“You look, Corporal,” the officer ordered.
The corporal knelt beside Dave. “He’s out, sir. His eyes are open, but he’s out.”
“All right, who is he? What’s his company?”
“PFC Ruiz, Carmen. Able Company.”
“And yours?”
Dave told him.
The captain’s shoulders slumped. “All right, Corporal, that’s it.”
Dave watched them move across to the pile of ammunition boxes. The dark shape of the colonel, much smaller than it had been before, hugged the top of the improvised table like a half-full sandbag. The executive stood over them for a moment, deliberating. Then he said to the corporal, “We’ll let him sleep. See to the sentries and then hit the sack yourself.”
The fecund magic of the sack was one of war’s unfailing mysteries. For eight hours, overseen and protected only by a few dozing picket
