Fall down. Rest and rise. Splash through, wallow, rise and rest and then the camp.
HQ. Wooden steps, the door dark; hollow hammering; blood and mud and hammering. Footsteps, voices: astonishment, concern, annoyance, anger.
The white helmets and the brassards: MP. Tell them, bring the Colonel. No one else, only the Colonel.
Shut up, you’ll wake the Colonel.
Colonel, it’s anti-magnetron, to the satellite, and freight; no more jets!
Shut up, ROTC boy.
Fight them then and someone screamed when someone stepped on the broken foot.
The nightmare lifted and he was on a white cot in a white room with black bars on the windows and a big MP at the door.
‘Where am I?’
‘Hospital, prison ward, Lieutenant.’