âIn war, there are no unwounded soldiers.â
âJosé Narosky
September 9, 1971
Preacher lay on his cot, his hands folded behind his head, staring at the shadowed canvas roof overhead. Though it was well past midnight and he was exhausted from a day spent on patrol, sleep evaded him.
From the far distance came the muffled rumble of bombs exploding. Closer was the not-so-muffled sound of snoring.
He shot a frown at the cot next to his and considered giving it a swift kick and telling his bunkmate to turn overâ¦but decided against it. Just because he couldnât sleep didnât mean Fast Eddie had to join in his misery.
Fast Eddie. He snorted a laugh at the irony of the nickname. There was nothing fast about Eddie. He talked slow, walked slow. But the nickname assigned him during boot camp had stuck, the same as Preacherâs. Preacherâs real name was Vincent Donnelly, but it had been so long since heâd been called by his given name, he doubted he would respond if he were to hear it now.
The tag wasnât one he wouldâve chosen for himself, but heâd take it any day of the week over âCowardâ, which is what some of the guys called him behind his back. He didnât like the name or what it signified. He wasnât a coward. He just had a hard time wrapping his mind around killing another human being.
Giving up on sleeping, he rolled from his cot and to his feet, hoping a walk might silence the chatter in his head. Once outside, he paused to look around. At the far end of the campâs perimeter fencing he saw a shadowed form in the bunker and headed that way, thinking heâd shoot the breeze for a while with whoever was pulling guard duty. As he neared the bunker, he heard the metallic click of a safety being released and called quickly, âItâs me. Preacher.â
He heard another click, indicating the safety was shoved back into place, and released a nervous breath.
âFigured it was you, Preacher.â
Recognizing the deep voice as that of Pops, their team leader, he crossed to the bunker and settled down alongside his friend.
âQuiet night?â he asked.
Pops nodded, his gaze on the tall grasses that spread from the western corner of their camp. âHeard something a while ago. Thought we might have some company, but havenât seen or heard anything since.â
âCouldâve been an animal. We spotted some wild dogs this afternoon on our way back to camp.â
âMaybe.â
Hearing the doubt in Popsâs voice, Preacher glanced his way. âYou think somebodyâs out there?â
Pops lifted a shoulder but kept his gaze on the grass beyond the fence. âSafer to think there is than get caught unprepared.â
Preached nodded gravely.
They sat a long moment in silence before Pops slanted a look Preacherâs way. âStill having trouble sleeping?â
Embarrassed by what some might consider a weakness, Preacher ducked his head. âYeah. Canât seem to stop the chattering in my head.â
âChattering?â
âYou know. Like two sides of my brain are carrying on a conversation.â
âHave you tried telling them to shut up?â
Chuckling, Preacher shook his head. âHavenât tried that one yet.â
âDo what I do,â Pops suggested. âWhen I lay down at night, I close my eyes and picture home, my wife curled up beside me in bed. Relaxes my mind, my soul.â
âWouldnât work for me. When I think about home, it just adds more worries to the chatter already going on in my head. Things like is Karen managing okay without me? Has Vince cut his first tooth?â
Pops shifted his rifle to his left hand and slung an arm around Preacherâs shoulders. âYou worry too much, Preacher. Youâve got to learn to let some of that go. Have faith that your boy will survive cutting his first tooth the same as you and every other kid in the world has. And trust your wife to handle things while youâre gone. Sheâs capable isnât she?â
âYou bet she is. Karen might look fragile, but sheâs tough. And Vinceâ¦well, heâs pretty tough, too.â He glanced Popsâs way. âDid I tell you heâs started climbing out of his crib? Karen told me about it in her last letter.â
Pops withdrew his arm. âNext thing you know, heâll be driving a car.â
Preacher held up a hand. âPlease. Donât be putting those kinds of images in my mind. I can find enough to worry about as it is.â
Chuckling, Pops pushed to his feet and stretched. âI need to take a leak. Mind standing guard for me?â
Preacher took the rifle Pops offered him. âMight as well. Canât sleep, anyway.â
After Pops left to relieve himself, Preacher settled the rifle over the edge of the bunker and began slowly sweeping his gaze along the shadowed sea of swaying grass before him, while keeping his ear tuned to pick up the slightest sound. Heâd made one full sweep and started a second when he heard a muffled sound behind him. He leaped to his feet, bringing the rifle up into position, its butt braced against his shoulder. With the nose of the barrel pointed in the direction the noise had come, he waited, listening.