Richard follows him out onto the sand, enjoying the feel of it underfoot. He'd always been fond of natural places like this - beaches and forests and rivers and mountains and things. Even before the war, growing up in rural Wisconsin impressed all of that upon him, and it hadn't gone away like so much of what he'd held important back then had. It had only amplified, really; when you lay in one position for three days waiting to be able to take a shot, you noticed all the tiny details the world had to offer, whether it was the way that the grass moved in the wind, or studying every single little detail about the insect that landed on the barrel of his M1917 Enfield, as moving even so much as to brush it off would have given away his position. The beach was about the only natural place in Atlantic City, and it was far easier to find a quiet spot here, away from the masses, with the reassuring, regular sound of the waves crashing on the shore like the beat of a drum.

He accepts a cigarette from Jimmy, nodding in thanks. This, at least, was one pleasure he could partake in without feeling self-conscious.