Shots rang out above the heads of two soldiers leaning against a makeshift barricade in the center of the road.

“Cease-fire’s over, I guess,” said Private Abrams.

“Not until we get orders,” said Private Michaels. “Call it in. See what the brass says.”

“So we sit here until we get shot?”

“Or until we get orders, yeah.”

Abrams tilted up his helmet to scratch his forehead. “Sounds stupid to me.”

“You don’t get paid to think.”

“You don’t get paid to be a dick.”

Michaels shrugged. Abrams radioed the base. They sat in silence, bullets striking the wooden slats and sandbags behind them.

Abrams finally spoke. “Isn’t there a self-defense clause? I mean, they already broke the cease-fire by firing at us.”

“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” Michaels said. “What’s a promise worth if you’ll break it, good reason or bad?”

“I’d say it’s worth my life, for one thing. Wasn’t my promise anyway.”

Michaels opened his mouth to reply, but the hand grenade tossed into their laps brought the argument to an abrupt end.