“Yes. Yes, sir.”

He stood with his back to Ripley. Was Ripley trying to make up his mind what to do? It was driving Lee mad. His eyes had now adjusted to the light, which was fairly helpful in that he could now look for his knife, but not helpful enough: he couldn’t see the other German soldier, who was leaning against a bale of hay about fifteen yards away.

The soldier was squeezing his eyes shut, furious and sweating, horrified that his comrade had run away. He had no rifle of his own.

He did, however, have a flamethrower.

He had little training with the weapon—he wasn’t a stosstrupp, simply a private, seventeen years old, who’d found it strapped to the motorcycle. He and his comrade had been starving, and they’d heard rumors that this building would have food in it. They’d found the food, but it was in cans, and they had no opener, so one of them had been quietly sobbing, and the other touching his shoulder to comfort him, when they heard the low drone of an enemy plane and realized they had no idea what side of the line they were on.

While Ripley explored one side of the building, and Lee descended to one knee to sweep along the ground in search of his knife, eyes on whether Ripley had holstered his pistol (he hadn’t), the boy was silently churning about what to do.

He had a second weapon, which he’d found here, but he didn’t know how to use it, either. And it was far more dangerous and unpredictable than his flamethrower, so he turned back to the silver canister.

It was a portable model, a Kleinflammenwerfer, worn on the back, with straps. When ignited, its propellant would shoot a flame of petroleum about twenty feet long. He hadn’t eaten in so long his arms were shaking. He couldn’t determine how to use it without himself being burned to cinders. The whole of the building was dotted with hay bales.

Lee was still exploring, pistol out. The building didn’t quite make sense—it hadn’t been used for ammunition storage or sheltering troops or stables. The supplies didn’t add up. Gymnastics equipment. Hurdles. Leather straps. Chains. On one wall was a shelf with dozens of gallon-sized cans. Each had a white label that showed a smug-looking butcher folding his arms, with a slogan below it, which Ripley read aloud, “Rindfleisch därme: tägliche Zuteilungen für den Kriegshund. That’s rough,” he added. “They make Hans and Fritz eat beef intestines.”

Lee said, “What?”

“Kriegshunde. War dogs. That’s what the poor infantry Boche are, right? And what have we here?” There was a leather strap on the ground. He picked it up, whistling as he realized how long it was: thirty feet, perhaps. One end was tied to the tank tread.