Fletcher pressed his back against the frozen Falklands ground of his tiny foxhole and clamped his eyes shut as he heard the whistle of incoming mortars over their heads. He flexed all his muscles, preparing for impact. The sound of peat and ice exploding far from his hole made him open his eyes, quickly readjust his green steel helmet, and set his rifle against the dirt.
His gaze drifted to the night sky above the top of the twin peaks of Two Sisters. Dots of small arms firing at them blended with the twinkly stars. He thought it was hard to decipher which were Argentine soldiers shooting at them and which were burning celestial gas giants in the heavens.
Fletcher surveyed the side of the mountain and noticed his fellow marines all looked the same as him, probably smelled the same too. I
