Even among the many others, Tom seemed to hear this lone bullet zip through the air. He could almost see it, its gold casing creating a trail of smoke behind it.

All the sounds around were muffled to near nothingness.

He wanted to shout. To warn William. William, who was running away from them to protect their position. But he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. To do so would negate the sacrifice William had made.

Because the bullet caught up with him.

Tom heard and saw the bullet over and over through the slow and agonizing days since. In reality, it had happened in a mere second.

And what seared in his memory most was watching William fall.

What made his ears ring was the silence, the terrible silence of William not getting up.

Tom bit down on his hand to keep from crying out. And if it had not been for the soldier holding his shoulders down to restrain him, he might have gone to his side.

The battlefield held no harbor for grief. One man among many had fallen, but there was no time to mourn them if you wanted to keep from losing others. Emboldened with anger, Tom assumed the leadership of their menagerie of six and sent two of them to find the sniper who had killed William while he took the others around to the right side of the clearing.

There, they spotted another bunker. Better camouflaged than the first because it was painted the color of its surroundings.

Tom put his hand up to halt his troops.

He pulled the grenade from his pocket, just as he’d seen William do. He crept forward, holding it gingerly, inching toward the bunker.

A bullet whizzed past him. Then another. He dropped to the ground and pulled himself on his belly until he was close enough to throw the handheld bomb.

He took a breath. William just did this and he would too.

Hank. Dr. Weinstein. The McClintocks. William.

Margaret.

He repeated their names under his breath. They were why he was here. They are who he would die for if the price of his life demanded it.

It was strangely liberating to accept that an action might take your life. Energy to do things he never would have imagined doing before surged through him.

He pulled the pin and tossed it.

Bull’s-eye.

A rush of adrenaline pulsed through him.

They’d been taught to have the will to kill, the skill to kill, but not the thrill to kill.

That’s what separated man from the animals.

But in that moment, it was a terrible temptation to let himself feel such satisfaction at killing those who had murdered his friend.

He ran back to his men and motioned for them to run.

They made it past the German line and rejoiced when they found Americans on the other side.