He knelt in the broken glass and charred earth. A pair of arms locked around his neck. He pulled a little girl onto his chest, passed her to the guy behind him, then reached back in and pulled a woman free. Then another two kids. Another mother. An old man. A child. Mother. Grandmother. A bucket brigade of humanity.

Vaguely, in his periphery, Kennet saw his mates kicking aside dead bodies to stand beneath the first-floor windows and catch the tykes who were lowered down. The American men who had rushed forward to kill now staggered back with their arms full of women and children. These Belgian civilians were half-mad with relief and fright. Some rushed around, hugging and kissing each other, hugging and kissing the soldiers. Others, traumatized and not trusting the situation, snatched their loved ones and ran for the woods, ignoring the dire warnings that the woods weren’t safe from artillery fire.

The next child passed out of the window into Kennet’s hands was dead.

And the next.

And the next.

Followed by a hysterical, weeping woman, who lay down by the three small bodies and refused to move.

Then one last boy, no more than twelve, seized Kennet’s wrists and scrambled through. “Tous les autres sont morts,” he said. “All dead.” He mimed pulling the pin on a grenade, then made big explosion noises. “Boom.”

Kennet shoved him along. He grabbed the grieving woman, hauled her to her feet and all but flung her toward the moving crowd. “Jorgy, basement is clear,” he yelled.

He ran to catch up to his squad, then stopped once to look back at the house.

Tous les autres sont morts.

Boom.

The war paused to catch its breath.

Jesus H, I killed three kids.

The war screamed again, demanding attention. Kennet forgot about it, turned back and ran.

The American forces moved methodically down the road through Chenogne, scanning every building, most of which were either shattered or burning, but still could be harboring last nests of resistance.

I killed three kids, Kennet thought between the intense bouts of fighting.

Random sniper fire erupted every few minutes and the men would dive for cover, yanking each other down, locating the source, pointing up at windows. Holy Schmitt got off another beautiful shot with his bazooka, knocking two more Germans out of an attic, where they were cut down by machine gun fire.

I killed three kids.

Resistance turned to surrender. German soldiers crept out of the rubble and ruin, waving white flags, hands in the air and faces screwed up, braced for the same rifle fire that had greeted their comrades. They lined up along the road and the American GIs who spoke German searched them for weapons and booty.

“Jesus Christ,” Kennet said to Hook. “Some of them can’t be more than sixteen, seventeen.”

They’re kids. I killed three kids.

“Hitler Youth,” Hook said. “Arrogant little shits.”