The two sisters who owned the farm had come to the barn, bringing hot coffee, bread and boiled eggs. And a proposition, which Kennet translated: in return for rations, the women could perhaps wash some clothes?

The men ripped open their packs and handed over tins from their C-rations. Kennet explained the labels had all come off, but the tins would either be meat and beans, meat and potato hash, or meat and vegetable stew.

The women took the loot outside while the squad stripped off socks and long johns. Assessing the disgusting pile of unmentionables on the floor of the hay mow, the sisters wondered what these dirty but brave soldiers might offer in return for the use of the hot water in the house?

Hot water was a baby gazelle thrown into the lion’s den. The packs opened again and the squad all but pelted their hosts with cigarettes, condensed milk, sugar cubes, instant coffee and chocolate. Then they nearly came to blows over who would get first turn in the bathroom. Amused, the sisters finally interceded and made the men draw straws.

With six in line to scrub, nobody could take a long soak. “This is a B.A.C.K. bath,” Jock said. “Balls, armpits, crack and kisser. And step on it.”

Rushed or not, having a proper wash was heaven. The water was scalding hot and the homemade soap studded with orange peel and lavender buds. Kennet almost ate it.

The farmhouse was cluttered and shabby, but it pulsed with a quiet, competent and feminine energy as Solange and Bernadine produced a simple feast. Everyone squeezed around the scrubbed kitchen table, sitting sideways on benches or sharing chairs. They dined on omelets, bread, farmer’s cheese, honey and jugs of red wine. Afterward they passed chocolate and cigarettes and tiny cups of bitter coffee.

Starved for female company, each man outdid the other in compliments, anecdotes, jokes and flirtation. Kennet had to be both interpreter and censor—toning down Jock’s filthy humor, paraphrasing Anderson’s bible verses and beefing up Marty’s paralyzing shyness.

The sisters toasted the Allies and the men taught them the “Colonel Bogey” parody:

Hitler has only got one ball

Göring has two but very small

Himmler is rather sim’lar

But poor old Goebbels has no balls at all

The sisters screamed laughing when the lyrics were translated. Solange collapsed against Kennet’s side and beneath the table, her calf curled around his leg. He guessed she was in her late thirties. Her face was gaunt, her eyes shadowed, her dun-colored hair threaded with silver. But her eyes were an extraordinary grey-green. She’d been so kind and generous. Her pleasure in the tumult of young, male company was evident and her body felt luxurious pressed against Kennet’s.

On the other side, Bernadine and Jock were sharing a cigarette and exchanging smoldering glances.

All at once, the war seemed a long way away.