You did not expect the officer to be skittish, or for his eyes to be red-rimmed, even watery, but who knows where the lieutenant had been the night before. And you definitely didn't expect him to have a tremor in his hand, but no one else seemed to notice that, so I kept quiet. When it came time, after all, he'd be the one down in the hole, alone.

The sergeant, Redes, was the oldest of the group by far. He had plenty of experience but wasn't much interested in sharing it. He had just rotated stateside from France, and would only snort and roll his eyes if you asked him about his time there.

Before we arrived, camp security evacuated the affected area, save for a few internees left in our care, “in case there's any dirty work.” Sergeant Redes took one look at them and then ordered them to guard the area's perimeter. “For starters, don't let that security officer back in here,” he told them.

The hardest part came first. It was obvious where the bomb had fallen-the partially destroyed building was a solid clue, even to guys as new at the job as we were-but it wasn't so obvious where the bomb was now. Inside, amidst the wrecked equipment, or burrowed in the ground well beneath? Ordnance locators detected nothing around the perimeter; the bomb had to be directly under the building. The lieutenant and Redes talked for a while, and then Redes came over to us. Clear out the pottery equipment, he said, but slowly. “Don't go banging around in there,” he said. “Pretend the whole building is a bomb.” Then he lit a cigarette, while we all stood and watched him. “We're going to do this today, girls,” he said, and stared at us until we moved.

The work went slowly, even more slowly than the sergeant or the lieutenant would have liked, but since they'd told us to be cautious, they must have felt they couldn't rush us. Once we'd moved out all the equipment and packing material without finding anything, we tore up what remained of the floor. Still nothing. Glad to discover the building wasn't sitting on a cement slab, we started digging.

We were at it for one hour, and then two, and when the third began, we'd lost almost all sense of the bomb-we were just here to dig, and keep digging until we were told to stop.

Clink.

I knew infantry guys who would always claim the bullet, or shell, or bomb that was actually going to hit you had a different sound, different from the bullets that whizzed by safely, I suppose. But in bomb disposal, there was only that one sound- clink, the sound of a shovel or pick gone too far-and if you herd it, you usually weren't around afterward to describe the experience in detail. Of course, the other reason you almost never heard it was because experienced bomb disposal men were more careful than I-probing first, then digging, probing, digging, never just diving in. I'd been probing, I promise. I'd been cautious.

It wasn't that loud a clink.

But this was a bomb that would not go off. It had fallen thousands of feet from a plane, it had broken through a roof and a floor and a mess of equipment for making pots, and it wasn't going to explode just because some trainee had nicked it with a shovel. It was designed for rough handling, after all-it had to survive transport from the factory, loading onto the airplane, and whatever rough weather the plane encountered.

Still, a bomb's patience was usually about spent by the time guys like us found it. So after my clink, none of us breathed, none of us moved, and none of us said anything, until someone weakly said, Sarge…

Redes was in the doorway above us before the sound had left the air. “Who's the dipshit trying to get us killed?”

I suppose I could have put down the shovel and pretended it was someone else, but I was still motionless, scared.

“Belk,” Redes said.

“I was being careful, sir,” I said, though I wasn't sure I had been.

“‘Careful’?” To our great relief, he started climbing down into the hole. He wasn't scared. “Jesus, Belk,” he said at the bottom. “ ‘Careful’? What do we say?”

I wasn't smiling then, but I'm smiling now, because we said what Lily said.

We said: careful and correct.

Though Redes hadn't said much since joining our unit, he'd said enough that we knew this was a favorite phrase. I'd heard half a dozen instructors say it, but Redes made it his own through repetition and embellishment: you could be as careful as you wanted, he'd always say, but if you didn't follow procedures correctly, you could still blow yourself up-with great care. I should have been paying more attention. Watching the soil, stopping to test with the probe.

“Careful and correct,” I said.

“Correct,” Redes said. “Since you're the whiz kid, you've earned the prize of finishing this job off. The rest of you, out. Belk, finish exposing the bomb.”

The rest of the gang climbed out, delighted to get away from the bomb and the sergeant's wrath.

Sergeant Redes descended and watched me dig for a minute or two before he spoke. “I did the same thing, you know. ‘Clink.’” He looked up out of the hole and shook his head.

I thought he would get mad if I stopped digging, but I did anyway. “Did your sergeant get mad?” I asked.

“I was the sergeant,” he said. “Last day before I left France. Right in the middle of the town square. Ten yards, maybe, from the front door of the church, which was a thousand years old or something. Everybody from my lieutenant to the monsignor to some passing colonel looking on, watching the experienced sergeant do his work. Clink”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Same as here.” He bent down, ran his hands lightly over the bomb, and let out a long breath before muttering, “This is odd.” He studied it for a minute more, agreed with himself about something, and then said, “You know the lieutenant's got a sister?”

I didn't, but I knew enough about army life to brace myself for something coarse.

“Redhead,” he said. “So I hear. Showed me her picture, black and white. Pretty. I suppose the lieutenant's a little red up top, too.” He turned to look at me. “That's the thing of it. They were twins, he tells me. Boy-girl twins. Whaddya call that?”

I shook my head, and he turned back to the bomb.

“So she's a WAC nurse,” he said. “Was. Died Monday. Italy. Jeep. Land mine.”

“That's-hard,” I said, and Redes waited for me to say something more, something adequate.

When I didn't, he turned back to the bomb. “They're not giving him leave till the end of the month. That's hard. Now give me a hand here.” Redes had both hands on the bomb and was trying to roll it back toward him. We steadied it, and then he paused and looked out of the hole.

“You're my best student, you know,” he said. “Or were.” He smiled. Then the lieutenant called his name, and Redes told me to wait. He climbed up to the lip of the hole and told the lieutenant that he needed just a few more minutes to finish clearing the site. Then he came back down to the bottom of the pit, excited.

“So let's finish your training, whaddya think?” he said quickly. “What do we do next?”

“We, well, let's see. I go and get a couple of sticks of C2 or C3, run some blasting wire back clear of the fragmentation zone, hook it up to the blasting machine.” I could see the little pages of my training manual flutter past in my head.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Redes said.

“I'm sorry, the, uh, fifty-cap blasting machine,” I said. “I think.”

“The what? Let's call it what it is, soldier. You're talking about the little box, with the plunger you push down and make everything go boom?” I nodded my head. “That's the hell box, right? Don't bother telling me they taught you something else in your fancy little school.” I nodded again. “Okay,” he said. “That's a lovely plan. But what's the problem with it?”