As he contemplated applying cold mud to reduce the swelling, he scanned the terrain. The field was bare. Whatever had been planted had been harvested. Dead plant stubs pricked up through the soil, as though the field had been given a crew cut. At the far end of the field, movement caught his attention: a creamy speck, as if a pillow had been tossed into the field. He squinted. Wind whistled. And the silky parachute flapped, exposing a wooden cage. He got to his feet and limped ahead.

Several paces into the field, he heard what sounded like a lawnmower. He froze. Held his breath. Listened. The engine grew. He turned and ran. Pain shot through his foot. The crutch gouged his armpit, sending a fiery flare into his shoulder. He hopped on one foot. The engine whined. He dove into the underbrush, just as three Wehrmacht soldiers, two on a motorcycle, the third in a sidecar with a mounted machine gun, crested a hill. Ollie’s chest pounded. He prayed he hadn’t been spotted.

The soldier in the sidecar pointed. The motorcycle screeched to a stop. The soldiers got out, slung their weapons over their shoulders, and walked into the field.

Damn it. He wanted to cover himself with dirt and fallen leaves but feared any movement would draw their attention.

As the first soldier reached the cage, he lifted the parachute with the tip of his rifle. “Taube,” he said. The others gathered.

The soldier, a tall, lanky man who had been driving the motorcycle, raised his rifle and slammed the butt of his weapon into the cage. A crack echoed over the field. A flock of starlings shot from the trees, causing the soldiers to glance in Ollie’s direction.

Ollie lowered his head, chin pressed into the earth.

The soldiers’ attention returned to the cage. And the tall one reached in and ripped off the canister, producing a crisp snap, like a pencil breaking.

Ollie clenched his hands.

The soldier unscrewed the top and looked inside the canister. A severed leg hung from the clasp. “Nichts,” he said, tossing the canister into the broken cage. He ground his boot into the debris, as if he were extinguishing a cigarette.

The soldiers, appearing satisfied that there were no more cages in the vicinity, returned to their vehicle. The driver kick-started the engine and revved the throttle. Smoke spewed from the exhaust. As they drove away, Ollie heard, under the whine of the motorcycle, what he thought was laughter.

Once Ollie was certain they were not coming back, he stood and limped into the field. With each step, the base of his crutch sank into the soil. Dried leaves clung to his jacket; he made no effort to brush them off. Acrid gas fumes hung in the air. He pressed on until he reached the remains.