“Chickenfeed got hit. He's in our hole. Go on over there.”
Fuck, no. Oh, f**k, no. I feel selfish or stupid or both; since I didn't get hit and Prophet didn't get hit I forgot to even think about the rest of them, the rest of us. Chickenfeed is lying in the bottom of the hole covered with a poncho liner soaked through by blood. Poncho liners are camouflage cloth and ponchos are rubberized nylon, and the first thought I have has something to do with comparing the dead guy being covered by the poncho and Chickenfeed lying there under this soft poncho liner; even though the blood comes through this, it seems right somehow. I don't know why.
Chickenfeed is crying. His black face is streaked in every direction like a football left in the rain. Tears come to me immediately. He is sobbing, and
