands against his freezing face, exhaling a ragged, visible breath. His teeth chattered audibly. He shifted his weight from one freezing foot to the other, slapping his arms against his sides to maintain circulation. To the three enlisted men sharing the cramped, ice-rimed dugout with him, he looked like a man fighting a desperate battle against hypothermia.
Internally, Corin's heart rate rested at a perfectly steady fifty-eight beats per minute.
