eighty degrees to see Private James Wallace in his face.
“What did you see?” Wallace asked.
Surprised, Smith answered, “Nothing, private.”
Unconvinced, Wallace replied with a frustrated, “Yes sir.”
Smith brushed past the private and met up with the sergeant, who was absent mindedly poking at the dead Frenchman’s body with the barrel of his rifle. The sergeant immediately heard him approaching.
“So, these Frenchies come out here to go on some excavation and then get blown to Hell by… what? Insurgents? Landmines?”
“Most likely one of those,” Smith grunted.
“Don’t they know there’s a war going on? And they didn’t have a local guide,” the sergeant observed.
“Maybe he was involved with the attack.”
The sergeant snorted in agreement. “Finish your inventory and get the boys moving. Let’s get to base.”
“Yes sir.”
Night had fallen over the base, a collection of large tents that served as storage, offices, and barracks. A sharp calm was over all, not a soul stirring, not even the lonely troops standing guard. Private Wallace was one such soldier, sitting at his post, desperately fighting the drowsiness that was creeping over him like darkness. His resolve was beginning to wither, his heavy eyelids slamming shut over his green orbs. N
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