It was 02:47.
Lemaitre's patrol moved through the brush with rifles raised.
Delcourt was second in line, followed by Faure and Girard, spread in a tight diamond.
No one said a word.
They were too deep now deep in the woods, deep in the silence, deep in the part of soldiering where noise got you killed.
A low crunch barely audible reached Lemaitre's ears.
He froze, hand up.
They all stopped.
Shapes moved through the fog ahead.
Lemaitre spoke into the radio. "HQ, this is Patrol Four. Marker nine. We have movement. Multiple figures. No lights. Possibly civilians."
The shapes came closer.
Stumbling.
Small.
One limped.
A child clung to the hem of a long coat.
"French patrol!" Lemaitre shouted softly. "Identify!"
A voice cried out a man's, cracked and panicked. "We are the Weiss family! Please don't shoot! We have children!"
A man in spectacles, lenses cracked.
A woman clutching her side, blood soaking her coat.
Two children.
