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uniforms, marching in perfect lines to the beat of a drummer, like the British in the Revolutionary War. If only the VC got their training from the Redcoats. It would have been fun, Jake thought, to pick them off one by one as if in target practice. To leisurely call in a 105mm howitzer, give a signal for the war to start, and for once to actually see what you were shooting at. But it would never happen here. Victor Charlie wasn’t civilized like the British of old. He was wily and crafty and unpredictable. Knowing that made the most routine patrol about as relaxing as walking along the six-inch window ledge of a ten-story building. But knowing that was what kept you alive.
    You could scan the horizon with binoculars and never see Charlie, only to look down and watch a bayonet come out your chest, flicking your dog tags up to your mouth to give you one final metallic taste of life in this world. Only once had Jake looked into the eyes of the enemy. There he was now, right in front of him, as real as he’d been so long ago. He could see deep in his eyes, those dark brown eyes frozen forever in his memory. Charlie looked young and dedicated and brave and scared, just like Jake. One would have to kill the other.
    Charlie carried the Russian AK-47, three pounds heavier than Jake’s M-16. The smaller man carrying the larger weapon. Jake always thought that mismatch saved his life, allowing him to move his weapon a fraction of a second faster, hitting Charlie in the chest while his round flew four inches above Jake’s left ear. As he stared at Charlie, watched his life leave him, he wondered about things young men usually leave to philosophers and priests. Where did he go? Where will I go? And when? Does friendship die forever with the friend? Do either survive death? Is there a reason for all this? Will I ever understand ?
    There was the captain he’d talked with once at the officer’s club. “On this side of life,” the captain said, “there’s the Old Man, the commander, reviewing the troops. You do your best to please him, don’t you?” Yes, Jake did. Everybody did. “Then there’s the Supreme Commander,” he said. “He’ll review the troops on the other side. Our mission here is to please him, our highest goal to one day be reviewed favorably by him.”
    By now he’d eaten dirt in a couple of firefights. Knowing he could die any day made Jake think about such words. As the captain said, “There are no atheists in fox holes.” But in the years since, these words had lost their interest and urgency. They managed to scale the wall of life’s busyness only when his guard was down, here in his dreams.
    Jake now sat around the campfire, smirking at C-ration labels that sounded like gourmet feasts but always tasted like cardboard casseroles. He could still taste Ham & Lima Beans, half salt, the other half fat, with just enough hidden food particles to make finding them an adventure. He tore the top off a basket, creating a makeshift basketball hoop, then listened to Gordy, Baton Rouge Gordy, play his twelve string Martin. Gordy sang Simon and Garfunkel songs, straining on Garfunkel’s high notes, trying to reach them before getting hit with the usual barrage of catcalls and dirt clods. “A Bridge over Troubled Water.” He could hear it now, as clearly as the first morning song blaring out of a radio alarm clock.
    Bravo Company. It sounded so macho. Sometimes it was. Sometimes Jake felt like a man should feel, like he only feels when he’s spent himself, when he’s dug deep and discovered that when he’s sure he can’t possibly trudge another step, he can go ten more miles. When he’s taken risks and accomplished great feats and come home from the hunt carrying game in his hand and scars on his back, ready to celebrate the conquest. There’s no celebration like the one you’ve earned , Jake thought.
    Jake celebrated in the city, with his buddies, and with the dark-skinned nameless women trafficking and