Hanging on

ridges of dirt which the plow had built up on both sides of the street, and the smoothing out of the dozer's tread imprints from the hard dry earth.
        Already, half the convent's foundation was up: a low stone wall that was to be the base for the enormous building. Last night, there had been no stones here, just the shallow trench in which the wall would be erected. Now, two sides of the convent's square underpinning-each a-hundred-twenty feet long-were up, and the other two sections had been started at trench bottom. Well before the Germans arrived, the convent would stand complete, looming on the north side of the bridge road, in the heart of town. Ideally, the entire convent would be of stone. But they had neither the time nor the cement to put up anything so elaborate. As is was, the mortar between the fieldstones had been poorly portioned out; and the stones had been so hastily laid that, to the professional eye, they looked like the obvious short-term hodgepodge they were. Fortunately, none of the Germans would be architects. The size of the convent, the forbidding design, would convince them that it was as real inside as out. But inside, of course, there would be nothing at all. Except the big machines.
        "We sure will fox them!" Danny Dew shouted, grinning, looking a little bit like Stepin Fetchit.
        "Not for a minute," Kelly said.
        The dozer rumbled down the bridge road, moving slowly eastward.
        Across the road from the convent, a work crew had dug sixteen postholes, filled them with concrete, and anchored one four-by-six pine beam in each pit. These thrust up in a rectangular pattern, rustic columns with nothing to support. They were joined at the ground by flanking beams to help brace them. This afternoon, perpendicular beams would be fitted at the top to support the floor of the second story. The walls would go up tomorrow, both exterior and interior, and the finishing touches could be applied even while the roof was going on. This was to be the only fully built structure in the church-oriented town, the only one with a second level inside as well as out, the only one that might fool a carpenter or architect-for it was, if they had any say in it, where the German commander would make his temporary headquarters for the bridge crossing. It was the rectory.
        Danny slowed the D-7 as they passed a group of men who were working diligently on another house, one of the many nuns' residences. All of the buildings-aside from the rectory and the church-would be built with more speed than craft on bare wooden platforms. They would have no insides at all. Walking into one would be like walking from one side of a stage setting to the other. In an exceptionally high wind, some of these hollow, flimsy structures might move around like sailing ships on water. With that disasterous prospect in mind, Major Kelly had ordered that nearly all the platform houses would be one story high, which made the village look odd but only slightly out of character.
        "You think Hagendorf did it right?" Danny shouted.
        "It looks that way," Kelly said. "But we haven't heard the last of Emil. He's still a troublemaker."
        As they turned off the bridge road into the service road by the woods, heading back for the southern end of camp, Lieutenant Slade ran in front of them, waving his arms like a railroad signalman. Danny shifted down, braked, the tread clattering and squealing. The dozer stopped five feet in front of The Snot.
        "I've seen enough for now!" Kelly shouted. "I'll get off here and see what Slade wants!"
        What Slade wanted, Kelly soon discovered, was to complain. "I want to complain," he said as soon as the dozer was far enough away to make conversation possible.
        "Well, well," Kelly said. He did not enjoy listening to his men's complaints, though that was one of his functions as commanding officer. He must listen, sympathize, advise… It was unfair. He had no one to whom he could deliver his complaints. This was the worst thing about the war: his helplessness. "Well, well," he repeated, wishing Slade would drop dead.
        "Nobody's filled out my traitor questionnaire," Slade said. More than ever, he looked like a wicked choirboy. "You didn't even answer it. It's the worst thing that's ever happened to me." He seemed caught between rage and tears. So he just sulked.
        Kelly slapped his clothes, brushing off the chalky dust that