“About…face!”

Barked orders fill the heavy air. Cut-downs and slurs follow soon after. Down in the muck we struggle dutifully. Every man-jack of us wants to quit. Few will. G.I.s don’t quit, not real ones anyway.

Hell arrives in a starred jeep. I swallow hard and lock my eyes forward. Just blinking could get me sent to the brig.

“Keep it up, ya bastards,” he roars. Love is somewhat lacking in the tone, “My pretty, dirty bastards, you are!”

No words convey the hatred. Opened mouths dare not speak it. Proof of discipline or something like that.

“Quit lollygagging you limp-wristed bunch of nancy boys! Right…face!” Sergeant’s in a mood today. Tomorrow he will be as well, I’m sure.

Under a heavy sun we toil. Visions of welcoming cots dance in fevered minds. We fade but do not falter. X-ray strength bolts of sunlight torture without ceasing, tainting life’s blood brown as dust.

You don’t grow old in this man’s army, you just feel like it until you get what’s coming to you.

Zilch—absolutely nothing.