This story is set during the cold war at a border area separating Eastern-bloc forces in Czechoslovakia from largely green American troops in upper Bavaria. No unusual tensions or incidents had occurred at the time. GIs were embarking on regularly scheduled maneuvers. Often called war games, for the principals involved here, these maneuvers proved fun and games. Until, as the exercises closed, members of several overlapping units were exposed, most for the first time, to the loss of comrades. The division embarked on its second field foray in late winter to the Grafenwöhr-Hohenfels training areas. Dreary enough in summer, but this time it was winter. Frigid and dreary. Certain days mucous froze as it left your nose. The good part was this was the final scheduled exercise during my tour. Of course, they could add others, but staging maneuvers was a big expense. At observation posts, the Eastern-bloc people routinely scan us; we scan them right back. Each side watches the other but rarely violates boundaries, which are heavily mined. Not that we ourselves ever get close enough to the border to see what's going on. Officers mentioned how it works during orientation sessions. We foot soldiers don't watch anybody, just our asses. We want to do our 18 months overseas and get home intact. Army careerists are used to being abroad and don't mind dislocation nearly as much. They look upon freshly arrived troops—us basically, though we've been around for more than a year—as “wet behind the ears” thumb suckers. They seldom say so unless we get their dander up. “You might not be here for long,” one growled, “but while you wear this uniform, you'll conduct yourself in a military manner. Understood?” Yes, sergeant, comes the chorus from the ranks. Some of our NCOs saw service in Korea. They don't talk about it much, if ever. The master sergeant was in on the final push against the Germans. He'll be deskbound, I imagine, except on ceremonial occasions, until he retires. He's kind of an authority figurehead. Gruff, man of few words, stiff posture. The maneuvers are staged in roughly the same general location as before, although on this occasion our position enables us to view the boonies from a slightly different points on the compass. Fields, small farms, some livestock surrounded by woodland. Again, we arrived by choppers, which brings the Bavarian landscape into a different perspective from boots on the ground. “That line of trees over there,” Schwarz jokes, “are they the same?” “Nope. Those trees are unlike the trees we saw last time, another breed,” I say, unsure whether this is entirely accurate, since almost all are firs indistinguishable from one another, but for effect I add: “They're Red trees, fakes, with cameras to monitor our movements.”   A hard snow is slanting down, tapping on our helmets. Thermal gear protects almost all of the body, not the face. Ski masks would have been appropriate had we thought to bring them. “My nose is frozen,” I say. “What do you expect?” he says. “This is the cold war.” Irony is the favored mode of communication. The fields, a cement consistency, are dented by tank treads. I carry, besides standard backpack and an M-1, a .30-caliber machine gun; Schwarz, also a rifle, plus tripod and ammo cases for the obsolete weapon on my shoulder.