The soldiers camped in her barn that winter. She sat in the dark house, not lighting a fire, hoping they would forget she was there.
That spring, she made scarecrows. She bent wire frames into human shapes, and wrapped them with dried rosebush branches. She took what she had to hand, old boots, discarded jackets and pants, and dressed them, topping them with discarded helmets.
When they were done, she propped them up in her fields.
She left a pair outside her barn as well, carefully turned so you couldn’t see the bullet holes in their uniforms from the road.

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