Stiles had heard the rumors and did nothing to refute them. A case of loose hinges had its benefits in the field. No one bothered him, not even the officers. Especially the officers. The threat of being fragged by one’s own men was omnipresent these days, so an obvious loon was handled with kid gloves. For that reason he was never reprimanded and never given the shit jobs, except for point, which he didn’t consider a shit job and most often asked for. The latter only added to his mystique. He always had a place to sit at mess, always a smoke when he was in the mood, friends when he wanted them, and solitude when he didn’t. Besides, maybe he was a little nuts—what other kind of man would show off by going into the bush after Charlie with just his Ka-Bar knife? He was like a big cat, following the enemy slowly, methodically, his senses suddenly alive to the chase, his veins pulsing with adrenaline. And when he found them, whether it be two or ten, he’d take them out, one by one, striking like a . . .

Whisper?

He spun around to the rainy gloom, his rifle at the hip and swiveling there to cover the field of sight. But there was nothing within view, only the landscape, lush and green and bent to the fury of the storm. But there had been a voice, a whisper . . . hadn’t there?

You’re cracking up, Chris my boy.

He signaled back to the others. Stay still. Stay low. Something’s not right. Then he waved to Pruett to start forward into the dense jungle ahead, to keep within visual contact, but Pruett wasn’t even there to reply. He peered long and hard at the other flank, thinking the younger man had just blended back into the vegetation, but the other point had already moved on. What a hot dog, he thought with anger. Now who’s showing off?

He moved along his own path into the vibrant green darkness ahead. Out of the sight of his men.

The tall grass fell under his boot and, with a twist of the ankle, stayed flat for whoever would follow. He knew better than to brush it aside by hand; the edges were like razors. After his first field mission he spent the next several days squeezing pus from his swollen, infected fists. He’d been sure to wear gloves ever since.

What a country. Even the fucking grass hates us.