We're at a radio conex that is bright inside. The light is run by generators. One whole wall is radios. The radioman is monitoring something through headphones and scratching rot around his armpits with a letter opener.
“What's happenin’, bro?” Chickenfeed asks.
“Hong Kong radio is bouncing in,” the radioman answers. The headphones are around his neck now. He tells us the frequencies we need. When we're leaving he says, “Ain't these rains hell on grunts?”
“Sweats me not,” Chickenfeed says, “I'm so short I be steppin’ on my mustache.”
~ ~ ~
When we leave the conex we head directly down the slippery hill. The guard position is far beyond the perimeter. It is an LP: listening post. We relieve the two guys there and I'm suddenly shaky, nervous. The LP isn't made to be comfortable. Two amm
