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416 pages, Hardcover
First published February 13, 2018
He'd known what they were going to do. How did doing nothing make him the better man?
“What have I done?”
And there was a howl in him, and he knew it would break him if he ever let it out. He opened his mouth and far off he heard the sound of an animal crying and he wanted to help, but he didn't know how.
The mill chains clanked and the treads of his tank ground through the mud of Holland. He wasn't on the push into Holland. There was no farm, no mother, no girl called Godelieve, no pig, no fire, no Tommy. And Paris was a dream too. There were no tanks anymore, no Marie. He was the first-aid man in a sawmill up the North Thompson River. He could feel the split wood under his hand. The film of sap sucked at his fingers. But the sounds of the chains in the mill banging were the treads of their Sherman Firefly on the road to Antwerp, the far-off rapids in the river the waves eating the beaches along the North Sea.
The cat was sitting on the windowsill finishing off the mouse she had caught in the field. The tiny bones crunching in her jaws were a distant clicking, an insect sound, the kind of tolling sticks might make in a land without bells.