“Oh, fuck me,” Kennet muttered. He was pissed now. The same electric thrill he’d felt on the snowy slope above the town, but mean and nasty. A bear rudely woken from hibernation, wondering who he had to kill to get some goddamn sleep around here.

He pulled the pin on his second grenade and threw it through the next basement window. He grabbed Nate’s second grenade and noticed Nate had a third pineapple on him, which was odd, but fortuitous—it was time to get the fucking job done. Kennet rolled down the line of the house’s foundation, like some macabre version of a penny arcade game. Pull, throw, roll away and cover. Pull, throw, roll and cover. One window after another until he reached a hedge at the far side of the house, where Jorgy yelled at him to take cover because the tanks were going to shell again. Kennet crawled to his commander, settled back into that two-foot safety zone where he could catch his breath.

Soon, all the windows in the house were erupting flames.

“They’re coming out,” someone yelled.

The cry went through the troops and every American rifle trained on the house. Kennet was on his feet, aimed, angry and itching to avenge.

Let’s finish this, he thought. Finish it all and let’s go the fuck home.

A man came out. Something white in his hand. It fluttered to the ground as the rifle fire cracked open. He spun, jerked, twisted and fell. Crawled a yard. Then died.

The house belched smoke. A wail of noise from within. Shouting and wailing. The sound of a terrible choice: die in the smoke, or face the guns.

“Come out,” the soldiers screamed.

“Come out,” Kennet cried, on fire as the world began to tear apart. “Come out, you sons of bitches.”

Men came out. The Americans fired.

But then…

Listen.

Some tiny part of Kennet’s awareness was tapping his shoulder. Hear that? What was that?

More Germans came out and were cut down.

Listen. Can you hear it?

The rifle fire was incessant. The bodies piled up outside the doorway and under the first-floor windows.

No, not the guns. The screaming. Listen to the screaming.

Kennet’s finger came off the trigger. He closed his eyes.

What is that sound in the screaming?

His rifle came down. “Jorgy, there are women in there…”

He made a dash for one of the basement windows. “Hold your fire,” Jorgy screamed behind him. “Hold your fire. Women are in the house.”

The word rippled through the ranks. Women. Soon joined by children. Civilians. Hostages.

Tiny, tear-streaked faces crowded the basement windows.

The same windows Kennet had thrown grenades through.

My God, I could’ve killed them.