Nixon knocks on Winters's door. "Turns out I'm staying in the only dry house in Germany," he complains, rifling through the bottles lined up in Winters's lodgings. "Thought you weren't drinking local," observes Winters, amused. He somberly adds that the division headquarters is reporting several more concentration camps dotted throughout Germany. "It seems the Russians liberated a worse one," Winters says, shaking his head. Nixon can't imagine anything worse. "Apparently, ten times as big," Winters marvels. "Locals [at the prison Easy found] claim they never knew the camp existed. They say we're exaggerating." Laughing without mirth, Winters notes that the villagers will get an immersive education tomorrow -- General Taylor declared martial law in the town, ordering any able-bodied person from age fourteen to eighty to help bury the dead, supervised by the 10th Armored. Easy and its battalion will leave for Thalham at noon. Nixon exits, haggard.

Cut to Nixon speeding through the German countryside in a borrowed Jeep. He's unshaven and smoking, ash dropping off a cigarette that's practically affixed to his lips. He parks outside the concentration camp, having returned to remind himself of all the things that were at stake in this war -- things he didn't know about even as he helped fight it. The guard offers him a handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth. A gaggle of nuns in bizarre habits strolls past. There are bodies on stretchers. A gangrenous green-hued man is carried to a mass grave. Women wince; everyone cries, either silent tears or body-shaking sobs. Charred corpses are carried one by one by women and men of all ages. Can you imagine being a fourteen-year-old and cleaning up this pit that so encapsulates the worst humanity can do to itself? How harrowing, especially when it's your army that perpetrated it. Nixon's eyes fall upon Mrs. Cunningham, doubled over and trying to drag a dead body from the pile. She meets his gaze with an air of defiance, almost daring him to define her in the kind of heartless terms usually reserved for the German soldiers. Nixon can't stop staring at her, stunned and moved that she -- the military wife -- is cleaning up this mess. Nixon's face is the last shot we see in the concentration camp...