I was lying under an inch of snow, completely covered and shivering from the large puffs slowly drifting from the trees above. My body was cold, tired and wet. It yearned for hot food and a warm bed after hours of being soaked. My mind though was sharpened steel. I endured my uncomfortable environment on that dark morning, a white forest full of secret holes and freezing waterways, with a stoic determination. I promised myself I would not be moving until I had what I wanted. I would push myself to the limit physically and mentally if necessary, but I would not get up to finally get warm and stretch my legs. I refused to doze in order to escape the miserable ditch, which had become my sniper's nest. From here I would only watch and wait.
             I had prepared for these moments with my father, who taught me how to shoot. After my thirteenth birthday, my father and his two brothers and I walked across a field on a sunny fall afternoon. Dad carried his two-seventy bolt action on his shoulder with the targets that were to be shot upon. His brothers, John and Kevin, carried their tools as well. John, who was in the Air Force, was usually quiet and stern. His habit was to speak only when there was something important for him to say, and I always thought he seemed wise beyond his years; he was only twenty-five. John wasn't very much fun. Kevin though, was loud. During family gatherings, Kevin would drink his weight in beer and get started on the rum before the sun was even down. Most definitely a jolly pirate, Kevin was overweight in a sturdy looking way and wore a scruffy beard mustache combination that never looked neatly trimmed, and he always smelled like cigarettes. He was my favorite uncle. He was the one who would let me get a sip of beer sometimes, or who would make sure I could have a little wine in my cup at formal occasions when my parents were being difficult.
             We walked until we found a place to set up ...