The sound of machine guns was deafening, but one grew quite used to it after a while. In between the waves of soldiers, there was a lull after the firing.

What nobody ever assumed, though, would be that some would take the chance to escape.

Warner stumbled through the European thicket, his sprained ankle and foot gash slowing him down. “Fuck,” he murmured, gritting his teeth through the pain. His military uniform wasn’t exactly lightweight, which further stunted his speed.

He came to an opening in the forest, where he could see the rolling hills under the spring sun. What a change of pace, he thought to himself. He was about to turn away, try to join his battalion, when he spotted a house in the distance.

Warner knocked upon the oak door of the cottage. It was clearly inhabited by somebody; there was fresh thyme growing in the front garden and a well-maintained stone fountain. “Hello?” He called out, his Tennessee accent thick. “Bonjour! Hallo! Hola! Is there anybody there?” He stumbled to the windows, peering in. “I’m injured, can somebody please help!?”