The marines of the Barbwire Circle had long been the enemies of the Taliban, who lived across the river. The rivals traded gunshots through the day, and they shelled each other by night. But it came to pass that the dry season grew so dry, and the winds blew so fierce, that neither side could see the other to shoot, for the red cloud that was raised thereby. The captains of the host commanded their troops to check fire until the rains prevailed and assuaged the dust. And at first, the peace was cause for celebration in the Circle.
The marines passed the days gambling their hazard pay at blackjack, and drinking the hooch the Doc made in his press, and throwing a football back and forth through the cloud. But fat and idle living soon fed the wickedness in their hearts.
Already have an account? Log in
Join KR for even more to read.