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The office tent still stood. The light swayed, but no longer flickered or jumped. I entered. Books and magazines had been blown onto the floor, but the desks and chairs had not moved. I looked at the desk where I had been working. A wicked piece of shrapnel sat on the top of my desk, one pointed end embedded in the very spot where I had been writing. I reached out to touch it this time sacrificing just the bare tip of a finger. It was warm, but no longer hot. I grasped the half-inch piece with my thumb and two fingers and tugged. It didn't budge. I wiggled and then tugged again and it popped free. I found my letters scattered on the floor, bits of shrapnel rested on and around the paper. I stepped back and heard something crunch beneath my boot, more shrapnel. I looked at the back of the swivel chair. Another piece of shrapnel was stuck in the back rest. I looked at the tent top. Tiny holes appeared above my desk and ran the length of one half of the top. The shell must have hit one of the trees outside, spraying the tent below. Charley had failed to serve me my death warrant by the narrowest of margins.
My curiosity served, I turned out the light and headed toward my hooch. I sat on the edge of my bed and peeled off my uniform, piling it next to my cot and leaving my boots and socks close by, ready to re-deploy should Charlie have anything more to say. I lie down and felt my head thumping with thoughts and pain. My legs and arms felt heavy, as if I had just played a day's worth of basketball.
I tossed and turned for the next hour. I was sure each noise outside was the start of another mortar attack. At last I became too tired to care and fell asleep.
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