There was a lot of activity around me and I looked up and saw Roberts’s guys stringing concertina wire around the perimeter of the camp. I figured they must have been expecting an attack. The M-16 felt heavy in my arms. Two deep breaths gave me enough energy to head back to the tent where Jonesy lay. I envisioned him sitting up, telling some story about his blues joint. When I got into the tent he was still lying at the far side, the flames from the low fire casting a reddish glow to his skin. “You were wounded,” Miller was on her knees near Jonesy’s feet and started toward me. “Let me take a look at you.” “Deal with Jonesy,” I said. “I’m okay.” She stopped where she was, still kneeling, head down, hands folded in front of her thighs. “Captain Miller?” I called to her. She looked up at me. Her face, pale and drawn, looked as if she were in shock. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” She began to sob, and then to wail. It was as if something horrible and ugly were pouring out of her.
