There had to be more to this story. He stared miserably at the Chaplin standee, which also had no business being here. Hardly the first time since his enlistment, Hugo felt as if his destiny had been adumbrated in a broom closet by several distracted simpletons while, miles away, lesser men with grand ambitions were allowed to plan their successful futures as their feet were rubbed by trained Swedish masseuses. He decided that if the figure in the snow left he would let him live. If he tried to get in, Hugo would shoot him.

The man—Bolo? not?—ambled backward, staring at the monastery, hands on hips, as if wondering whether to purchase it. Then he found a fallen tree trunk. He sat down on it. Since this was neither retreating nor attacking, Hugo was flummoxed. “Oh, please,” he whispered.

Then the man, just a plump, squat silhouette, took out a sheet of paper and smoothed it on his knee. The moonlight reflected on it. Amazing how, in the moonlight, all color bleached out of everything. Except a telltale red border. Bolo propaganda.

The rifle barrel fit perfectly within the wooden teeth of the loop. The Springfield was easy to sight. Hugo counted down three, two, one, and squeezed off a round. In the clearing, a cry, the man put his hand to his ear and toppled over backward, off the log.

But then, as Hugo ejected the cartridge, the bolt came off with it. As easily as pulling the stem off an apple. “Oh, God,” he whispered. This did not happen to Springfields. It happened to Russian rifles. And apparently to Hugo’s rifle, which was now useless. If he’d killed the Bolo, it wouldn’t matter, but—

A staccato sound, like pebbles spraying against the outer wall: Hugo could see the Bolo crouching, rifle out, firing it at the stone walls. The bullets would never hit him—this was futility itself, a show of anger—but, given how unlikely the entire evening had already been, Hugo threw himself to the floor.

It went quiet. Hugo raised his head slowly and looked out, into the night. His Bolo stood in the clearing. He was holding his hand to his ear, where Hugo had shot him.

If someone had just been shot, it seemed logical he should seek shelter or attack. But most men in wartime spent most of the time waiting for something to force them in a given direction, which is what Hugo’s enemy was now doing.

Hugo cursed his destroyed rifle. He would probably have to pay for it. Shooting someone in the ear was just a pip, a Blighty, not a killing shot. He peeked at his enemy again—still standing there—then sat down on his bale of hay. There was a strange object resting nearby, all wood and metal, heavy like a crucifix. Hugo felt around it, fingers finally jamming painfully against something pointed and sharp and cold.