“Son of a bitch, O’Hara, fuck off,” Jock shouted after.

O’Hara looked back and gave one of his rare smiles. He was the squad’s enigma. Disturbingly devoid of personality, he barely said ten words in a day, barely registered an emotion above awake, barely registered a pulse. It was impossible to explain how or why he was close mates with Jock, one of the loudest and most vulgar of the squad’s loudmouthed, vulgar jokers. No two fellows could have been less alike, and the pairing ought to have ended in murder. Yet one was rarely seen without the other. O’Hara was the only man who could get Jock to shut up, and Jock the only man who could get the corners of O’Hara’s mouth to lift up.

The Army is full of such bizarre, improbable friendships, Kennet wrote. And you can’t explain them any more than you can explain love.

It was noon when the battalion mounted up and took off, following the tanks through the valley they’d retreated from the day before. They bumped and battered down the crummy road, machine guns blazing from both tanks and tracks.

Too soon, the valiant advance got bogged down and came under enemy fire. The company dismounted and ran for cover behind an embankment, quickly setting up a skirmish line across the road. Private Dziedzice, known to all as Dizzy, was the last to get out of his half-track before a shell blew it to bits. He dove into the line with a hysterical bray of laughter, exhilarated by the near-miss.

Guy Babbiolamente, whom everyone called Baby, grabbed Dizzy by the belt of his greatcoat and hauled him into firing position. “You got a goddamn horseshoe up your ass, Diz.”

“I better not shit my pants,” Dizzy said. “I’ll lose all my good luck.”

The tanks pulled into a line behind the infantry, firing their machine guns.

“Put on the full armor of God,” Anderson said. “So that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes.”

“You stand up and I’ll shoot you myself,” Ingle said.

Word began to ripple down the line, like a spreading brush fire: sniper.

“Son of a bitch just took four men out,” Lieutenant Jorgensson said. “Keep your heads down and your eyes up.”

On the other side of the road, a row of large stone houses faced the line, all looking hollow and abandoned to Kennet’s eyes.

O’Hara paused his pull on the BAR. “Schmitt,” he said. “Corner house. Attic window is open.”

“Move.” Schmitt raised his bazooka to his shoulder.