Eltee is working his way up the line, whispering to everybody as he goes by. It strikes me as absurd, although not stupid, for him to be whispering. I don't know, maybe he isn't whispering: it's as though all I can hear are the flies, like a radio station off the air for the night—a low hummmzaat. As Williams moves up he walks hunchback to carry the weight of the radio and his ruck. My ruck straps cut into me all the way down the trail but I didn't notice the ache much until now. f**k it. All we have to do is get these slings another thirty meters, cut a hole, and catch a ride back to the LZ.
Before I know it Eltee is at my side.
“We're about ready to move,” he says. His face is like a clock, so exact is the intensity of his expression. I notice his nose looks wider on one side than the
