As I got to the lip of the foxhole, a hand reached out and grabbed me by the collar and dragged me down and in.

Kirkegaard held his fingers up to his mouth and shook his head. He silently mouthed the word “enemy” and pointed out into the dark. I got up and leaned against the edge of the foxhole. He pointed. At first I couldn’t see anything. Then the moon peeked out from the cloud. A small saddle separated our hill from one due east. On the far side I could see literally hundreds of figures moving south. I was about to let out a “wow” when I felt a hand grip my shoulder.

It was Kirkegaard again. This time pointing, with more vehemence more to the north. More figures, moving west, out side of our weapons range, follow the valley down to the road. And nearer, dozens moving up the slope towards us.

“How are you on ammo?” I whispered.

“Ten clips, two frags left.” said K.

“A little less for me” said Thorvald.

“Wait until they get within 50 yards, then blast ‘em. I gotta check on the others.”