Chapter TwoClanking metal, noxious fumes, and the murmur of a hundred conversations filtered through the tent wall from the American base camp located about twenty miles from Paris as First Lieutenant Simon Harlow rummaged through his kit for a pen. He hadn’t written home in two weeks, and his parents would worry that he was dead.
His missives had begun to sound like elementary school projects. “Dear Mom, how are you? I am fine. The food here leaves much to be desired.” But there was so little he could share. The censors would remove any references to locations, incidents, or any other perceived confidential information. What could he write now that a battle was on the horizon?
“Aha. There you are.” His fingers grasped the pencil lodged between his canteen and a pair of socks. He pulled
