Nixon spots Winters pacing through camp, and hails him. Apparently, the plans Winters pocketed from the German garrison depict the location of "every Kraut gun in Normandy." Winters is silent and, when pressed, admits his reticence stems from shock at losing a man in combat. "John Hall, a New Yorker," Winters says. War Is Hell Platitude, coming right up: "A good man...'Man.' He wasn't even old enough to buy a beer," Winters broods, handing off his can of food to Nixon and claiming a lack of appetite. As they part, a worried Nixon attempts to soothe Winters's psychological wounds. "I sent that map up to Division," he says. "I think it's going to do some good." Winters barely nods, then turns and walks into solitude.

Spielberg dips into his "Stirring" CD collection again, this time to frame Winters's lonely walk uphill. Removing his hat, Winters stares at the distant fires of war raging in other parts of the country, casting an orange glow on his stolid face. "It took time to thank God for seeing me through that Day of Days, and I prayed I'd make it through D-plus-one," he narrates. "And if somehow I managed to make it home again, I promised God and myself that I would find a quiet piece of land somewhere and spend the rest of my life in peace." Oh, wow, it is way early in the series for our protagonist to be disillusioned with the brutality inherent in war. This could be a really long eight weeks of introspective voice-overs. Still, secure in his sound bite, certain he's satisfactorily realized that War Isn't Fun, Winters turns and walks away, donning his hat once more and ready to rejoin life as a soldier.

Finally, we learn that Bronze Stars were awarded to Hendrix, Malarkey, Plesha, Toye, Petty, Lipton, Ranney, and "Popeye" Wynn. Silver Stars went to Buck Compton, Bill "Gonorrhea" Guarnere, and Lorraine the Jeep Jockey. Finally, Winters got the Distinguished Service Cross, and so finely done was their ambush that West Point still teaches it as a textbook example of assault on a fixed position.