December 24, 1944. The Ardennes forest lay frozen and still, a white silence broken only by the occasional crack of a frost-split tree. Private Eddie Foy huddled in his foxhole, teeth chattering, the cold a living thing that gnawed at his bones.
From across the thin line, a sound drifted through the trees. Singing. German voices, rough but earnest, rising in "Stille Nacht." Eddie's grip tightened on his rifle. It could be a trick, a prelude to attack.
Then, from somewhere to his left, an American voice joined in. "Silent night, holy night..." Others picked it up, tentatively at first, t
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