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except that you’ll get off two hours earlier, and I had to get up two hours earlier to give you my talk. I know that just breaks you up.” Even Willy chuckled. Captain Price seemed to be all right, for an officer.
    â€œArtillery comes in two varieties, ours and theirs. Either one can kill you dead. All you have to do is be standing in a spot where a frag wants to go.
    â€œJungle warfare’s almost always close range. You grunts, you infantrymen, are going to have Charlie so close you’ll be able to smell his BO.” People laughed. “I’m not kidding! And even when he’s that close, you’ll be having artillery dropped in on him, and be damned glad it’s there, too. Otherwise, he might be in your foxhole with a knife.
    â€œWhen it’s coming down right in front of you like that, just keep your head down and you’ll be OK. Most of these rounds could fall a few meters away; if you’re scrunched down in a foxhole you won’t get hurt.
    â€œOf course, maybe one time in a hundred, in a thousand, that round’s gonna fall short and land right in your lap. Don’t waste time worryin’ about that. If it happens, you won’t feel a thing.
    â€œNow, we have several kinds of artillery, broken down according to how big around the shell is. Biggest one is the 8-incher…”
    He went on for about an hour, telling about the different kinds of artillery, their “kill radius,” how fast they can shoot, and such. I don’t think I remembered a tenth of it.
    We had a break for coffee and then piled onto an open truck. It took us about a mile, to Camp Enari’s perimeter. We got off and stood around while Captain Price talked into a hand radio, getting clearance to drop a few shells into the valley below us.
    â€œNow these 105’s will be about the smallest rounds you’ll see in combat, not counting the mortars. First comes the smoke round—watch!”
    There was a ragged, rustling sound, then a distant pop (the sound of the gun catching up with the shell), and a louder pop, then a puff of white smoke in the jungle below.
    â€œDrop fifty and fire three HE,” the captain said into the microphone. I could remember that meant to crank the gun down so it would aim fifty meters closer, and shoot three HE, high explosive, rounds.
    â€œNow look at that little clearing down there.” The rustle was much louder than before, followed by pop-pop-pop, and the clearing exploded in three fountains of dirt and gray smoke. The noise of the explosions was loud rolling thunder.
    â€œWell, that’s the show, boys. Wish you could see more, but we can’t spare the ammunition.” He got into his jeep. “Want a ride back, Sergeant?” Our truck had already left.
    â€œYes, sir —Specialist, you march these people back to the billet.” They left in a cloud of dust.
    â€œAll right, quit bitchin’.” The guy was a specialist fourth class, a Spec/4; not quite a sergeant. “At least that’s all we’re gonna do today. We can go back and hit the sack.”
    â€œYou ain’t gonna make us march, are ya, Specialist?” That was Willy.
    â€œHell, no. We’ll just walk down to the main road and see if we can catch a ride—but fer Chrissake don’t forget to salute everything that moves!”
    It was a couple of blocks to the road. We stood there for half an hour (long enough to walk it, actually), breathing dust and saluting every couple of minutes, until an empty dump truck pulled up and hauled us to the Admin area.
    The specialist advised us to fade out of sight; there was bound to be somebody cruising around looking for detail men. ’Most everybody hiked up to the PX, but I was too tired. Decided to take my chances and headed straight for the sack. It took me about three seconds to fall asleep.
    â€œWhat the fuck do y’think yer doin’, soljer?” I looked up bleary-eyed