The Express

Screams permeated the mountainside. Bullets ripped through the mud laying flat the tall marsh grass. . .

Rotor wind held him face down. The bird flew away. As far as eyes could see were bodies, withering, crying for relief. Death claimed the field.

His mind closed to all sounds. Vigorously working in his silence he stuck with blood. Bandages held the mud in place, hopelessness the only viable truth.

Stubs were tied with tourniquets, spines were exposed.

A boy lay back holding his stumps to the blue Asian sky. A tear rolled past his ear to the clay.

Someone grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. It was time to go.

He entered the bird. The scene began to fade.

His pain subsided as the chopper turned to a view of the delta and home. The morning reported twenty-seven missing in action.

It is said a shot was heard in the rainy night. Gathering, they saw him laying face down in the mud. The rain continued to fall. They ran inside to escape the torrents.

The morning reported that one man was missing from the manifest. No mention was made of a battle.

Screams permeated the mountainside. Bullets ripped through the mud laying flat the tall marsh grass. A chopper came in low and hovered.