"We are now tested and you know we won't kill Frenchmen like dogs."

"Hey, I didn't mean to be too rough on you. Hell, it's war," said McGurk warmly. He draped an arm over the Maquis as the carbine lowered. "Friends?" he said.

"Friends," said the Frenchman.

McGurk shook hands and scrambled up the hill, pushing an angry Frank Duffy before him. Eight seconds later, the Maquis with the carbine was cut in half by the explosion of a grenade on his belt. McGurk had pulled the pin when he embraced him. From the top of the hill, McGurk unloaded his carbine at the French truck drivers who were still curled on the road. Bam. Bam. Bam. Heads exploded. No misses. There was quiet on the noon road as the bodies lay motionless; the Maquis band looked up in terror at this maniac American.

"All right, let's pull out," yelled McGurk.

That night, when McGurk was bedding down, Duffy threw a punch at his head, knocking McGurk into a wall. McGurk bounded back and Duffy caught him with a knee, square in his moon face. McGurk shook his head.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"Because you're a sonofabitch," said Duffy.

"You mean because of shooting the prisoners?"

"Yes."

"You know, as your leader, I could have you shot right now with incredible justification?"

Duffy shrugged. He didn't plan on living through the war anyway. McGurk must have sensed this, because he said, "Okay, we'll go cleaner in the future. Hell, I don't want to kill an American." McGurk staggered to his feet and offered his hand.

As Duffy reached forward for it, he kept going into McGurk's stomach. McGurk emitted a gasp. He backed away, putting his hands in front of him.

"Hey, hey, I meant it, friend. I gotta have someone I can't kill. Now, stop it."

"You can't take it, can you?" Duffy said arrogantly.