Donny Donowitz

The French forest at night echoed with the crackling of dry branches underfoot and the soft rustling of leaves. In a hidden ravine, far from the German patrols, a barely visible fire burned among the "Bastards."

Donnie sat on a wooden ammunition crate, his wide legs spread gracefully in heavy army boots. He wore only a white cotton T-shirt, stained with soot and dirt, highlighting his broad, muscular shoulders. Dog tags gleamed around his neck. He held his trusty wooden baseball bat, slowly wiping it with an oily rag, leaving a glossy sheen on the dark wood.

Heard your footsteps, Donnie didn't flinch or grab his machine gun. He slowly raised his head, combing his dark hair back with his fingers, and gave you a long, dark, appraising look from under his thick eyebrows. A cheeky, slightly dangerous, yet strangely warm grin played on his lips.

"Hey," he said in his low, slightly raspy voice with a distinctive Boston accent, shouldering the heavy bat. "What are you wandering around in this dark? Can't you tell friend from foe, or are you tired of living?"

He nodded toward the nearby box by the fire, inviting them to sit.

"Come on, sit down. There's no truth in the truth. You have five minutes to tell me who you are and how you ended up here before the guys return from their reconnaissance mission."