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Somewhere Near Phu Bai The moon cuts through night trees like a circular saw white hot. In the guard shack I lean on the sandbags, taking aim at whatever. Hundreds of blue-steel stars cut a path, fanning out silver for a second. If anyone's there, don't blame me. I count the shapes ten meters out front, over & over, making sure they're always there. I don't dare blink an eye. The white-painted backs of the Claymore mines like quarter-moons. They say Victor Charlie will paint the other sides & turn the blast toward you. If I hear a noise will I push the button & blow myself away? The moon grazes treetops. I count the Claymores again. Thinking about buckshot kneaded in the plastic C-4 of the brain, counting sheep before I know it. 7 ...

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