Casting a wary eye at the barely visible Chinese forces, I went to the foxhole Kirkegaard and Thorvald occupied and broke the news to them. They were nonplussed but were nevertheless not going to bicker about the situation.

The moonlight was interrupted by a cloud. I jumped out of the foxhole and quickly advanced to the one Dulles and I maintained, being sure to whisper “Cobbler” to him. He still didn’t move; he just kept his gun at the ready.

“Hey, son,” I said, “we’re going to head out. There’s a ridge southwest of here that we’re going to take cover in. Sarge says that we’re going to regroup.”

No response.

I swallowed. “We’re lucky, Dulles. The other fireteams are taking a beating. There’s hundreds of Chicoms on the move, out there on the road, and there’s others coming towards us.”

Still, the man said nothing.

“You ready to move out?” I asked.

He turned slowly towards me. “Yes, sir,” he replied, his voice soft yet harsh.

“All righ—” I began.

The sudden staccato of gunfire split the air.