He peered farther. Just above the horizon of treetops he spied the tip of a water tower, and a guard tower, maybe two, which likely meant more. That meant barbed-wire fences somewhere, a sentry hut. He focused now on the people passing between the bungalows, coming back out after the rain, bearing folders, gathered in small groups chatting—not that many, maybe ten. But there were probably double that, unseen in the bungalows. A few were women. The people wore a mix of fatigues and khaki summer dresses, but some had on casual civvies, modest aloha shirts and pallid flower dresses. Still no one carried insignia and no one had any weapons, to his relief.

He straightened up, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the clearing, keeping it casual, even sinking his hands in his pockets, though caution was telling him to keep crouching with his arms cocked and hands clenched at the ready. Caution was steel cables pulling on him. Caution wanted a gun in his clawed fingers, even though he’d sworn off weapons. A man and woman passed—the man smoking a pipe, the woman wearing a WAC garrison cap. Lett smiled at them and the steel cables gave him some slack and he strolled onward, right down the midway. At the far end of the clearing stood a cluster of signs on a pole.

Keep going. Gotta keep moving, always. Lett walked on. Inside the foliage on the trail, under the large fern, the dripping and rustling had dampened outside sound. But here out in the open, all sounds came roaring back.

He heard something new, growing stronger, faster. It was a hammering-ripping sound like some gargantuan zipper, and it wouldn’t let up. What if it came closer?

Machine gun, MG 42. Coming right for him.

Lett crouched.

A thunking sound boxed his ears.

Enemy artillery. Their 88 guns wrecked whole ridges, a valley.

He shot off, moved on. A trash barrel stood a few yards away, his only cover. He hugged it, burying his shoulder into it. He smelled something; his nostrils snorted like a pig’s. It was bitter. It might be something burning, rubber maybe.

This was France. He was up on the line, a town called Mettcourt. Buildings loomed on either side, about to spit fire.

“Mettcourt, fug it,” he muttered. “Only one way outta this town.”

The smell turned sour, then fetid in a way that burned the nostrils, so Lett clamped a hand over them. Dead enemy left out in the open. They gave off a different rot because of what they wore, decomposing along with their skin and meat and insides.

Then they weren’t so dead. Figures passed, rushing along just out of eyeshot.

The Krauts, they had a flank on him.

Lett had no weapon. Nothing. Not even a trench knife. “Goddamn,” he muttered and rose onto his haunches. He made for the closest edge of the clearing. Cover.