Morning. The sound of armor in motion wakes us. So quiet before and now this monster din. We’ve ridden on tanks, desperately holding fast to the turret railings. Amazing, so much acceleration with so much weight, everything standing in their paths bowled over, mashed. Where tanks are moving, not far from here, large clouds of snow billow. Livestock have high-tailed it out of the fields. Disconcerts you a bit; we thought we were isolated. A jeep charges up. The driver is Corporal Kupka, a Pole in for the long haul to obtain citizenship. Ordinarily happy-go-lucky, he occasionally falls into dark moods. He’s short, muscular, looks like a weightlifter. Nobody messes with him. Managed to escape from Poland as a youth. He’s now mid-30s. This morning Kupka is somber. Intense. We’re afraid someone came by last night to check on us and reported us AWOL. “What’s wrong, Kupka?” Schwarz says. “What is it, old buddy?” “Get in,” he says. We toss our gear and weapons in the back and climb in, Schwarz in front, me in back atop the equipment heap. “Here comes an Article 15,” I mutter. “Maybe worse,” Schwarz says. “Wha?” Kupka says. And then goes silent. He drives quickly, skidding occasionally, over the 10 or 12 kilometers to the main bivouac, which is sheltered by tall evergreens standing far enough apart to easily accommodate tents, a field kitchen and light vehicles. When we arrive, a crowd is surrounding a spot on a fringe of the woods, intently viewing activity in the middle. The captain of our outfit—Flegg is his name—his head’s bowed and he looks grim standing slightly behind the group. No one is speaking. It is as hushed as a church. Carver comes up to us, his mood no brighter than Kupka’s. He is a slender welterweight, career Army, a lifer. Tough when he wants to be; otherwise, one of the boys. He regularly makes the transition without batting an eye. “You heard,” he whispers, shaking his head. “No,” I whisper back, “heard nothing.” “Two guys slept under a tank, for added warmth. Parked right there, facing out toward the meadows for a quick getaway. When the tank pulled out at 5 a.m., they were mashed. Weren’t our guys. Detached personnel, I understand. Ordnance specialists maybe, maybe not. That’s all I know.” “How could they not wake up when the engine started?” Schwarz murmurs incredulously. “Hell,” Carver says, walking us away from the group to a spot where he feels he can talk at a more normal volume, “beats me. Beats everyone. Well, no guarantees. If you’re gonna be reckless, you might get more than you bargained for. But in a war, if we ever get in a war, God forbid, you see this all the time, just unlucky bastards whose number is up. Like these people.” We edge back and glimpse a team with shovels scraping through pine needles into the frozen ground. The only sound. There is an odor that becomes more penetrating, overpowering the smell or resin and pine, nearer the digging crew. Guys milling around are starting to gag. With our own queasiness mounting, we turn and withdraw. “Jeez,” Schwarz says, “first casualties. Done in by our own ordnance.”