“While your wife paints your toenails,” Jock said.

“You better believe it,” Schmitt said, stretching out his boots as if admiring a fresh pedicure. “I want ’em red, white and blue.”

They laughed and elaborated their bathroom plans. But God, they stank. And there was nothing for it.

They left devastated Bastogne, crossed the Our River and finally, at last, their boots were on German soil.

“What, no trumpets?” Hook muttered.

Others also remarked about the anti-climactic feel of entering enemy territory, but not Kennet. He felt a shift as he left Belgium and entered Germany. Not in the land, but in himself. He was no longer liberator and lover, but an enemy conqueror.

I am a pirate prince of the golden blood.

I come on behalf of the River King.

I come to collect for Hildur, Queen of the Elves.

He wouldn’t be lauded by the people here, but feared, targeted and hated. No more handshakes, hugs and hospitality. The women would rather kick than kiss him.

They arrived at Heckhuscheid, where they captured bunkers and took prisoners.

Lutzkampan, where they endured intense artillery and mortar fire, and Sergeant Montenegro was killed, leaving the squad leaderless until Heckhalenfeld, where Ingle was promoted.

Back to Luxembourg, to the town of Breidfield, where B company went into reserve and Lieutenant Jorgensson was promoted to captain.

To Lieler, on the banks of the Our, where they could see the enemy moving around their fortifications on the other side.

Back to Breidfield, where the weather at last broke. Winter let go its icy grip on the world and as the calendar turned to March, the days were soft with sunshine.

2 Mar 1945

Sellerich to Prum. Wet and muddy. Constant shelling. Walking the fine line between sanity and madness, looking over the edge and considering my options. Wondering if I should just completely lose my mind and let the chips fall.

Shell shock. I’ve heard the words before. I know that’s what they called it with Uncle Nyck. Chaplains call it “combat fatigue,” when a GI feels like he can’t take anymore. In Uncle Nyck’s time, they called you a coward and shot you. Today it seems the brass knows it’s not something deliberate a fellow does. It’s not really him making the decision. His body and mind just put up the white flag.

I never really understood shell shock or combat fatigue before. I did, but I didn’t. How can anyone really grasp perpetual fear combined with the feeling that nobody can get you out of the situation, you are helpless and doomed. How could you know unless you live it?

Makes me think of when Paps said, “You don’t know fear until you look into the eyes of a young, unmarried woman who’s discovered she’s going to have a baby.”

I’d dismiss that as a load of hooey except I happen to trust my father on these things.