“Man, that’s the trick,” Hook mumbled. “Don’t sit still because then you start thinking. Just keep fucking doing someth—”

The sky ripped in two and an avalanche of dirt and metal dropped into the track. The road erupted in geysers of earth as shells fell along the column. Two to one side. Three on the other. Then a direct hit to the lead track.

It was a day of firsts, among them being the first time Kennet heard men involuntarily shriek in civilian terror, then bite down hard on their training, lock their jaws and become soldiers.

“Take cover, boys,” West said, and in Kennet’s ringing ears, it sounded almost conversational.

His teeth set, Kennet slammed the back of the vehicle open, hopped down and flipped his rifle into position on his shoulder, ready to lay down cover fire as the rest of the men jumped out and ran toward a sunken railroad track. All except Arnold Schmitt, who was the 50-caliber gunner and obligated to stay at his post at the pintle mount behind the front seats.

“Go, Fish,” he yelled, swinging the sight around.

Kennet had never gone so fast in his life. He reached the railroad line which looked deserted in both directions. Then he saw Corporal Jefferson, one of the squad assistants. The Kansas fellow who’d hung out the side of a train to touch his parents’ hands.

“Spread out, Fish,” the corporal cried, pointing down the track. “Take up position but spread out.”

Kennet started running again but stopped dead when something screamed over his head. He looked back to see Jefferson blown into pieces. Arms in the air, one tangled in the rifle strap. A leg tumbling down the embankment, the torso flying up like a rocket and Jefferson’s head looking down at Kennet with a curious expression.

“Jesus Christ,” Kennet whispered.

A shock wave of mud, snow and gravel knocked him on his butt. The shells were advancing toward the railroad tracks like a storm front, jackhammering into the frozen earth, turning it into shrapnel. Kennet scrambled to his feet, charged up the slope and into the woods.

He pressed his back against a pine tree, breathing hard. His heart in his stomach, his stomach in his boots, his boots frozen to the ground and far above it all, his head, swiveling, looking for someone. Anyone.

He was utterly alone.

Alone and directionless. Not knowing what to do and even if he did, not knowing which way to go to do it. The cacophony of whistling, blasting, booming and rattling made no distinction between American and German. No telling who else was taking cover in these woods.

His eyes swerved wildly among the trees before he squeezed them shut, following some instinctive impulse to look with his ears, not his eyes.

Listen.

Listen for your men.

Hold still and listen.

Listen below the noise. Between the noise. Wait for the war to take a breath, then listen.

There.