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single vehicle drove toward them from the direction of Kalterherberg, a crossroads four miles north, near the German border. Mallory recognized the round headlights and straining gearbox; a Willys Jeep, pack mule of the American Army. He stepped forward and waved the lantern, flagging them down. Ellis readied his rifle and flanked his sergeant in the road ten yards ahead of the gate.
    The jeep slowed as it approached. Top down, windscreen flipped up. A GI in the front passenger’s seat stood up and frantically waved his arms at Mallory.
    “What the fuck—where the hell is this?”
    When the jeep stopped a short distance away, Mallory could see that the GI wore a private’s stripe. Skinny, agitated, barely out of his teens, black curly hair peeking out from a helmet shoved back on his head. The driver beside him kept his head down, eyes straight ahead on the road.
    “Where you coming from?” asked Mallory.
    “Jesus, I got no idea—we been driving around out here for I don’t know how fuckin’ long—how long, Lieutenant?”
    He turned to an officer behind him in the backseat. Mallory swung the lantern around.
    Four men in the jeep.
    The lieutenant with the bar on his collar leaned forward: compact, blond, good-looking, mid-twenties, a confident big-man-on-campus smile.
    “And he’s supposed to be our fucking navigator,” said the lieutenant. “Show him our pass, dummy.”
    “All fucking night like this,” said the jittery private, handing over their trip ticket to Mallory, then turning to Ellis. “You got any smokes, buddy?”
    Mallory read the trip ticket, which looked in order, then scanned the unit markings stenciled on the jeep’s hood. “You fellas are a long way from Twelfth Army, sir.”
    “Tell me about it,” said the lieutenant, a slight Southern twang in his voice. “We left HQ in Luxembourg eight hours ago. Supposed to hook up with the 106 in Vielsalm at eighteen hundred.”
    Mallory handed back the pass as he watched the fourth man, in the back beside the lieutenant, unfold a large map.
    “You overshot it, sir,” said Mallory. “Vielsalm’s twenty miles southwest of here.”
    “That’s fuckin’ beautiful news,” said the private, as Ellis handed him a cigarette. “I tried to tell you, sir, we should’ve turned left about two hours ago— Hey, thanks, man; you got a match?”
    “You don’t want to light that here, son,” said Mallory.
    “Right, shit, what am I thinking?” The private stuck the cigarette behind his ear; Mallory noticed his hands were shaking.
    “Probably don’t want to be running your headlights either,” said Mallory. “Didn’t they give you blackouts?”
    “Is that why you stopped us, Sergeant?” asked the lieutenant.
    “This is a roadblock, sir. We’ve got orders to stop everybody.”
    “Well, I’m glad you did. Maybe you can give Private Knucklehead here some pointers on reading a map.”
    “If I ever get it back— Would you please let me see that?” the private pleaded with the fourth man, who had just flicked on a flashlight, buried his face in the map, and showed no interest in handing it over.
    “You’re coming from the direction of the Kraut line,” said Mallory.
    “No shit,” said the private. “Why do you think we turned around? You could smell the fuckin’ Wiener schnitzel.”
    “Kind of unusual to see four men in a jeep,” said Mallory.
    “We’re escorting Captain Conway here,” said the lieutenant, nodding to the man beside him. “New intelligence officer for the 106.”
    “Captain.” Mallory saluted the man, who didn’t respond, still shining his flashlight over the map, looking for something.
    “Aren’t you supposed to ask me for the password, Sergeant?” asked the blond lieutenant.
    “That’s right. If we’re not sure of the men.”
    “So what do you do if somebody doesn’t know it? I mean, Christ, I don’t know it myself.”
    “Don’t worry about it. Password’s ‘Betty Grable.’ They’ll ask you for it