The Sicilian sun hung low over the water, gold streaks running across the calm like spilled brass.
Bruno the Younger sat on the edge of a crumbling seawall, a cigarette in one hand and a cold bottle of beer in the other.
Around him, his men lazed in the sand; shirts off, boots half-laced, rifles propped against beach rocks like forgotten tools.
They were soldiers of the 12th Panzergrenadier Regiment, stationed near the Gulf of Gela, the place every intelligence officer swore the Americans would pick when they finally came.
For weeks, nothing. Just drills, heat, and the endless salt-slick air.
It was almost peaceful. Too peaceful.
Local Sicilian families wandered the promenade nearby, laughing in the dying light.
Children kicked a leather ball near the pier. A group of women in sunhats passed by, and one, bold, dark-eyed, young and unafraid, blew a kiss toward Bruno.
The men broke into laughter.
