Lynn's way of getting discharged was extraordinarily crude.
Night was the best disguise.
Chaos and scarcity were the perfect passes.
He took Soldier Boy and walked brazenly out the front gate of the field hospital.
The wounded soldiers and nurses hurrying along the way paid them no attention.
No one had time to bother with a reporter who looked as though he had recovered and the tall, intimidating follower behind him.
The chaos at the hospital was far beyond what Lynn had imagined.
A stout head nurse carrying a lantern was berating two orderlies for slacking off.
The flecks of spit flying from her mouth shone brighter than the lantern.
"Where are we going? Somewhere with booze and chicks?"
Soldier Boy followed behind him, kicking a piece of rubble out of his way in utter boredom.
"To find you a stage."
As a war correspondent, Lynn had a fairly accurate map of the battlefield situation stored in his memory.
Colonel Phillips of the Allies' 107th Infantry Regiment was pinned down by a German machine-gun position on high ground.
The offensive had stalled, and casualties were heavy.
It was the perfect stage, practically served up to him.
He needed a spectacular debut.
An audience with enough weight.
Colonel Phillips was the man.
In the early hours of the following day.
Drizzle and the earthy smell of soil hung over a stretch of hills that had been plowed over repeatedly by artillery fire.
Lynn and Soldier Boy lay in a mud pit.
Rainwater dripped from their hair.
"This is your big plan? Having me take a bath in this goddamn mud pit?"
"I smell like a pig that just crawled out of a shit pit!"
Lynn ignored his complaints and held up a pair of binoculars stripped from a corpse, studying the German position several hundred meters away that had been giving the Allies so much trouble.
"Rat-tat-tat-tat-!"
The distinctive roar of an MG42 machine gun rang out.
Orange-red tongues of flame spat wildly in the dim morning light, turning several American soldiers trying to crawl forward into a pile of mangled flesh.
Soldier Boy watched the flashes in the distance, his blue eyes shining with bloodthirsty excitement.
He felt the violent impulses within him awakening, clamoring to get out and tear something apart.
"See those spectators huddled in their foxholes? They're almost desperate. Now it's time for your performance."
Lynn's voice was low.
"Remember, you're not going there to kill. You're going to deliver divine punishment."
"They don't want to see a mad dog. Crush them in the most spectacular, most stunning way possible, and make sure they'll never forget what they see today for as long as they live!"
Inside the German position.
A machine gunner named Hans had just finished firing a long burst and ducked back to change the scalding-hot barrel.
The soldier beside him nudged him and pointed outside.
"Look over there. What's that? A madman?"
Hans poked his head out and saw the figure running through no man's land.
He froze for a moment, then burst out laughing.
"Another idiot looking to meet God."
He quickly changed the barrel and aimed the muzzle at the moving target again, muttering contemptuously, "Let me send you on your way!"
"Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!"
A dense storm of bullets swallowed him.
Bullets struck the shield, sending out a string of dazzling sparks.
His feet left deep depressions in the muddy ground.
The soldiers in the German position were stunned.
They had seen charges by men who did not fear death, but never anything so outrageous.
That man...
The monster carrying the metal shield was actually using his own body to face a storm of steel!
"Fire! Fire! Stop him!!"
The German officer screamed at the top of his lungs, his voice filled with terror.
In the American foxholes on the other side.
A young soldier named Tom had just been so frightened that he had buried his face in the mud, repeating his mother's name and praying to God to let him live through the day.
Now, hearing the dense clatter of metal striking metal, he could not resist quietly raising his head, and he saw a sight he would never forget.
A figure like a god of war advanced as if taking a leisurely stroll, facing a torrent of bullets.
The bullets seemed like raindrops before him.
Tom's mouth fell open bit by bit.
He did not even notice the rifle slipping from his hand into the muddy water.
His comrade beside him.
The veteran who had boasted just yesterday about taking down three military policemen in a bar now looked as though he had seen a ghost too.
He murmured unconsciously, "Holy Virgin Mary..."
Under their gazes, Soldier Boy crashed into the German trench with an almost overwhelming force!
With one punch, he smashed a German soldier and the MG42 in his hands into the wall.
Steel and flesh mashed together.
The triangular shield in his hand became a most lethal tool of slaughter.
Every swing was accompanied by the sharp crack of breaking bones and piercing screams.
In just a few dozen seconds, the machine-gun position that had stopped the Americans from advancing an inch became a meat grinder.
When the last German soldier raised his hands, trembling, in an attempt to surrender, Soldier Boy stepped forward with a vicious grin.
"No... no..."
"Crack!"
The crisp snap of a neck breaking brought the bloody performance to an end.
Soldier Boy stood among the piles of corpses.
The blood on his face made him look even more ferocious.
He looked around, enjoying the silence he had created with his own hands.
Lynn was in no hurry to see Phillips.
He quietly left the battlefield with Soldier Boy, who still had not had his fill, and found an abandoned farmhouse to slip into.
He needed time to put a stronger leash on this beast that had just tasted blood.
In the farmhouse, Soldier Boy was still savoring the battle.
He boasted excitedly about how he had crushed those "Krauts'" bones.
"Ha! Did you see that? They were like a bunch of ants, so weak! They couldn't take a hit!"
Lynn silently heated two cans of beef without saying a word.
Only when the cans began to sizzle did he raise his head and say calmly, "Your performance just now was that of a perfect killing machine."
Soldier Boy's boasting was interrupted, and he raised his eyebrows proudly. "Of course!"
"But machines are cold."
Lynn wrapped one of the scalding cans in a cloth and handed it to him.
"And a god needs believers."
Soldier Boy frowned in displeasure.
"What's that supposed to mean? I took care of them, didn't I? I listened to you and wiped out that shitty position!"
"I told you to become a hero, not a butcher."
"That soldier who raised his hands could have been a touch of mercy to round out your image. Spare him, and he would have fallen to his knees and kissed your boots. He would have told everyone he knew in the prison camp everything he saw today."
"He would have said he saw a god, one with both the wrath of thunder and the heart of God."
"People would spread your story. They would talk about your strength, but even more than that, they would praise your forgiveness. That's what a heroic aura should look like."
Lynn paused, his voice dropping even lower.
"By killing him, you told everyone that you're an uncontrollable beast."
"I am fucking uncontrollable!"
Lynn had struck a nerve. Soldier Boy roared furiously and hurled the can in his hand to the ground.
Scalding chunks of meat and broth splattered everywhere.
"But the Allies don't need a beast that's out of control. A beast belongs in a cage."
"Show them strength and mercy, and they'll both respect and fear you."
"They'll put you on a pedestal, give you the best booze and the prettiest chicks, and satisfy every bullshit demand you make, just to keep you happy."
Soldier Boy fell silent.
He stared fixedly at the fire, thoughtfulness showing through his furious expression.
Vought International...
Weren't those PR people and agents always going on about that bullshit "image" and "persona" in his ear?
But now this kid was showing him the naked reality: even on this bloody battlefield with no media and no cameras, those rules still fucking applied!