Yesterday was Easter Sunday. Instead of collecting eggs, we collected Krauts. Thousands surrendered. It’s almost becoming easy. We cleared two towns with training sites and barracks, then marched out again, toward a town called Oberhof. Once upon a time this place must’ve been a postcard-pretty alpine village. Now it looks like Darmstadt. Some of the houses were still burning.

My squad billeted in a house at the edge of town. Did a few hours guard duty, uneventful.

A boom like the end of the world woke the entire house up with a collective yell and a volley of cursing.

“Holy fucking shit.”

“Fuck.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Who do I gotta fuck to get some sleep around here?”

Feet were crammed into boots, helmets jammed on, M1 rifles grabbed. The squad fell out of the house and crossed the road into the woods beyond.

Kennet’s eyes bulged in the thick darkness. He couldn’t see anything or anyone, only the muzzle flashes from enemy fire. He shook off the last of the shock, the last of the sleep fog, and sunk his teeth into his training. He fired, then quickly rolled away from where his own muzzle flash would’ve been, knowing the Germans would aim for it.

“They can’t be more than twenty yards away,” O’Hara said.

After a short, intense skirmish, Ingle started yelling from behind them. “Back across the road. Move it. Tanks are gonna lay down machine gun fire. Get back inside.”

Blobs of yellow swam in Kennet’s vision as he followed O’Hara across the road. Hook followed him, three crabs running in a crouch until they reached the door of the house.

“Life is full of rude awakenings,” Hook mumbled.

“This is the worst hotel I’ve ever lodged at,” Kennet said. “I demand to speak to the manager.”

Hook guffawed and slapped Kennet’s back. “Strong letter to follow.”

Then the world exploded.

A crackling rattle and something hit Kennet in the face. Something big. Hard enough to spin him a full revolution. Then he was hit again, by what felt like a handful of red-hot coals.

“Fish?”

He was on fire.

“Fish?”

White-hot popping sizzles in his eyes, narrowing into a pinpoint as the walls of the world began to close.

So this is how it ends, Kennet thought.

Well, shit, this is easy. Dying is a fucking piece of cake. The hell was I worried about?

Then it hit him. Like a cauldron of molten lava thrown in his face, the delayed pain went tearing up his nose, into his brain and screamed behind his eyeballs and eardrums.

Actually, this is gonna be hard.

The last thing he heard was: “No, Fish, no don’t you fucking do this to me.”

Poor O’Hara. Everyone leaves him…

Fish Hook

7 Apr 1945

Dear Paps,