“Reckon they’re fixing to put us on a boat,” gooney bird dogface said. He had faint burn scars down one side of his face and neck. “Don’t like the looks of this, not one bit.”

“Pipe down,” Jock said. “They see you spooked, it makes us all look the worse for wear.”

“I’m all right,” the man muttered.

“Of course you are. We all are. Ain’t we?” Jock was glaring at all their faces now, for sure confirmation, making each man look him in the eye. He suddenly became the exemplary Marine squad leader from the pictures, a little too much Guadalcanal Diary for Lett. But it was working. The men sat up straight. Lett could see himself going on patrol with him, he had to admit, and he didn’t imagine such a thing lightly.

“You bet we are,” someone said. Heads nodded and at one another. “Gung-ho.”

“Now remember,” Lett heard himself declare, “they send us out as a team, don’t bunch up, but stay in sight of the pack just the same, and keep it moving. Got it?”

They all nodded at Lett. Jock added a proud lift of the chin.

Next thing they knew they were jumping out the back, squinting at the bright sky. Those tall molasses tanks kept their area secluded, cutting them off from the rest of the wharf. A modest wooden dock held what looked like a large fishing boat, a trawler, towering over its mooring, even though it sat low in the water. Lett imagined the vessel smashing its berth with the slightest big wave.

The rest happened fast. Men disguised as stevedores appeared from between two of those huge tanks and ordered them around. They issued them submachine guns—newer, smaller M3s, called “grease guns” in the ETO. This made Lett wince. He expected worse feelings to hit him. But none did. His head didn’t even ache. And, he had no choice. On top of that he’d never used an M3, had never been trained on one. He didn’t need to be, as it turned out, for the weapon wasn’t loaded. Though that didn’t stop a couple of the guys from clicking out the magazine and pushing it in again, again and again, and Lett recalled that the first M3s had given dogfaces troubles up on the line. The gun was light in his hands, which he had to admit he liked. Then he and Jock were handed black MP armbands and those white helmets that MPs wore. The others weren’t given any. Lett wondered if he and Jock had been selected for some reason or if they simply didn’t have enough to go around. Either way, Lett didn’t contradict orders, even though he wanted to toss the MP gear back in their faces. It had been an MP who shot him in the back in Belgium, after all.