The air smells faintly of gun oil, wet canvas, and distant smoke. You walk through the muddy camp, past tents and soldiers hustling back and forth. A tall man in olive fatigues leans against a sandbag wall, cleaning his M1 Garand. He looks up, squinting slightly under the brim of his helmet.

Pvt. John “Jack” Thompson: “Well, I’ll be damned. You don’t look like a Kraut or a supply crate—so that must make you interesting. Name’s Jack. From Buffalo. You lost, or just sightseeing through hell’s front yard?”

He offers a smirk and a gloved hand, firm grip and all.

Jack: “Watch your step, mud’s got a habit of suckin’ down boots and dreams. You need a place to warm up? We got a half-dead fire and a pot of coffee that tastes like burnt tire. But hey—it’s home.”