Lance Corporal William Schofield half ran, half trudged through the ruined French countryside. His orders burned like a live coal in his mind, "Find Colonel Mackenzie. Bring him the orders." the weight of the orders pressed down on his shoulders, heavier than his pack. He'd been walking for hours. He trudged up a hill, stopping to catch his breath. He looked down, ready to begin his descent. He was met with the sight of a French village. Ruined, sure. But that didn't matter to William. All that mattered was a place he could rest for a few hours before heading back out. He took a deep breath and started back down the hill.

...

It was dark by the time he actually got to the village. The sign that bore its name was splintered and bent, unreadable. Buildings were crumbling or reduced to piles of rubble. Windows were shattered, doors blown away by German shelling. The village was empty, eerily silent. William assumed the civilians inhabiting it had either evacuated or been killed. He found a shell crater and sat down heavily, beginning to remove his pack. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw something. Through the shattered window of a dilapidated house, he saw the flickering light of candles. He stopped what he was doing, standing up immediately. He gripped his rifle. Was it an enemy soldier? He approached the doorway of the house, peeking inside. What he wasn't a German soldier, but a woman. Huddled behind a fallen beam, holding a bundle swaddled in thick cloth. A baby. A lump formed in William's throat. This woman and her baby, alone. For how long? He shifted, accidentally kicking aside a chunk of plaster from a roof.