“I’m not hungry,” I spat back.

Stanislaw continued, speaking as quickly as he could. “There’s more.”

“Oh great,” Rosenberg declared.

“Brass is saying pull back. Them Chinese are on the move. You think it’s bad here, go see some of the other fireteams.” He shook his head. “You guys are the lucky ones.”

“How bad is it?” I asked.

Stanislaw swallowed. “They own the road. We’re in three pieces. 3rd Battalion’s getting restless, though.”

“Frick,” Stimson breathed.

“We’re falling back that-a-way,” the sergeant continued, pointing southwest.

“What?!” Rosenberg whispered. “Confucius has us gift-wrapped and they’re telling us to move out?”

“We’re consolidating. There’s a ridge southwest of here, out back by the lake. Once we cross the camp at 1100 meters—”

“We’re passing by camp?” I asked.

“Yes, they’re gone already. We’re going to the ridge. Prepare your men to move out.”

“With all these Chicoms everywhere?”

Stanislaw let out a resigned sigh. “Orders are orders. Get your men ready. We move in five.”