| OCR Text |
Show Flying - 140 get much colder. Let us pray that they won't. And that I will encounter nothing unpleasant out here in the dark. Nothing worse, at least, than the aggressors who will slip down from their camps deep in the mountains and try to infiltrate our positions. But then tomorrow night the Marines will be between me and them; this will be rear and we will be safe from even simulated violence. And if one does come through, I'll capture him. A chance for glory. Leaning against the damp wooden planks of the latrine, John Henry waits for the sun to cone up and his relief to arrive. He unslings his carbine and dozes quietly. A little cool after all, these California nights, dew on the long grass and fog in the valleys. Tomorrow night, I'd better wear a field jaclcet. Tomorrow night they'll give me some real blank ammunition for my carbine and I'll be able to shoot if I have to. Little brass cartridges half-full of powder and sealed with red wax. Dangerous at close range. Powder burns and bits of hot wax driven into the flesh. Or the eyes. Soft soft flesh of the eyes. Footsteps come down the road, making little shuffling sounds in the dust, and John Henry quickly picks up his carbine. He peers around the corner of the latrine, but the fog is thick and the dawn still far away. There is only the sound of footsteps. |
