April 29, 1945

Life stirred in Mindelheim. The town was teaming with activity, its soggy streets already drying in the warm morning sun. Transport trucks, jeeps, and DUKWs stretched in single file down the Hauptstraße like eager schoolchildren waiting impatiently for recess. A mood of cheer and enthusiasm flourished among the troops, as well as hope that there would be some excitement in the next town. With the steady decline enemy activity, the men were beginning to find themselves restless and with little to do. A small fire fight (or a flock of lonely village girls) would be a welcome change, they kidded, though only partially. Nobody felt like risking their lives now, not after surviving Carentan, Bastogne, and Haguenau.

While it wasn't as thrilling as battle, the NCOs didn't mind the chores that came with relocation; they were glad to be on the move again. The officers, with feelings mutual to their subordinates, were hard at work. Lieutenants coordinated the loading of supplies, captains checked off company rosters, and colonels relayed the latest intelligence from Regiment. Every hand was full and every boot was kicking. In this state of buzzing activity, the lone major of 2nd Battalion found himself being pulled in one direction or another by every other man that crossed his path.

"Major Winters, sir, is it alright if I authorize . . ."

"Sir, Sergeant Stokes is missing a fuel can, do you know where I might . . ."

"Major, sir, have you seen Martin? I need to talk to him about the . . ."

"Excuse me, sir, but Colonel Strayer wants to know if . . ."

Winters, with less than three hours' sleep under his belt, blinked himself into a state of awareness and tried to answer the hail of questions to the best of his abilities. Focusing had become a conscious effort these days. His mind was in other places, and it kept disappearing with increasing frequency as the weary weeks wore on. It was a troubling development, and Winters wished he knew how to suppress it.

I can ride it out, he thought. I can last. It can't be much longer.

He stared out at the buildings of Mindelheim with faraway eyes. The Germans were retreating, the Axis Alliance slowly cracking like thin ice burdened by too much weight. Two weeks ago 325,000 German troops in the Ruhr pocket surrendered; yesterday over 2,500 added to that number. One didn't have to be in Berlin to see how deep the fissures ran. It seemed like every mile ventured into this broken, beautiful country brought them a day closer to the end. Winters had a definite gut feeling about it now, could almost see it on the horizon: the first washed-out rays of sunlight staining the eastern sky. Victory. Peace. Home. The worst was over—some part of him knew it was—and he and his men had survived.

At least in body.

Winters' gaze kept drifting through the dense crowd of faded green, looking for a familiar tousle of dark hair or a slow, loping stride that belonged to no one else. He didn't know why he did it now, of all times, when there was nothing he could say to make it right again and all hope of reconciliation was lost. It seemed like he'd always been looking for him one way or another, trying to find the one shadow in an unlit room, diving deeper into the ocean's darkness to chase a disappearing hand. Useless, hopeless, dangerous.

If I hadn't turned back it would have taken me, too, he rationalized. I had to save myself.

Because I wasn't man enough to save us both.

Winters stood by the jeep with his helmet shadowing his eyes, in the midst of a hundred troopers on this beautiful morning, and could not have felt more alone if he were the last man on earth.

A hand on his shoulder brought him to attention, and he turned to see Captain Speirs gazing at him with an unblinking, dark-eyed stare. "We're leaving, sir," he said quietly, and Winters noticed that the men had almost finished piling into the trucks. Engines were growling and gears were shifting in earnest.

"Right," Winters muttered, stepping toward the driver's side door.

An arm suddenly extended, blocking his path. The major looked at the obstruction with blank incomprehension, then passed a frown toward Speirs .

Speirs was not fazed. "You're tired," he stated, then paused as if he wanted to elaborate—but he didn't. "May I drive, sir?"

Winters was inclined to argue the implication of his impaired driving abilities, but he knew that Speirs was only trying to be helpful. Getting lost in thought—or sleep—behind the wheel was an outcome he didn't care to experience.

With a resigned nod he stood aside and let the captain climb into the driver's seat, and a few moments later joined him on the adjacent side. Almost immediately the sleepless hours and long nights of mental turmoil caught up to Winters; his body relaxed as Speirs shifted gear and began following a DUKW.

As they were pulling out of Mindelheim, Speirs said, with his gaze fixed on the road ahead of them, "Lipton told me you've been having a tough time lately, sir."

A few alarmed beats of Winters' heart brought him out of his sleepy trance. "Really. What else did he tell you?"

"Everything."

Winters shut his eyes, feeling himself sink a little bit deeper into the quicksand of this hopeless situation. He was so tired he almost didn't care who knew about it anymore. Hell, maybe he ought to go ahead and make an announcement to the company later, turn it into everyone's problem. It'd certainly save some time. These meddling attempts to repair the irreparable were becoming a nuisance.

Speirs continued the one-sided conversation as casually as if he were talking about the weather or his favorite meal. "I want you to know, sir, in all honesty, I couldn't care less who you choose for your friends. I don't care if I'm your friend, but I hope that at least you might remember me as a good soldier."

Winters smiled thinly. "You're a good soldier, Ron. There was never any doubt in my mind about that."

Speirs nodded to himself. "Thank you, sir." He paused a beat. "I think some men are better at being soldiers than men. And I know some men are better at being men than soldiers. It's hard trying to be both, and it's even harder trying to be one you're not."

The convoy took a slow turn through a cool copse of trees, and Speirs and Winters leaned to the right as the jeep followed the road.

Speirs continued, "Sometimes the best we do isn't good enough. Sometimes it doesn't matter how hard we try. Only one thing in life is certain—that's it's going to end someday. Maybe tomorrow, maybe seventy years from now. There's nothing we can do about it. Our stories have already been written and put on the shelf. It's out of our hands."

He stared ahead, guiding the wheel with his palm.

"Some things weren't meant to change," he resumed in a low, soft murmur. "Some people can't be changed, no matter how hard we push or how loud we yell. Who they are is who they were meant to be, something that was decided long before they were ever born."

Winters forced a grin, his body bouncing as the jeep's tires jostled over a few bumps. "You're one of those Fate and Destiny types, aren't you?"

Speirs smiled sedately. "We're all dead, you know. It just hasn't happened yet. Nothing we do in life matters. All that matters is how we spend the time between now and the end, and who we choose to spend it with."

In the passenger seat Winters sat, mute with thought, and studied a crack in the windshield, feeling Speirs' words more than he heard them. A blossom of pain bloomed in his chest as he recalled the way Nixon had smiled at him that night in Bastogne. (Thanks for being a man worth following. Not many of your kind left.) The ache radiated from his heart, spreading its dismal pollen to every extremity until he was nothing but one big hurt.

"Right now," Speirs went on, "I'm serving in the finest company of men I will ever know, and the finest one of all is sitting right beside me." He glanced at Winters briefly, his face solemn and honest, bereft of flattery, before returning his gaze to the road. "When the war is over I'm going to England to see my wife and son, and I'm never gonna stop loving them until the day I die."

Winters hesitantly turned his head. Speirs' hands were clenched on the wheel, tendons taut, almost as if he were pushing himself into the seat. His face looked frighteningly resolved and at the same time eerily calm. Winters had seen that expression worn many times before a battle. It was the look of a man ready to meet his maker.

"Life is too short to waste on regret," Speirs said. "I'm going to live each day like it's my last. Because for all I know, it is."

The major looked away and turned his eyes to the right, across a field so green it almost seemed unreal. Beyond that grew a line of thick, ancient hardwoods, and many miles away the jagged blue silhouettes of the Bavarian Alps rose up with majestic grace. The crystal blue sky above was nearly cloudless, and just above the rumble of the trucks and the voices of the men, Winters could hear birds singing in their high, melodious voices. The birds knew nothing of death or loss. They didn't dwell on it or let it consume them. They were free. They were alive.

Or they were for now; here, within the space of this fleeting moment called life.

"You're right, Ron," said Winters, his eyes following the mountains until they could see no further. "Life is too short."

The slowing of the vehicle roused Winters from his nap. He sat up and uncrosses his arms. "Mmf," he grunted, his tired muscles heavy with lethargy. "What's up?"

"I think we're stopping at this village, sir," Speirs answered.

A marker swept past the jeep, and Winters was able to catch the name Landsberg painted across the wood in large block letters. It still looked new, which was no great surprise—the Germans had made a game of posting false town names on signs to confound their enemies. The Allies on the front lines were the ones who had to deal with verifying the correct locations and making sure that the forces behind them knew where they were. This sign in particular looked like it had been planted recently by American hands.

"Landsberg," Winters muttered. "Where's that?"

"Don't know, sir."

"Then I need to find Harry as soon as we stop. Stick around, Ron, I may need you."

"Yes, sir."

The convoy took a sharp left turn and found itself in the heart of town, though it could hardly be called a town; its dirt roads and rural setting lent it some rustic charm, though it was by no means a scarred, bombed-out village like so many they had passed through. Landsberg was tidy and intact, and the well-dressed Germans who lived there stood out of the way of the trucks, watching grimly as they passed. Children scampered back to the safety of their mothers, clutching their dresses fearfully in their small hands. Old men with lean, wrinkled faces stared at the Americans with the kind of resigned tolerance that comes from seeing everything and knowing they were powerless to stop it. Winters stared back at them, wondering if their eyes—and his own—would ever bear the sparkle of joy's bright light again.

The trucks came to a halt and the men began to unload; the officers fell into orbit around Winters and awaited his instructions. The major took a few discerning glances at the surroundings, then regarded the expectant faces before him.

"I wanna send out some patrols. We'll have Dog here in the village, Easy and Fox in the woods. The 10th Armored's been reporting a lot of German soldiers hiding out in the countryside, and I want the patrols to pick up any they might come across, officers and SS especially. Report back here before 1800. Captain, you're in charge of the details." He nodded to Speirs and turned away, staring out across the village square restlessly.

While the other officers fell in behind Speirs as he began to rattle off his orders, Lieutenant Harry Welsh lingered by Winters' side. "You're not worried about an ambush, are ya?" he asked gently.

"No," replied Winters, his gaze moving over the village as if he were trying to see something that might not be there. "Just in case we have to stay here for the night." His eyes settled upon Harry and he tried to smile. "What's the rest of trip looking like?"

"From what Sink's been hinting at, I think we might be heading for Munich. Either that or Austria. Can't be sure, though. Nix knows more about predicting maneuvers than me—he's the map guy."

Winters lowered his head. "Right . . ." A tense moment passed, then he looked up with a grim smile. "Guess I'd better go find him, huh?"

Welsh nodded. "I think that'd be a good start."

Winters gave Harry's shoulder a solid pat before he walked away and disappeared into the crowd.

After establishing a billet in a comfortable house along the main road, Winters set out to do what he should have done weeks ago.

What'll I say to him? What can I say to him? he thought as he walked among the blended companies of the 101st. How could he even approach Nix at this point? The man had been running from him for weeks, whether out of fear or shame, Winters didn't know. All he knew was that it was going to be a tough hole to patch. Nix was damaged, possibly beyond all repair, and it was also possible that he had no interest in associating with Dick anymore.

I'm the enemy now, thought Winters morosely. I tried to change him and I couldn't. I lost my temper and I said things I shouldn't have, and then I lost him. How do I convince him I'm not out to change him anymore? How do I convince him that I'm not mad at him, that I just want him back, alcoholic or not? How can I make him believe me? How do I tell him how much I . . .

Winters sighed tiredly and rubbed his eyes. The nap he'd taken in the jeep hadn't done much good, and with all these questions thundering down on his shoulders, he felt as if he'd been dragging a half ton of bricks for the past month.

"Battle fatigue" and "shell shock" drifted through his mind, but they were only visiting; he knew why he couldn't sleep at night, why it felt like the life had been sucked right out of him. And it was for that very reason he had to reconcile things with Lew. For both of their sakes, he had to put an end to this silence.

Winters shook off the sleepy fog that had saturated his mind and took a few breaths, cleared his head, quickened his pace. He asked random officers if they'd seen Nixon. They pointed him in one direction or no direction, and the answer was always different.

Winters had no idea what he was going to say to Nix—he just wanted to find him at this point. The words would come naturally, he felt certain. All he needed was a face to speak to. Or listen to. He realized then how much he missed the sound of Nix's quiet, booze-roughened voice, and it made his heart wilt just to recall the echo of his words. Words he'd been hearing for the past three years.

Lewis Nixon, nice to meet ya.

The airborne? I've heard that's a suicide outfit.

Well, I can't let you jump out of an airplane alone, that'd be negligent of me.

We'll go to Chicago. I'll take you there.

I'm alright, I'm alright! . . . Am I alright?

That's what I get for chasin' redheads. You're all nothing but trouble.

Why are you doing this to me, Dick? In Christ's name, why!

Winters paused in front of a shop and stood there a moment, staring at his reflection in the front window, at the foreign words painted on the glass, at the troops milling about in the background. And among them, disappearing into a doorway, the back of Lewis Nixon.

Winters spun around and moved forward until he realized that he'd lost him. Not again. He set his jaw and strode forward, energized by what could have been a figment of his imagination but he didn't care, Lew had to be around here someplace and it was only a matter of time before he—

"Major Winters, sir!"

Winters slowed to a halt as he was approached by a chipper young lieutenant from Dog. "What is it?" he snapped. Everyone wanted a piece of him today, and he was beginning to run out of patience.

The lieutenant flinched slightly at Winters' tone. "Well, sir, Colonel Sink's asking two officers from each company to meet with him at HQ. Says he'd like to discuss General Taylor's plans to—"

Winters gave one last lingering glance toward the troops and sighed. Duty called, and his rank demanded a reply. "Alright, Lieutenant. You can explain the rest on the way to HQ."

Winters didn't hear half of what Strayer discussed, but it was hardly critical news—mostly just a briefing of their intended route, General LeClerc's French infantry support, the need for current munitions rosters, and of course the small matter keeping the men from fraternizing with German natives. "Lieutenant Foley has informed me of regular violations of this policy," Strayer huffed. "I can't stress enough to you people how dangerous it is to let the Germans . . ."

Winters had half-hoped Nixon would be in attendance, but the presence of Captain Speirs made it clear that the officer quota had already been met. The meeting wore on to the point of tedium, but it gave Winters a chance to think more thoroughly about what he was going to say to Nix when they finally stood face to face. After roughly an hour, he felt fairly confident in his plan of approach. He had to remind himself, however, that this was his friend, not a pair of German guns that needed to be captured. He'd have to tone down his forwardness and be more patient; he didn't want a repeat of Günzberg.

With the conclusion of the meeting, Winters hit the streets of Landsberg in search of Nixon. Incredibly, Winters was just crossing the town square when he spotted him, or the back of his head, rather. He was heading in the same direction, so Winters broke into a jog to catch up. About time, he thought. He was beginning to wonder if he ought to report Captain Nixon as MIA.

"Nix!" he called.

He saw Nixon freeze in his tracks.

Winters slowed as he closed the distance between them. "Nix," he said, softer this time.

Hesitantly, Nixon turned around to face him, his face a mask of empty misery, his eyes filled with shadowy turmoil.

Winters stopped within talking distance and stood anxiously before his old friend, heart beating and palms sweating, and suddenly forgot everything he had rehearsed. Panic shot through him like electricity, but his rational mind stepped in and cut the circuit—little steps. One at a time. He could do this.

Winters smiled, but it felt more like a grimace. "Hi, Lew," he said.

Nixon swallowed. "Hi, Dick."

It was a start.

Winters ventured a step closer. "How're you doing?"

"Okay. You?"

"I'm good." He winced internally; this had to be the most painfully awkward conversation he'd ever had with another person, women and men included. "Listen, Lew. I wanted to tell you—"

"Major Winters! Sir! Major!"

Winters clenched his teeth and turned toward the direction of the yelling. If this was anything less than the end of the war, he was going to PT the living hell out of whoever—

Sergeant Frank Perconte rushed up to the officers, his eyes large and his breath coming in gasps. He nodded to Nixon and stammered a quick "sir" before turning to Winters. "Major Winters, sir. We, we found something. On the patrol, we found a . . . we, uh." He seemed to have trouble speaking.

Winters met Nixon's eyes—their concerned expressions were like a mirror reflection of each other. "What is it, Frank? What'd you find?"

Perconte shook his head, his face troubled by a myriad of emotions. He looked up at Winters. "I . . . I dunno, sir."

Winters drove. Perconte rode shotgun, Nixon and Speirs in the back. Two transport trucks followed just behind them, carrying most of 1st and 2nd platoon. The jeep's tires rumbled steadily over the dirt path, then Perconte raised his arm and pointed. "Right here, sir," he directed, and Winters turned the wheel.

They pulled up to a wide open area fenced in with barbed wire, some kind of camp perhaps, and the unpleasant odor hanging in the air suddenly intensified upon their arrival. Winters saw members of the patrol wandering about, staring beyond the fence or crouching on the ground with their heads bowed. When he parked and cut the ignition, the silence that fell was thick and suffocating. No birds, no breeze, no voices. It was like a tomb. Death lived here.

Nixon slid from the backseat and gazed toward the compound, blinking slowly. There were men inside, pressed up against the fence in a fragmented line, looking at the Americans with wide, unblinking eyes. Their heads were shaven, their cheeks and eyes sunken into their bone-white faces. They moved in the manner of mistreated animals, shying away and lowering their eyes when they were looked upon. The striped uniforms they wore were filthy and hung from their emaciated bodies, little more than skin stretched over skeletons—forearms like twigs, collarbones and tendons jutting out, a testament to some unimaginable act of cruelty.

The troops began to unload from the trucks, wordless with shock. Nixon shook free from the trance of this nightmarish spectacle and went to locate the medics. They were going to need every last one.

Winters spotted Sergeant Bull Randleman squatting near the fence, his back to the camp, a handkerchief pressed to his face—sick, either from the sight, the smell, or the notion that some sadistic monster had put these people here with the intention of killing them as slowly and painfully as possible.

Winters approached the compound, looking at the hunched, weakened figures milling aimlessly about, a hundred questions pouring through his mind. Who were these prisoners? Where had they come from? Why were they here? What crimes had they committed to warrant such punishment? Who could do this to them? How was he going to handle this situation?

Winters gave the order to cut the chains locking the front gate, and the barbed wire doors slowly swung inward, revealing a city of the dead, sick, and dying. The troops slowly drifted inside, trailed by these poor wretches who grasped at their uniforms with bony hands or fell into their arms, speaking in dry, croaking voices and weeping tears of elation.

Nixon stepped up beside Winters, his face bloodless. "Dick," he whispered, "what is this place?"

"I don't know. We need someone who speaks German. Lipton! Get Liebgott up here!"

"Yessir!"

Winters felt a tug on his jacket, and he looked down to see Nixon's fingers clenching tightly into the fabric. He raised his eyes, studying the side of his friend's face. Nixon continued to stare as more pitiful, starved men limped from the long row of huts and shuffled out to meet their liberators. "Oh my God," he uttered. "Dick . . ."

Winters laid his hand on Nixon's shoulder and grasped it securely.

They were quickly swarmed by more of the survivors, sobbing, smiling, grateful, who kissed their cheeks and embraced them, thanking them in words that the stunned Americans didn't understand.

It was a grim, gut-wrenching sight that would haunt the men of Easy Company for years to come. All of the thinking and all of the drinking in the world would not rinse the image of that ghastly hellhole from their minds. It would stick there, like a piece of deeply-embedded shrapnel, and remain with them for the rest of their days.

Sadly, the discovery of the camp at Landsberg was only the beginning.

The town was unnaturally quiet that night. No dogs barking, no trucks rumbling by, no sounds of townsfolk returning home. All was still, not a soul stirring in the long, lean shadows of Landsberg.

Winters sat at the writing desk in the bedroom of his billet, poring over the maps he'd gotten from HQ and reading the report General Taylor had sent out, the larger part of which concerned the camp and what the next course of action would be. Though he'd been able to bathe upon returning to the house (with hot water, no less), there wasn't enough soap in Germany to wash away the filth which that camp had stained upon him. Suffering and misery felt as if it had been embedded into his skin as permanently as a tattoo.

Winters rested his elbow on the desk and massaged his eyes. It was late. He ought to go to bed, but there seemed no right way to close this awful day. The thought of sleep was no longer welcomed, for where there was sleep, there were nightmares. And Winters knew he had no control over that.

Boots thumped softly outside his door, followed by a gentle knock.

"Come in," Winters bade.

He couldn't have been more surprised when he turned and saw Lewis Nixon timidly peer into the room, carrying his duffel on his back.

Winters straightened in his chair. "Nix . . . What's up?"

Nixon was trying to avoid looking at him, he noticed. He gestured to the bathroom door hanging ajar. "Um. Bathroom's tied up in every house on the street . . . Wondered if I could use yours. Won't take long, I promise."

"Take as long as you want. I'm not using it."

Nixon nodded a sheepish "thanks" and slunk into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Winters turned back to his maps and tried to concentrate on them, but found himself listening to Nix fill up the bathtub and fumble with his belongings. He could almost see him staring at his haggard reflection in the mirror and wondering if his eyes would ever be the same after this day, unlacing his ashy, mud-stained boots, peeling off his filthy clothes and tossing them in a heap that reeked of dead flesh and burnt bodies—

Winters closed his eyes and forced his hysteria back down his throat, swallowing it into his belly where it would continue to sour and rot until he couldn't take it anymore. Maybe if he just went mad for a few moments, screamed and swore and got it all out of his system, he would feel better.

No, Winters thought. That's not who I am. Bad things happen when people let their emotions overtake them. They become drunks, madmen, dictators. My feelings don't own me—they're just a part of me.

He glanced at the bathroom door.

Like him.

Nixon gingerly sank into the spacious claw-foot bathtub, mindful not to splash water onto the floor. The steaming heat burned at first, but then his skin acclimated to the temperature, evoking an involuntary shudder. He sighed, heavily and wearily, the hairs on his arms rising with gooseflesh. He couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a real bath.

He swallowed a breath and slid down the slippery porcelain, submerging his head completely. There was a brief scorching sensation when the hot water touched his face, but it quickly passed. He let a few air bubbles drift from his lips and roll up his cheek, trickling into the dark hair that floated weightlessly around his head. He listened to the popping in his ears as they filled with water, then there was peace. He was in his safe place now, submerged and hiding, where no one could find him.

He thought of his grandfather, who had taught him how to swim, how to dive, how to hold his breath without holding his nose. Once little Lewis learned that, it became a game of seeing how long he stay underwater. Grandpa Lew would pretend to mourn his grandson's untimely demise, and then he'd act surprised when Lewis would surface with a splash. He would later teach him how to tie knots, how to row, how to navigate by the stars, and how to sail. His death was a blow to the whole family, and it crushed Lewis' heart. He'd lost his confidant, his role model, one of the few Nixons who hadn't joined the ranks of the Fucked Up Beyond All Redemption. That was in 1940. The years following had been nothing but an olive drab blur of maps, booze and bombs. He could recall the sober days since then, and they'd been few.

Nixon surfaced and slowly filled his lungs with cool, life-giving air. He swiped his hair off of his forehead and kneaded his eyes. So much dirt had come off of him already, and he hadn't even scrubbed yet. He reached up and carefully drew his dog tags over his head, dropping them in a wet tangle on the floor. Finally, he felt like a normal man again. The hell with bad luck. He needed to be reminded of his humanity, today of all days. No numbers, no ranks. Just Lewis.

He continued to soak until the pressing need to wash became too great to ignore; he took up a cloth and a cake of soap—real soap, none of that lousy army stuff—and set to work scrubbing the traces of that awful day from his body. He washed himself twice, but even that didn't feel thorough enough. The only reason he didn't go for a third scrub was because the water had begun to cool and become cloudy with filth. He drained the tub and did a quick rinse, then grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist.

Swiping the fog from the mirror and appraising his appearance, he decided that he could use a shave. He was beginning to look like a bum, and the longer he waited the bloodier it would be. He went to his bag and dug out his shaving kit, filled the sink, worked up a lather, and tried not to butcher his face too badly.

He accidentally nicked his upper lip when he heard a voice just outside the door: "Everything alright in there?"

Nixon winced and dabbed at the bright red bead of blood. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Oh." There was a pause. Nixon didn't move—he could almost see Dick on the other side, fumbling for words. "Heard from Division."

"Yeah?" Nixon went back to shaving.

"They've been finding camps like this all over the place."

Nixon stared into his own eyes, thinking of the eyes of those Jewish prisoners. "Jesus," he said softly.

"Seems the Russians liberated one a lot worse," Winters continued.

"Worse?"

"Yeah. Apparently." He could hear Dick draw in a breath. "Ten times as big. Execution chambers. Ovens."

Nixon rinsed the razor slowly, staring at the swirls of soap in the sink. He couldn't seem to make the connection; perhaps the mind had a way of blocking ideas too horrific for the brain to handle. "Ovens?"

"For cremating all the bodies."

Nixon leaned against the sink, his mind now flooded with those horrific images his brain had tried to block. "Jesus," he repeated.

No words passed between the bathroom door for a couple minutes. Nixon finished shaving and rinsed his face, and began to get dressed in his PT gear—the only semi-clean clothes he had. "The locals claim they never even knew the camp existed," he said, hoping Dick was still there. "They say we're making it up."

"Well, they're gonna have a hell of an education tomorrow," he heard Dick mutter. "General Taylor declared martial law about an hour ago. Ordered every able-bodied German in town age 14 to 80 to start burying the bodies. That'll begin in the morning. Tenth Armored is gonna supervise cleanup."

Nixon slipped his dog tags around his neck, shouldered his bag, and opened the bathroom door.

Winters was leaning against the wall, a picture of solemnity and tiredness. However, he appeared to come alive when he saw Nixon, groomed and combed and actually daring to look up for a change. The apprehension was still there, though; it came out in Nix's voice when he asked, "What about us?"

Us? It took Winters a moment to realize Nix was talking about the division, not the two of them personally. However, he was having a hard time deciding which was more important to him right now. A quick glance into his best friend's worried brown eyes answered the question.

"We head out for Taylem—or Tollem, Thalem?—tomorrow. Twelve hundred hours."

Nixon sighed, shook his head, and allowed his shoulders to slump wearily. Winters knew exactly what he must be feeling. They were both exhausted. Today had tried their physical and emotional strength to the breaking point, and they'd barely escaped with their sanity. What they needed more than anything now was a good night's rest, and the sooner they got to sleep, the better.

Winters glanced over at the bed in the corner. He was taken care of, but he didn't know about Nix. He turned back to him and asked, "You got a place to sleep tonight?"

Nixon looked up. "Yeah. Yeah, there's a sofa in the living room," he said a little too quickly. "It'll do the trick. I'll just scrounge up a blanket somewhere and I'll be fine."

"Why don't you stay here?"

Nixon went silent, his eyes darting between Dick and the very comfortable looking bed. "What about you?"

Winters smiled one of his self-sacrificing smiles that made Nixon's heart ache. "Don't worry about me."

Nix looked at Dick. The same way he'd looked at Dick in Bastogne, when they had both stared Death in the face and laughed. There he was, Lewis Nixon, free from the witch's spell, resurrected from the grave, and the shadows in his dark eyes seemed to coalesce into words that had been haunting Dick for nearly half a year.

Winters' heart suddenly leaped into his throat and commandeered his tongue—emotional mutiny.

"Lew, I'm sorry," he confessed, bowing his head. "I'm sorry for what I did. It was stupid of me and I haven't forgiven myself for it."

The duffel bag slipped from Nixon's shoulder and thumped to the floor.

"Wh . . . Dick, hey. Don't apologize. It's. It's okay."

"No, it's not. I ruined our—" He shook his head. "I ruined us."

Nixon stepped forward. "Bullshit. I'm the one started this whole goddamn business. You were only trying to help me. I was the stupid one, Dick. Not you."

Winters smiled painfully. "But I didn't help it, either. I made it worse."

"Well . . ." Nixon shrugged helplessly. "For a while there, yeah, it was pretty bad. But y'know, sometimes when you're in a really bad place, it's where you're supposed to be." A smile cut through his dismal aura like a ray of sunlight through storm clouds. "Some guy told me that in Bastogne, and I never forgot it. Just like I could never forget him."

Winters' mouth opened, but for the life of him, he could think of nothing to say.

Nixon drew his lips in a thin line and squatted down to his duffel, unzipping it and digging around within its depths. When he stood to his feet again, he held in his hands an unopened bottle of Vat 69. The bottle of Vat 69.

Winters gaped first at the bottle, then at Nixon, whose expression was nothing short of pitiful. "How about a U-turn, Dick?" he asked softly. "This road is hell without you."

Winters stared at him for a few tense seconds, then leaned forward and pulled him into a fierce hug. The bottle of Vat was pinned between their bodies before Nixon managed to wriggle his hands free and return the embrace. Dick was crushing the air from his lungs, but it still didn't feel close enough—Nix summoned all his strength to squeeze back (and I'm never letting go again, never), burying his face into Dick's collar and closing his eyes. That comforting smell. That warmth. That goodness and loyalty and mercy that only a man like Dick could give—like Christ forgiving Judas for his betrayal. Kindness and love and compassion, the things that Nix's soul had been starving for . . .

Tears began to bleed from Nixon's tightly-shut eyes. It had to be a dream. Nothing in life could ever end this happily. Nothing in his vapid, pointless existence had ever turned out right—his parents, his life, his marriage, his addictions—they had all failed him.

Except for this man.

"Are we gonna be okay?" he mumbled against Dick's neck.

"Yeah," said Dick, rubbing his back comfortingly. "Yeah, I think we're gonna be okay."

"Good. 'Cause I don't think I've slept in a month."

Winters grinned and loosened his grip, allowing Nixon to slip free and wipe his damp eyes with the back of his wrist. He reached out and pried the bottle from Nix's fist, turning it over and reading the label as if he'd never seen it before. "So you didn't . . . ?"

"Couldn't," Nixon said. "Not after that night."

Winters absorbed the words slowly, as if his brain was having a hard time chewing them. "So all this time, you've been—"

"Sober? Yeah." Nixon shook his head. "Fucking nightmare." And he meant it.

"I don't know what to say, Lew."

Nixon smirked. "You don't have to say anything."

Winters gave the bottle one last glare before walking over and setting it on the desk. It was like having a Nazi standing in the room with them, or some criminal that had been caught robbing sentimental keepsakes; but it wasn't the liquor's fault. It was simply liquor. It became a monster only in the hands of a weak man, and there were none of those in this room. Even so, Winters deliberately turned the label toward the wall.

He looked over at Nix, still standing by the bathroom door, his arms hanging limply at his sides. He seemed lost. Or very tired.

"The offer still stands," Winters said.

"Offer?"

Winters tilted his head toward the bed. "But if you've got accommodations elsewhere . . ."

Nixon snorted dryly. "Yeah, the Waldorf Astoria's expecting me, but I guess I'll just have to cancel." He paused, his playful demeanor fading. "Sure you don't mind sharing a bed with another man?"

"Lew, we've slept together dozens of times since Normandy. It's nothing new." Though Winters was trying to be blasé about it, Nixon could see his face had colored a little. "Go on. Make yourself comfortable."

"You're the boss."

Nixon pulled back the covers and crawled into bed. The sheets were cold, but only by comparison. (Bastogne was now the gauge by which all degrees of coldness would be measured, and this didn't even make it on the scale.) The overall feeling was exquisite: a fluffy pillow under his head, a soft mattress holding his body, clean sheets gradually warming against him. In all his years spent in outrageous luxury supported by his wealthy, pampered lifestyle, he had never felt more contented. He curled up on his side with his back to Dick, listening to him shuffle through papers at the desk and trying to walk softly in his heavy boots.

A few moments later the mattress dipped as Winters took a seat on the other side and began to undress. Nixon lay with his eyes open as laces snapped against leather and garments rustled. He heard Dick carefully folding his trousers and shirt, and then nothing for a few seconds. There was a click, and the lamp went out.

Winters settled on his back and drew the covers up to his shoulders. He could feel the warmth from Nix's body beside him, and had to resist the natural urge to move closer. You didn't turn down free body heat. He'd learned that in Bastogne.

They lay together in the dark, listening to each other breathe, wondering if the other had fallen asleep yet. A clock ticked somewhere down the hall, but it was difficult to make out behind the closed door. Then, like ghosts summoned from the grave to haunt the place of their death, scenes from earlier that day rose up between the two men, filling the dark with misty glimpses of starved white faces, protruding ribcages, and grateful tears.

Nixon stared at the sharp-edged shadows on the wall, his eyes unblinking. "I can't get it outta my head," he murmured.

He heard Dick sigh quietly. "Me neither."

Nixon bit his lip, moisture welling in his eyes as the chains holding his swollen heart prisoner began to snap and break. "You were right," he said suddenly.

Winters turned his head to gaze at the outline of Nix's body. "Right about what?"

"Why I joined. I was trying to get away. Get away from a wife who didn't love me and a father I could never respect. A life I didn't wanna live." Nixon closed his eyes. He never thought that giving voice to all the twisted, ruinous aspects of his life could feel this liberating. It was like a weight being lifted from his shoulders. "I can't count the nights I sat out on the boat with a bottle in one hand and a pistol in the other, hoping that if I got drunk enough I'd finally have the guts to put a bullet through my head."

Winters stared.

Nixon drew and released a long, tumultuous breath. Tears tracked across his face and melted into his pillow. "But no matter how much I drank or how badly I wanted to end it, I couldn't pull the trigger." He sniffed wetly and smiled. "The night before I enlisted I went through two bottles of whiskey and wrapped the car around a telephone pole. I knew there had to be a better way."

He rolled over onto his back and peered listlessly at the ceiling above, his eyes focused on something much farther away. "I knew I'd see some pretty terrible things in the war, but never anything like this, Dick. Never . . ."

He felt movement beside him, warm fingers brushing against his. He maneuvered his hand so that Dick's fingers could slide between his own, forming an unbreakable clasp of flesh and blood and bone.

Nixon looked over at Winters' shadowed face. "You're a good man, Dick. The best I know."

He could almost hear the grin in his friend's voice as he said, "Go to sleep, Lew."

And somehow, despite the ugly images of cruelty and misery threatening to plunge into his mind and ravage his sanity to pieces, Lewis Nixon fell asleep, and dreamt of nothing.

It wasn't even light outside when his eyes fluttered open. He rolled over carefully so as not to disturb Dick, and wondered why he'd woken. He was capable of sleeping for another six hours, but the clock inside him had other plans, he guessed.

Nixon propped himself up on his elbows and blinked, his mind trying to muddily catch up with the world again. His dog tags were tangled, his undershirt was twisted around him, and he could feel his hair sticking up every which way. Good morning, Germany. He looked down at Dick, wrapped warmly in the blanket with his orangey hair scattered across his pillow, arm tucked beneath his head, breathing and alive and here, and Nix knew in his heart that he would never care about another human being as deeply as Dick Winters.

Nixon mentally scoffed. Care. What an absurdly inadequate word. He didn't care about Dick. He didn't like him, wasn't fond of him. He loved him. Fiercely, honestly, ineffably. So much that he'd follow him toward certain death. So much that he'd destroy—not just kill, but annihilate—anyone who laid a harmful hand on this man. So much that he'd endure this past month—nightmares, withdrawal, the whole bleeding, brutal nine yards—a dozen times over if it meant Dick would be there for him in the end. He'd do anything this man asked of him and anything for him. He loved him. Like nothing else he had ever loved in his life. Even himself.

Nixon reached over and gently lifted a stray tendril of hair from Dick's forehead, laying it back with the others. He smiled crookedly at his sleeping face and then slowly rose, straightening his back with a few satisfying cracks, and wandered into the bathroom to take a leak. When he came out he could see the thin, milky light of early dawn creeping in through the heavy curtains. He shuffled to the window and drew them back, staring out at the dark silhouettes of the buildings across the street, and the grayish sky behind.

He took a deep breath. Another day. A new day. A day to start fixing things and getting back on track. The temptation he'd been fighting for weeks was finally out of his hands, and he knew that alcohol would never control his life again. There was a lot of reconstruction that had to be done, but he was awake and ready for it now.

He turned from the window and went for his ODs. First he'd head down to HQ and see what Strayer had planned for today. The boys up at Battalion would probably be glad to see him. Then he planned to return to the camp and make sure the people of Landsberg knew their job. The initial thought of returning to that hellhole had every bone in his body screaming no; but it hadn't killed him yesterday—and it wouldn't today. He was stronger, more prepared, and knew what he was facing.

Nixon, hair combed and fully dressed, opened the bedroom door and paused, looking back at Dick, who was still fast asleep. He felt the wings of his heart beat freely—no more cages, no more chains—and he smiled. "Catch up with you later," he whispered, and gently shut the door behind him.

Nixon couldn't speak for God, but at least he knew Dick Winters was on his side. For that matter, he didn't really need anyone else.