“Konrad March,” his neighbor said and extended his hand across the hedge. Brad was surprised at the courtesy and lack of mention of his rank. He wiped his right hand on his pants and shook the one the general offered as the man nodded toward an upper window of his own home. “I’ve observed your fishing techniques,” he said straightforwardly, as if his admission of something akin to window peeping was no issue. He might have been pointing out that Madame Gastain’s roof needed repairing. “You use handtied flies for catching black bass and have had considerable luck, whereas I have had none with the bait I’ve been using. Where in Germany are you from?”

“I am from Hamburg,” Brad answered. It was the region where his mother had been born and raised, and its dialect the one they spoke at home.

“My aide tells me that you are a fishing guide for Captain Claude Allard.”

“That is correct.”

“I’ve heard of him. Some of my colleagues have availed themselves of his services and say there’s none better to know the rivers around here. I understand there’s good fishing on the Loire.”

“The best.”

Suddenly there was a bit of an uproar behind the general. A little boy—the general’s seven-year-old son, Brad presumed—ran out of the house with the squatty aide chasing after him clutching a white towel. “Wilhelm! Don’t run! You’ll make it bleed more!” the man yelled.

The general turned to see the boy running across the green space toward him. “Papa! Look! Look!” the boy cried, showing a bloodstained smile.

When his son reached him, the general took the boy by the shoulders and said, “Slow down, my Sohn. What is it?”

The child held out a small palm on which lay a bloody molar and spoke breathlessly. “A tooth, the one that was bothering me. I pulled it all by myself.”

“What a brave lad you are! I am proud of you, but you must let Hans have it to wash and put under your pillow or die Zahnfee will not come in the night and leave a gold coin under your pillow. Now open your mouth and let’s have a look.” The boy obeyed and his father peered inside the open cavity. “The bleeding’s stopped, but you mustn’t run.” He took the towel from his aide and cleaned the child’s mouth, then turned to Brad. “My son, Wilhelm March,” he introduced him. “Ordinarily he would shake your hand, but it’s unpresentable at the moment. Also, my aide, Sergeant Hans Falk.”

“Barnard Wagner,” Brad said with a smile at the boy and a nod at the aide. The child was slight for his age and seemed not to have yet grown out of belief in tooth fairies.

“How do you do?” Wilhelm said politely.

“I am very well, thank you.”

“And I as well.”