A story by John Dixon
“Sarge is hit!â€
“Where’s the medic?â€
“He’s dead, sir.â€
“Push forward, men! Take that outpost with grenades!â€
Clusters of green and tan collide with grim finality.
The guns are silent. Not a single figure moves.
The man shifts a faltering lad to the nearby couch and gently pulls a sheet halfway up his small form. Marty slides the remaining distance into slumber within a minute. Surveying a random terrain of wadded blankets and shattered wood-block fortifications, his grandfather leaves the door ajar. Battle’s aftermath in the raking shafts of dawn will provide a more satisfying morning picture than tidied carpet.