He pulled out the first puppy. And then another. Two could fit in his palm. They were moist. Their eyes were closed, their bellies plump, and their limbs floppy afterthoughts to their giant heads. He brought out another puppy. Two or three days old, maybe. The Saint-Mihiel offensive. The full-press assault, the armies fleeing, bombs falling, and in desperation, every weapon brought to bear. A dog trained to find wounded men, and fitted with carrier pigeons so they could signal for help; there was a war on, so they put the rig on her back and the straps around her enormous belly. In the retreat, she was tied to a tank and forgotten. And she waited for them to come back. They didn’t. She dug the only place she could to whelp her litter. And there, lying on her side—how could she do it? Straps around her, pigeons on her back. The puppies, born into a world where the first sounds around them were gunfire and their mother’s heartbeat, the first smells cordite and milk.

He could hear more sounds under the tank. At least a couple more dogs to rescue. He reached for the fourth puppy.

Which was when the pool of oil around the flamethrower ignited.

The explosion blew a hurricane of metal shards, throwing Lee from his crouch and the concussive blast knocking him over sawhorses, against the ground, over flaming hay bales, he ricocheted like a bullet down a crooked rain gutter; the air filled with liquid fire, raining onto the ground, pouring like lava between the tank treads, making a heartbreaking sizzle, a sound like wet fingers snuffing out a match.

Ripley stood outside, as black as a chess piece in the field of clover and elephant grass. He was completely unmoving, hands palms outward. Before him, the winery was burning, huge clouds of black smoke going into the air. He was holding his pistol, arm extended toward the ground.

His mouth was moving. He began to fantasize aloud: when they returned to the aerodrome, they would learn that the war had ended in their absence, that everyone had had enough and it was time to go home. He said he could hear the announcement that the war was over. “Three blue lights. Ta-dah.”

Lying on the ground, with cans of dog food around him, was a filthy dead boy he had shot once in the head.

Lee stumbled out. He was a wreck. His boots were smoking, his trousers torn, the knees bloody, and his respirator had been blown off, leaving his head bare. He was caved in, shoulders bowing to shelter his chest, arms crossed, the unbuttoned flaps of his wool tunic pulled around him. He kept his jacket closed even as he raised his face to look at the lieutenant. Salt tears had left two tracks in the black ash on his face; he was panting, half panicked, trembling.

“Lee?”

Lee didn’t answer.