No one moved as a parachute flare slowly floated down from the oily night and illuminated the compound. The sharp pulsating light from the flare darted in and out of the opening of the bunker, strobing the soldier's faces black-white, white-black, eyes wide open, and eyes half shut as their minds quickly clicked from here to there.

And there, would be anywhere but in a bunker in 'Nam smoking a joint listening to Neil Young. Even though they had just snuck a quick mental R&R, the hissing flare reminded them they had not quite traveled far enough down life's road to have experienced the imagery of peace and love, portrayed by Neil Young.

But oh, did they desire that place Neil crooned about. In their minds, it was just a matter of counting down the days and getting on that Freedom Bird and flying to wherever. It didn't matter where. It didn't matter because what they hoped for wasn't there. It wasn't anywhere, not for these returning 'Nam vets, these baby killers, these time bombs.

They had been sobered by combat and didn't expect ticker-tape parades, but they also didn't anticipate the rejection that was soon to greet them.

The hissing flare reminded them of their duty and status. It teased them with the dwindling illumination of their fragile dreams. It floated overhead past the perimeter concertina wire toward the killing zone cleared with Agent Orange. The killing zone, sprouting Claymore mines like deadly green mushrooms, posed less of a threat and did less damage to the VC than the Agent Orange overspray did to the anxious soldier clutching a Claymore clacker.

The soldiers of Outpost Roberts didn't need a flare to know what was out past the wire. They all knew that the quandary of life or death faced them 24/7, no matter where the perimeter concertina wire met the mud.

But, out past the wire, it was always dark. It was greasy black dark with thick humid air that hung in the back of everyone's throat and threatened to suffocate all hope. And, if a soldier wasn't wired right and tight ready to rock and roll, that unctuous darkness became a vile being with the sole purpose of sucking a soldier down into his own muck and mire. It was not to be trifled with, and those that had gone outside the wire ill-prepared sloshing recklessly in the mud ultimately felt their boots being sucked off their feet.

This boot 'Suckage' morphed over time into the 'The Fuckage' as seasoned soldiers proclaimed one must embrace 'The Fuckage' by making it a friend. They knew this compromise was necessary to counter the sense of futility and borderline paranoia that whispered the end of all things right and good was one miss-step ahead, waiting patiently like a tripwire from hell.

CRACK! A single shot pierced the night.

Morason, Slade, Button, and Robin froze in alert. A dog yelped with high-pitched frenzy as it bit at its wounded hindquarters.

CRACK! Another shot rang out, and the dog was quiet.

"Fuckin' DS," Slade said.

Angered, Button asked, "Why's he always got to do that?"

"He thinks any dog in the wire is a gook dog and deserves to be wasted," Morason said.

"Ya, wasted," Slade said as he nodded his head toward Robin.

Robin looked up. "Huh?"

Everyone knew Colonel Blackthorn had dreamed up another mission into the night, sure to send some FNG back home in a body bag before his '365 and a wake-up'. It was also evident to everyone that Robin had lost his edge and was as helpful and clueless as an FNG just in country.

"It doesn't matter what Blackthorn, or the Chaplain do, or even if they exist," Morason said to Robin. "It's all about duty."

Robin, on the nod, scratched at an itch on his cheek. "Fuck that shit," he said in a soft, weak faraway voice, then whined, "Why? Why me?"