“If there’s a God, he isn’t on this goddamn battlefield,” Jock said.

“We are God,” Holy Schmitt said.

“We’re doing exactly what they did at Malmedy,” Anderson said. “What the Japs did at Bataan. Are we going to stoop to their level, or rise above?”

“We’re already above Nazi scum,” Jock said. “They started this shit. They made the rules of the game. We’re just playing by them.”

“I won’t be part of this,” Anderson said.

“You don’t have to,” O’Hara said quietly. “Take Marty. Don’t make a show, just move back quietly, move behind the tanks and go invisible. No shame, Andy.” O’Hara’s gaze went around the squad. “No shame,” he repeated. “Not if you stay, not if you go. Am I clear?”

“We do what we have to, Andy,” von Asselt said. “I’m not you and you’re not me. We’re still brothers. I’ll still fight for you.”

“Go,” O’Hara said. “Get out of sight. Just back away.”

Tears brimmed Anderson’s earnest eyes. “Guys, please. You can’t…”

“Andy, if you don’t want to be picked, move away,” Hook said. “Do what you have to do. No shame.”

“I don’t run away.”

“You’re not running away,” Schmitt said. “You’re just moving a little bit backward.”

“You look like you need to take a leak, Andy,” Jock said. “Jesus H, you’re hopping up and down on one foot like a kid. Go piss on a jeep or something.”

“Anyone asks where you were, tell ’em nature called,” von Asselt said. “Go on now.”

The German prisoners were lined up on both sides of the road now. Twenty to thirty in each group.

“Fiskare,” Lieutenant West called.

“Fish, wait,” O’Hara said. “I’ll go.”

“No, I’ll do it.” Kennet half-turned and held out a hand to von Asselt, indicating he wanted that little strip of olive canvas, machine-stitched with a name. “For Malinda, I’ll do it.”

Von Asselt gave him the insignia. Kennet put it in his pocket.

He took his place.

I am forever changed now.

When the order came, Kennet aimed at the little Hitler Youth punk who dared to walk around with Malinda’s name on his heart. He looked for the German’s eyes and when he found them, all the sneering bravado was gone. He was just a boy, begging for mercy.

And a boy who helped imprison Belgian civilians in a fortified house.

A boy who herded children down basement steps, to huddle up against walls and beneath transom windows, where an American soldier would be sure to throw deadly pineapples.

It was his fault, this little Nazi prick.