I fell in line behind Hook, with Malinda’s name in my pocket and Pete’s gun in my hand. We advanced to the next village. I had a hold of one of Hook’s pack straps the whole time. I just stayed on him, stayed on the Hook. No shame. Lots of guys hang on their buddies while stumbling along, half-asleep and wretched.

It’s funny, Asta, how in peacetime, physical contact between men is considered odd. Even suspect. Yet out here, between battles, we touch all the time. Unthinkingly. Desperately. It reminds me of when you talked about Brazilian men always being conscious, almost competitive with their masculinity. If I ever see you again, darling girl, I think we should have a drink and continue the conversation, because war is changing my idea about what it means to be a man.

The sun was down but the skies continued to have an odd, orange glow. As we reached the outskirts of the next town, we saw many of the buildings were on fire. Something about the lines of men moving in silhouette against the flames was both eerie and magnificent. If this were a movie, the orchestra would be all swelling violins and ominous kettle drums, banging out the beat of thousands of booted feet.

We searched house to house, but found no Krauts. And few civilians.

My platoon wasn’t on guard duty, so we took possession of a house that had a paddock with an ancient-looking horse and a couple cows. All fifty-odd of us men crammed inside. It was still cold, but it was a roof over our head. The half-tracks came up and we got our gear and rations, started warming up a little supper on the Coleman stoves.

Hook and I had some chicken and beans. We made cocoa that wasn’t very sweet, but it was hot. He asked if I was all right. If I wanted to talk. About Chenogne or Pete or any of it. I said no, I only wanted to sleep.

We had one cigarette left between us so we passed it back and forth and Hook let me kill it. I drank the rest of the cocoa, even the gritty sludge at the bottom. Then I lay down and pretended to sleep. My feet were throbbing. My throat and eyes hurt so bad from not crying. I rolled on my stomach and pushed my face in my arm, thinking to hell with it, just let rip and get it out. But nothing would come. No tears, not even a sniffle. Hook put his hand on my head but said nothing.

There was some shelling during the night. The house shook all around us. I remember looking up and the pictures on the wall were tilting this way and that. Then I heard a scream. It wasn’t human. It was the worst sound I ever heard. Like a demon giving birth.