SitRep Mar221851H: The hooches still burned and it was beginning to grow dusk.
When the burning stopped sometime in the night, there was nothing that said. I-Am-A-
Village-Where-People-Live left, only the clearing, the ashes, the name on the map, but
nothing more. The graves. The radio sucked wind again as though nothing had
happened, nothing had changed.
We set up close to Flynn Michael's position, where we had set up before, and we met,
while Horey continued the guns, working them into the area to our front, three thousand
meters out all around. He fired them on through the night.
“I’m going to kill them fucking all,” he said, “every fucking one.”
"There was never a finer man,” Flynn Michael said, “Jesus.”
He went through the day, reliving each step. He told it in detail explained it all, as
though he had been there alone.
“Never a finer man,” he said at the end.
For a while, we did things differently, for most of it we were quiet, looking down at the
feet that we couldn't see in the dark but knew were there because now we could feel
That ended it. We drifted away without speaking into the comforting dark, and the night
sounds of Horey's artillery pounding the shit, if that’s what it was out of the earth. Not
the world, the earth, the wet soggy earth.
When I got back to my own small CP, Balen and Hamlin and Rico were there. They
were quiet and looked away when I sat down with them and they mumbled when they
spoke. Lonely dozed to the pleasant, now pleasant quiet sucking of the radio that
leaned against a tree and supported his head.
“Get ready to move," I said.
They sat not seeming anxious to leave.
"Lonely," I said again.
“Yes sir,” he answered.
“What happened to the three gooks I left with you?”
“They happy motherfuckers now sir," he said.
“I suppose they are but I guess it doesn’t make any difference now anyway,” I said
Again there was silence.
“What about tonight,” Balen said at last.
“What about it," I said.
“Do they expect any shit tonight?”
I could see his eyes plainly now as he spoke watching me in the growing dusk.
“Christ no,” I said, “no sweat, we own this night, remember?”
“And the days?” Balen asked.
“Ah, the days,” I said, “Yes, the days are still a bitch.”