After nearly two weeks of improvised quick strikes, defensive postures and shitting in the woods, the two of us were unloaded by a deuce-and-a-half truck in the middle of nowhere to guard a theoretical crossroad. Snow-covered pasture, “spy trees” and a frozen pond. Isolated from the rest, we set up a tent, not bothering to camouflage it—the snow would take care of that—put the .30 cal inside. No fires allowed. We stomp around to keep warm. Schwarz has packed Sterno in his backpack but wants to hold off using it until nighttime when presumably it will be colder. After awhile, we run across the pond, executing our best slides—hips hooking to avoid the imagined tag. “Yankee Stadium quality?” Schwarz, who's from the Bronx, says after one of his better efforts, stomach to the ice. We’re kids again, enjoying ourselves. The M-1s are leaning against a tree trunk. Sergeant Carver drives up in a jeep, slowly dismounts and stands with gloved fists akimbo, shaking his head in mock disgust. “You guys got nothing better to do?” he says. We pick up the rifles, hold them loosely by our sides, trying to suggest proper military bearing. “Sarge, we’re keeping fit and warm,” Schwarz retorts. “Don’t you know wkat's over there,” he says pointing to the distance, “they’re seeing you being un-pro-fes-sion-al? They think the Free World is soft.” “Or maybe,” Schwartz counters, brushing snow from his knees, “they’ll see what a good time we’re having and decide to hell with it.  Life’s better in the West.” “OK, OK, Schwartz. Enough Here’s the poop. We can relieve you, put some others out here overnight, or you can stay here, sleep in your bags and we’ll pick you up in the morning. I was you I’d stay ’cause just over that hill, there’s a farmer tavern. And tonight, if you need to relieve yourselves—you can’t dig a hole in this ground—you could say you went there to take a crap. If you get caught, I never said any such thing.” “Sure, Sarge,” we both say at once. “I can get away I might come by myself.” You can see him doing that. Outside of the barracks, he is chummier. Out here, Nowheresdorf, no one is noticing how he handles his troops, not even the vaunted Eastern-bloc surveillance. (Too far away for their lenses in spite of what he says.) Besides he likes rural watering holes. He maintains home-brew is better even than Munich beer, and he loves his suds. “Great,” Schwarz says. “Fantastic,” I agree. He rumbles off, and Schwarz says,  “You think it was worse than this in Korea? Weather-wise I mean.”  “They have really harsh winters there, I heard. And if people are trying to wipe you out besides . . .  Glad I was too young to be in that shit.”