My Dad was in a foxhole on the outskirts of Bastgone when Patton arrived. All Dad would ever talk about was how terribly cold it was. (He was severely wounded several weeks later near Noville).
Dad was also in Bastogne, and told me that it was -40, they were surrounded, had no food, very little fuel and ammo, and had to dig parsnips, carrots, radishes from the frozen ground and keep them in their pants and shirts until they thawed, so they could cook and eat. To this day - he’s 92 and in very good health - he hates the cold.
I neglected to mention that Dad was shot by a nazi sniper, while dragging 2 of his wounded platoon soldiers from an open field, who’d also been shot.
(My dad was in 20th Armored, which arrived in France the month after Bastogne and then moved through southern Germany.) Once about forty years ago I played golf on a 110° day with an older man who, unlike the rest of us, seemed unfazed by the excessive heat. When I asked why he said, “I was at Bastogne, and I was so cold I swore I’d never again complain about the heat.”