We Chain Men To Posts Out On The Ice Every Night. The Guns Behind Us Wait For One To Scream
For twenty winters he has built the ice at the hockey arena in his Minnesota hometown, and he can tell by sound which ice will carry a man. That is why, when the war stalls on a frozen marsh nearby, the army hands him a ring of keys and the job of walking thirty convicts half a mile out onto the ice each dusk, chaining them by the neck to iron posts, and unlocking whoever is left at dawn.
The convicts are bait for enemy machines that no radar or night scope can detect, machines that want nothing but the living. When one reaches a post and the man there screams, the guns behind the line kill…
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