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gonna get his tonight,” they leered.
    “What?”
    “Man, you are a piece of work! Carbini makes you do an unspeakable act against that chick, and you still don't get it?”
    The other soldier nodded in agreement. “Fragging, Weylan. He's gonna get fragged tonight by several of the guys and there's nothin' you can do about it.”
    “But you mentioned Billy R. What's that all about?”
    “Your pal Billy R. keeps hinting he's gonna try and stop it. We're bettin' he'll try to warn Carbini somehow, but who knows?”
    I thought about it for a few seconds. The guys were right, Billy R. was too much of a saint. Who cares if Carbini was blown to smithereens? I certainly wouldn't mind living without that bastard all over my back for the rest of my tour here. I leaned back against the sandbags and took several hits off of a circulating doobie, inhaling deeply, trying to relax. Wait a minute…Shit! What if Billy tries to stop it and gets blown up in the process?
    I threw down my joint and managed to crawl over the sandbags and out of the foxhole before sprinting back to our tent, my poncho flying behind me as the rain pelted my face and neck. Outside the front flap, I stopped and listened, but only the sound of gravelly snores answered me.
    I peeked in, looked over at Billy's empty bunk, and tiptoed over to Milton, poking him until he became semi-conscious. “Where's Billy R.? Where is he? Are you going ahead with your plan?”
    Milton stared up at me, his eyes half-opened in the glow of a single lantern up in front. As he struggled to wake up, I started shaking him full force, not caring who opened their eyes.
    “Are you guys going to frag Carbini?” I whispered fiercely.
    He nodded slowly, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Shannon's gonna do it,” he admitted. “What time is it? He might be there already. Why?”
    I didn't answer. I was already heading for Carbini's tent.
    It's funny how when you view explosions in the movies, it's like nothing. Not so in real life. When the grenades went off I felt everything rattle—the ground, the trees, the grass, my body, and my head, bouncing around like we were all inside a blender. Instantly, yelling soldiers were everywhere, running towards what was left of Carbini's tent, strewn across a half-mile radius. I sat up and took in the scene a beat or two before I thought of Billy R. Oh, God…
    Just then, I could see a familiar figure emerging from the smoke-filled camp, his head down, shoulders drooped. When Billy R. came up to me, I opened my mouth to give him some kind of comfort, but thought better of it. Truth be told, after all the horror, the moral dilemma, I felt only relief, and when the rest of the camp learned of the victim, I noticed every eye was as dry as Arizona.
    The days and nights with a new sergeant continued uneventfully, with little signs of unrest except for the intermittent tat-tat-tat-tat of sniper fire at night. Billy's tour was almost up, mine, soon after, and when we finally got foxhole/patrol duty together, we decided to do a pre-celebration there, unencumbered by other soldiers. The night was beautiful—clear, less muggy than usual, and after a fat joint, we started counting stars. We lay back against the sandbags, whispering about how even in this God-forsaken place, some things stay constant, like the magnificent solar system, untouched by war.
    “God, I've got to take a piss,” I chortled suddenly.
    “Do it here, man. Who gives a shit?” I could tell Billy R. was already loaded.
    “Naw. Can't do it in front of you. Don't worry, I'll be careful.”
    We both started giggling as I worked my way out of the hole and onto the soft earth. I unzipped my pants and let it rip. My watery release against the ground sounded like someone tearing up a piece of paper in half time, and the longer I peed, the more we dissolved into gales of laughter, until our sides ached and my pants were spotted with convulsed urine droplets.
    Suddenly, the tat-tat-tat-tat seemed