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He had to try. He turned back to the body. Carefully he covered it with the brown tarpaulin. Then he went to help Fossano gather up the junk that littered the clearing.
    The feeling that he was missing something wouldn’t leave him. Something was out of kilter. He was certain of it. He had long since come to trust his hunches.
    Suddenly he knew what it was that was bothering him.
    Why would some vengeful German bastard want to hide the identity of his victim? There was no obvious reason. Was there a hidden one? It didn’t make sense. But he didn’t know what to make of it.
    When they had picked the place clean Woody inspected the pile of trash. Not a thing in it gave him any ideas. It was just a heap of rubbish.
    “Put it in the back of the jeep,” he ordered Fossano. He looked toward the village only a couple of hundred yards down the road. “Let’s go see what they know in that burg,” he said.
    The closest farmhouse had a direct view of the area with the clearing, and Woody decided to start his investigation there. If anyone in Albersdorf had seen anything, the people there might be the ones.
    Woody got into the jeep. He turned to Fossano. “Listen, corporal,” he said. “A couple of words to the wise. Keep your eyes peeled. Always be ready for anything—but don’t look apprehensive. The Krauts will accept that you’re in charge if you act that way. Remember that. If you see anything suspicious, or find anything, let me know. Don’t try to handle it yourself. Is that clear?”
    Fossano shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “I’m just along for the ride. It’s your damn show.”
    The village of Albersdorf consisted of perhaps two dozen farmhouses. Woody and Fossano drove into the yard of the farm they had picked out. A huge, burly man with a weather-beaten face, close-cropped graying hair and fists the size of small hams was cutting and stacking wood near a small shed. He stopped his work and looked up with a hostile glare.
    Fossano stayed in the jeep as Woody jumped out and strode up to the farmer.
    “Is this your farm?” he asked crisply.
    The big man nodded.
    “What is your name?”
    “Huber,” the man answered sullenly. “Werner Huber.”
    Woody watched him closely. “There is the body of an American soldier lying in the woods only a short distance from here,” he said. “Do you know about it?”
    “Yes,” the German answered, an almost imperceptible note of mockery in his voice. “And so does everyone else in Albersdorf!”
    “Then why did you not inform the American authorities?” Woody asked angrily. “There has been a Military Police office in Vohenstrauss for days.”
    The farmer shrugged. “We thought it was none of our business,” he said. “We are farmers in Albersdorf. Not soldiers.” Somehow the man gave the impression of enjoying himself.
    Woody felt a deep anger build in him. He controlled it.
    “How long has the body been there?”
    Again the farmer shrugged. “Two—three days,” he answered. He put a beefy, dirty fist to his nose and rubbed it. “Yes—three days it was.”
    “Three days!” Woody exclaimed. “And nobody reported it!”
    The German looked at him, the hint of a smirk on his face. “We thought surely the Americans knew,” he said.
    Woody wanted to hit the bastard in the face. Instead he asked: “Who else lives here?”
    The farmer scratched his head. “There’s old Anton,” he replied. “And my daughter.” Sudden hate flared in the quick glance he shot at Woody. “My wife was killed,” he rasped. “In Regensburg. She had gone to buy some clothing for us. It was an air raid.”
    “Where are they?” Woody asked coldly.
    “Anton is in the stable. It is the day we clean for the cows,” the farmer said. “My daughter is in the house. It will soon be time to eat.” He looked at Woody, a mocking smile on his lips. “You should talk to her, Herr Offizier,” he drawled. “She saw what happened.”
    At once Woody turned to Fossano.