The wooden bridge spanned a narrow river, its planks slick with dew. Private First Class Miguel Reyes lay prone at the near end, his Browning Automatic Rifle trained on the far bank. Two hours until dawn. Two hours until relief. Two hours of staring into darkness, waiting for shapes that might be trees or might be men.
He heard it before he saw it—a soft splash, then another. Someone was crossing upstream, wading through the shallows to avoid the bridge. Miguel's finger tightened on the trigger.
A figure emerged from the trees, then another. Germans, by their silhouettes, moving quietly