After stretching out long to circumnavigate the globe, Kennet’s vision now retracted and sharpened to a short, immediate radius. The fish became a hawk, scrutinizing the drab, pulverized landscape, the silvery mist of rain turning into hard sleet. He noted every droplet in every muddy puddle. The ridges of every footprint left by every boot. The curves and contours of the countryside, the myriad shades of brown and grey. Crisp details set against a watercolor wash.

This was the land of his death. Belgium. He envisioned it chiseled on a gravestone beneath a date in 1945. Imagined his relatives saying, “Your Uncle Kennet died in Belgium.”

Kennet climbed into a half-track with Hook, Marty, Anderson, Jock and O’Hara. Gear lay in a jumbled explosion on the floor, but they eased around it and collapsed. Just six more pieces of equipment. And their deaths—their deaths came along for the ride, too.

This is where it ends, Kennet thought, as the vehicle lurched down the road. This is where I end. Somewhere in Belgium. A fish out of water. I’ll meet my end in the muddy earth, in the rain and snow, among the corpses and carcasses.

He felt nothing. No fear, no anger or upset. He didn’t want to die, but there was nothing for it. He was too tired to care. The rock and roll of the track was making his thoughts fray. Hook slumped on his shoulder. Anderson had his hands folded and his head bowed. Marty was thumbing through the little pocket bible. O’Hara’s arms were crossed tight over his chest and his eyes were closed. Jock put a cigarette in his mouth, forgetting one was already there.

I’ll die with you, Kennet thought one minute, then was asleep the next. When he woke, it was evening and the tracks had arrived at a village. Kennet learned later it was called Chêne but now, he wanted only sleep. Sleep. His mind choked and clogged, he couldn’t link thoughts together, couldn’t remember names or relationships. But someone was in charge. Someone had arranged things. Someone pointed and directed. You men, go there. You men, go there. Follow me. Follow him. Go.

Kennet went. He stumbled like a drunk. Someone put an arm around his shoulders. Someone else lurched into him, he put an arm around those shoulders. His squad was led to a farm, with a large outbuilding stuffed to the rafters with hay. There the troops dropped like felled trees, face first into the fodder, with their helmets and boots on, rifles in hand, out cold before the straw settled over them.

Kennet woke on the 4th of January only because Jock was shaking him.

“Fish… Fish.”

“Jockstrap, wouldja fuck off?”

“Wake up, Fish. There’s two women here.”

“Wha?”

“Two women are outside with food. They don’t speak any English and you’re the only one who speaks French. Get up.”