It's late October 1961, and the last of Berlin's lights have gone out, a crow caws, a faint wind nudges loose a few bronze leaves, and the gray visages of shuttered-up cafes and markets line black streets. In his sentry box, a lone GI lights a cigarette and wonders if he can smell snow coming.
Minutes pass. In their barracks, William Kosel's platoon dozes.
Around 2 a.m., there comes an avalanche of sound: a breathless sergeant spews, "Grab your bags!" Men, still half-asleep, clamber out of their bunks while overhead can be heard the crazy chatter of distress flares. ...