The men flattened themselves against the snowy ground. The bazooka gave its signature belch and the projectile flew into the attic window. It was a gorgeous shot. Almost dainty. A split-second of decision, as if the house were chewing on the rocket, deciding if it liked the taste. Then the wall on the opposite side of the window burst open and a German soldier flew out, as if spit from a mouth.

“Holy Schmitt,” the squad cried.

Even though the terror is all-consuming, Kennet wrote. Even though it paralyzes your lungs, and chokes, smothers and unmans you, still there are moments when the fear relaxes just long enough to let you see something funny. Or something admirable. You get a second to catch your breath and think ‘Great shot, buddy,’ or even ‘Man, that was hilarious!’

You get little moments to be proud and human. I’ll try to be grateful for them. Or siphon strength from them.

Grand and Casual

Major Tendry and Captain Patrick led Company B along the railroad tracks and across the countryside. Kennet’s platoon was first to crest the hill above Chenogne, breaking through the knee-deep snow. They crawled through barbed wire and passed foxholes left by the 9th Armored, who had been driven out a few days before. Two American GIs were in one of the holes, slumped over and frozen. Dead.

Kennet and Private Marco Malinda—the famous farter—stopped to gawk at the corpses. A blanket of snow erased the dead men’s facial features and obscured their wounds. Their pose was almost angelic. They could’ve been asleep.

“Keep going, Fish,” Corporal Riley said. “Malinda, move it.”

Malinda spit viciously at the snow. “Sons of bitches.”

“That’s why no prisoners,” PFC Silver, the squad assistant said.

Malinda looked back. “No what?”

“You heard me. No prisoners. Remember the Germans slaughtered eighty-four of our boys at Malmedy. My brother was one of them.”

“Fuck me,” Malinda said slowly.

“Our boys surrendered and the fucking Krauts shot them all,” Silver said through his teeth. “They want to play that game? We play. No prisoners.”

Abruptly, Captain Patrick halted the line.

“Someone fire a few shots into that haystack,” he said, pointing further down the hill.

Marco Malinda shouldered his rifle and picked off a few rounds.

Kennet stared. Not at the haystack but at the soldier. The blinding sun backlit Malinda, giving him a righteous halo. Then he leaned out of it, going from divine to human. He was chewing gum, and Kennet fixated on the rhythmic contract and release of a single, round muscle in Malinda’s scruffy jaw. Minute twitches at the corners of his eyes. He looked grand and casual. He glanced sideways at Kennet and winked.

“You like that, sweetheart?”

At the precise moment Kennet went from smiling to laughing, a crackling rattle shot across the slope and Malinda’s head was gone.