Ripley hummed to himself tunelessly, and Lee was thinking in circles, until the sound of humming was beginning to drive him mad. He felt airsick. He wanted to say, “I didn’t know.”

They were out of the weeds and on the dirt path to the courtyard. Lee’s eyes narrowed.

“Yes, Duncan?” Ripley said.

The winery was as simple and friendly as a country barn, flanked by wings that created a sheltered courtyard, the entirety of which they saw only now that they were standing within it. Concussive force—bombs— had blown holes out of the flanking walls, eye sockets in a clean white skull. There were small piles of rubble—brick and stone and cement—in the courtyard, along with a weathered bench, a dead elm tree, and an oak whose branches lifted far above the roof. Under the oak, there was a motorcycle on its stand.

Neither of them said a word; they were staring at the olive-drab machine. There were no obvious markings. It was heavy with mud, and there were two leather pouches hanging over its rear fender. It didn’t look American. Might it be British? They had trained in recognizing enemy airplanes by sight and sound, and either of them could identify a German tank from many yards away, but not motorcycles.

“Sir, do we know where the front lines are?”

“We’re on our side. I think.” Ripley turned on his heel, looking for the sun. “Or not.”

Lee padded toward the motorcycle. He put his palm against its engine, and flinched, shaking it in the air. He trotted back, grabbed Ripley, and tugged him behind a pile of rubble. Lee gestured toward the bike. He held up one finger, then pointed to his eyes. One pair of goggles on the handlebars.

The rubble and the motorcycle stood between them and the exposed parts of the winery. Lee listened for sounds from within the building, which had a few small shattered windows. If a sniper was nearby, he had heard the DH 4 engine—unmistakably a Liberty—and had ample time to find an adequate vantage point.

“We could go back to the plane,” Lee whispered. “We have machine guns; maybe—”

“The Marlin is pointing the wrong way,” Ripley said without intonation. “And if you fire the Lewis at a target on the ground, you’ll hit the empennage.” He yawned. “Also, if we retreat, he could shoot us in the back.”

“He doesn’t have a gun.” Lee dug at his collar, which suddenly felt tight. “Do you think he has a gun?”

Ripley nodded. He spoke calmly, the way water flowed downhill. “I’d rather be shot—well, if the only choice is to be shot, I’d rather be shot in the chest than the back.” He shrugged. “What about you?”