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“I have American cigarettes.”

This stops the German in midstride. He glances back toward the camp, toward the pillbox just twenty or thirty feet away. Reassured, he finishes rebuttoning his trousers and says, “How would you come to have American cigarettes? Where did you get them? There are no Americans near here.” Then, under his breath, “Not yet, anyway.”

“I have them here,” Rainy says, and levels the barrel of the Walther at him.

“Ah, a Walther. You have good taste in handguns.”

“Follow me or die.”

“Follow you?” He laughs. “You think your little popgun frightens me? Do you think I fear death?”

“I wasn’t thinking of killing you. I was thinking of shooting you in the legs.”

“The legs?” He’s baffled.

“Yes. Like your men did in Oradour. You shot the men in the legs so they couldn’t run. Then you burned them.”

The tanks are all revving up now, getting ready to move out fast, before the American artillery or planes come after them again. Is it enough noise to cover the sound of her pistol? No. But it is enough to stop him calling for help.

“I played no part in that,” he says.

“No? Hand me your identity papers.”

He hesitates, glances wistfully at the oh-so-near safety of the pillbox, then with a show of amusement he hands over a small, well-worn buff folder. She flips it open. His picture is there, smiling at the camera.

“Adolf Otto Diekmann,” Rainy reads.

“That is my name,” he says. “But you must understand, mademoiselle, I was shocked at what happened at Oradour. Why . . .” He laughs. “We later learned it was the wrong Oradour! We were meant to . . . to search Oradour-sur-Vayres. A silly mistake.”

“Lie down on the ground,” Rainy says.

“So you can shoot me?”

“I won’t shoot you. I’d prefer not to die. I just want you facedown so I can run away.”

It’s not the most convincing story, but Diekmann has no good alternative. Sighing as though he’s being asked to do something ridiculous but he’s playing along, he drops to his knees, says something about making a perfect mess of his uniform, and lies down.

There’s a piece of concrete nearby, leftover spillage from the construction of the pillbox. Rainy lifts a big piece, a foot across, triangular shape, heavy, and slams it down with all her force on the back of Diekmann’s head.

The blow sounds like a heavyweight’s punch. Not loud enough to carry over the sound of revving tanks. She waits, panting, until his breathing stops.

“For Bernard,” Rainy says. “I liked that kid.”

LETTERS SENT

Hi, Mom and Dad and Obal,

Well, we are all done with D-day. I imagine you’ve heard about it, and yes, I was there. Right on Omaha Beach.

And Obal? Guess what I’m assigned to? A colored tank battalion! And since I can practically hear you asking, yes, I have been inside a Sherman tank and I’ve ridden on one. In fact, I’m sitting on a log right now and not fifty feet away is one of our tanks having a bogie wheel replaced.

We are off the front line right now so I am helping to set up the aid station—mostly paperwork and unpacking boxes. I find it very boring, but dullness is welcome given the alternative. Anyway, the brass will probably move us up again soon, but please don’t worry. The Germans have been pretty decent about honoring the red cross, just like we do with their aid people.

I was so sorry to hear that Daddy is unwell. I hope it’s nothing serious. Get better soon, Dad!

Since you asked, Mom, I could use some things from home, but only if it’s easy, and only if it doesn’t strain the family finances. I would love a couple extra pairs of socks for myself. Also, if you happen to have any old, torn, or run stockings, those make excellent tourniquets. And this will sound crazy, but M&M’s, you know, the candy? I sometimes give a few to soldiers who are hurt. It calms them down and makes them think of home.

Well, that’s it for now. Daddy, get well!!