"Are they stalking us or

  are we just in their way?" 

  She'd asked the question in the jungle as boots and barefeet walked over and over what had been a person. 

  She'd asked a wounded camera person and then a freaking out soldier who'd fallen to knee.  The camera person was probably bleeding out yet her hands stuffed a can top size hole through the body with big soft leaves.  The soldier's hands tied in front of him with a muddy gray silk scarf. 

  It was a long time before the cicada picked up where they'd left off, the cadence of us and them.  

  In the morning the sun could not find it's way through the soupy milk sky.  Someone had tied newspaper plastic wrappers to many of the branches of trees surrounding the yard.  The three people that had been in the jungle were asked to recreate the scenario.  

  The store smoldering sent a long whisp of dirty cloud into the air.  An offshore wind jagged it's middle.  It somehow spoke of what's happening to us.

  "Make the foot work," to "I can't there's no more pulse." 

  A child imagined flexible.  Slithered under the driver's seat, reeeeached, and couldn't quite jam the foot on the gas.  A man hand shimmied a butt-end of a 2x4 up his arm, around the driver's seat. Putchitsh. The tangled mass of bodies shivered.  Marker smell filled the air.

  The candy-striper wiped hands on pink and wipe stripes.  Tucked a wool lap blanket more tightly under the legs of a man in a wheelchair.  Pushed the contrapshun into the vestibule.  Picked up a black medical bag from behind a glory statue and hurried. 

  The posterboard sign smashed up against the passenger side glass read 

     Iwe need you

"Is that an idea," the tourist

  asked while flash bulbs rang out, "Or is it trademarked?" A little humanoid finished the sentence. 

  "WTF?! What's in this room?" 

  We'd run with the bulls in Gatlinburg and skipped a tour of "wine country".  Roads were blocked and "shooters" of tire-deflating harpoons were on the rocks outside Oakridge. 

  Checking out a quasi-public/private gathering of entrepreneurs had brought to head great debates about community. 

  "And you are?" 

  "With 

  "Where's 

  "Mrs. Botox has left the building." 

  "Smoking.  Why?" 

  "That's not a possible antidote." 

  "Lemme see the list." 

  "Did any of you see this person?" 

  "Said she didn't mind.  Likes dogs." 

  "Yeah, but 

  "Those were 

  "The North Korean ones." 

The plane didn't even land but

we'd gotten all the pets in their "cozy" clothing and a bunch of veterinarians met us where we could get low enough to transport the precious cargo. 

  It would be a short ground-drop in and maybe getting out. 

  The dangling clothing rope dragged across the garbage dump. 

  "Has anyone seen my writer?" 

  Only two other people spoke English where we'd dropped. 

  Someone poked a long stick into a heap of foul-smelling rubbish.  The baking sun hit it like it hits tar or asphalt birthing the air into a shimmering. 

  "Carolina de Jesus.  Do you know where to find her?" 

  "Sì, sì pero un problemo." 

  "Que?" 

  The stick caught a black sock and hurled it as the person pointed with the stick to a broadly swinging cargo plane with the clothing rope on fire. 

"They're not self-organizing."

  The barrel fire still smelled horribly electronic.  "Are they self-reporting?" Boots brushed against a noggin squirmed up sleeping in a tent. 

  Embattled.  No one had seen them advance in a weather system to connect commandos with contained. 

  A slept-hard lip smacking.  One hand on a breast, the other shushing on eye open.  Lips moving to tell. 

  In fact, some of ours had been stripped to underwear again and tied to a flammable and potentially  explosive weight that was by-passed by pick up. 

  Someone did a quick headcount.  Silently made way to another campsite. 

  "Two," fingers told. 

  "Are the AWOL still in their uniforms?" A clerk-type turned to ask.

The jeep door slamming added

to the pound in the head.  Chores and contracting the swing door to the saloon-style prepping for settle down.  

  "WHY CAN'T YOU GIVE ME, US, THE retroactive pay?" 

  "It's complicated soldier's mom." 

  A swipe of a cleaning rag off a countertop.  A sigh.  "May I ask another question?" 

  "Shoot." 

  "Was this unit cleaned up well enough for a temporary barrack?" 

  "I'm not the judge.  And I really am endangering others having a plain old conversation with a civilian." 

  Back in the jeep.  "Just go." 

  "Okay.  But I can't make it all the way to there," pointing at a hand drawn cartoon of a map.  A phone call.  "Yeah.  I want you to come back and give me like ten bucks." 

  "For what?!?" 

  "Cleaning like a dozen peoples' tonsil stones off maybe my sister's mirror!" 

  "The realtor's in town?" 

  "She's married." 

  Click.  

  "Why would that be 'complicated'?" 

  Cigarette smoking irritated eyes tearing.  "Manpower on the move.  Dislocation of taxable money from physical address.  And this other thing." 

  "What other thing?" Was asked like, how could you possibly tell me something about my family, my self, that I don't already know.  "Okay, well I've been helping with some historical documentaries.  In real war displaced people and ownership of place 

  "Yeah 

  "Well, there's all this stuff about fluid situation and process.  Especially when places get occupied and people get detained.  Am I making your headache worse?" 

  "No, I think understanding stuff makes headaches better." 

  "See, something like payroll is one of those quasi things, uh, stuff of life.  It is and isn't material substance." 

  "Is that philosophical?" 

  "Everything is 'cuz humans think shit up.  But it also has to do with the part of this prep for war time in our lives." 

  "How?" 

  "We wouldn't even be having this conversation right now had we not bumped into each other, right?" 

  "I guess.  Don't go off on a tangent." 

  "The whole big thing was stalled, then lurching forward.  For people in my vocation, there's a ton of paperwork and documentation.  Which we can then look at for anahmolies." 

  "Drifting

  "So, if a red flag like a retroactive pay goes to budget arena, that calls attention to whatever time period 

  A rapping on the window startled both people.  No jumping but eyes wide open.  Window cracked open.  Some cash stuffed in.  People driving off. 

  "Plus, it's painfully slow to microscope a place, situation in the past when the whole thing is being forced forward.  We often wish we could see, for instance, where the terrorists were watching from when we were just visiting, or 

  "Let's go get gas."

"Thief!!" The woman snatched the

  Field & Stream.  Our two others passed the pillowcase of stuff back, back.  "Then we'll run." 

  Sun was starting to sink to Midway by the time we made it way out the farmer's road.  We'd returned most of the stolen-not-by-us stuff so re-stolen by us to the rightful owners. 

  "Just hobos," and that's what it looked like with our earnings and treasures in bandanas on sticks over our shoulders.  "Why'd ya tell 'em?" One girl just taller knocked the stick off the boy's shoulder.  "Bully!" The boy's treasures came out of his kerchief a little bit.  He bent to pick them up.  A foot stomped on his hand.  "I want that," was ordered.  He handed the lighter up.  "Anything else Sis?" 

  She lit a smoke and clamped the lighter shut.  Coughed a lil'.  "You sayin' I'm a sissy?" 

  "Not while I'm down here on the ground." 

  Crows lit off from sitting on a scarecrow.  "Look!  Those things work."  The boy jumped up and looked.  A saluting hand followed the black birds arcing up and over still tall corn stalks.  The pack of cigarettes hit his back.  "We weren't done talking." 

  "Just saying," he pretended to take binoculars from the other girl and look far, far into the future.  "That was a cowardly, sissy, thing to do.  I was having the perfect day." 

  "I wasn't."  The shorter girl went over and looked her up and down like penguins do.  Careful close looking.  "I don't see nuthin' wrong with her." More looking around back and lifting jean bottoms.  "THERE'S BLOOD!" The boy put his smoke behind his ear as he came right over.  He covered his eyes with a hansome hand and asked, "WHERE?" Then made blinds of his fingers and peeked at the pointing to tore up heels.  The boy sighed.  "You got underwear on?" 

  The girl jujitzoo'd her whole body around in one turn.  "What you askin' for?"  The boy's hands went into karate chop mode.  "She's not a cinderblock!" 

  "Just do it!" The shorter girl threw down the quilt patch and stepped back.  "Like bison!" The two walked away from each other like duelers, then he screamwhooped and they crashed into each other as they ran at each other.  The wrestle drew blood and lasted a good thirteen minutes before the bison crawled off to opposite sides of the road panting and clearing lungs.

  "They're testing." 

  "WHAAAT?" 

  The woman with the empty typewriter bag let a suited man take the little styrofoam cup from her steady-tremble-steadied hand.  She wouldn't let go of the bag and snarled at a man the came close for a kiss, I'll bite it off.  His big nose smelled her anyway. 

  "We can't speak about it," one told another.  Hand gestures moved the camera crews to a different gate.

  "Transvestite!" 

  "Towel head!" 

  "Get to work." 

  Foots on seven shovels then.  Overturned a whole new row to plant.

  "I don't think he's that." 

  "Just let think so." 

  "Do it!"  The handled cup was dipped in the barrel of water and thrown in the air.  Little ones shivered and shimmied.

"Why did you bring

  all these war criminals here?" An older man hissed at the lady.  She grabbed the marker set from a kid and put it in "the carpetbag".  Turned on heel, whispered to some other women, then came back towards the Tag Sale table in the Parish Hall.  "You did not just hear that." Was said to a gang of children.  One boy in dyed black (me mum got sick of doing our laundry) coveralls said just as sternly, "Oh I did tweed pants." 

  A girl smacked at him.  He ducked backwards but his hands were stuck in the straps so when he lost his balance he crashed into the old man's table.  People sort of tried to come and help, but once up from the sitting tables, mostly took their families home.  The man pointed at the lady.  "It's her!  She's the curse!  Worse even than Our Greek Curse.". He threw some of the items in the pile into a box then went outside to smoke. 

  "I can't have this happening here," one nun said really loudly to the others.  They moved together towards the table.  Uprighted it and started putting things back on the table. 

  "I need you to take me there." 

  "Okay, get in." The rather tall woman looked down at the kids and at the wagon.  "Do the people who live on the Island all travel this way?" 

  "Well, a quid might getcha an answer to yer troubles." The boy said.  "The answer is no.  Us and the wheelbarrow crew, we just pick up the dead ones.  Before the early birds get the worms!" 

  "Oh, I see.  May I walk beside?" 

  "If you insist.  But stay unseen." 

"Sit down please."

  A well-articulated whisper said, You are forbidden to ask questions in this room.  A pause then a tug.  "But isn't this a lecture?" A ssssssh finger gesture.

  "Look at these casualty figures." 

  People looked at their own paperwork at the follow-along information each had been presented. 

  "Now look up here.  Used to be a chalkboard for me." Person fumbled with a clicker.  Looked at watch.  Looked at clockwall and back at watch.  "Anyway," tried to toss the clicker away but it had been glued to hand.  "Comparing data from the Great War and the Second World War with Vietnam..." Looked at personal notes.  "With Our Services in command, here and there, MOST of the most seriously wounded and actual deaths took place in the first battles." 

  A medical technician neared the desk behind which the person was standing and lecturing.  Tapped on his watch.  "That time already? And I was," person cleared throat, "Just starting to learn something new." Person snatch-grabbed a fitted-to-arm crutch, shifted weight off a leg, leaned after thinking about it, and exited the room. 

"OKAY OKAY HYPOTHETICALLY THEN"

  No one had expected enemy forces to be where they actually were. 

  All the "fives" wanted answers.  To reasonable, non-strategy questions, like, WHY IS THERE A CHILD ON THE BATTLEFIELD?  WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?  WHO TOLD THEM TO SURGE?  WAS HE "SCHIZOPHRENIC" BEFORE JUST NOW?  

  The young commanders were circled by other commanders.  Each took the stance and posture of being attacked by a pack of wolves. 

  "What the fuck just happened out there?" A field surgeon snapping a right-angled-the-wrong-way leg back into "normal" position calmly asked.  He asked the exact question every thirty seconds until someone who could hear and was close enough to respond somehow could start the piecing together. 

  Impact.

  Impact.

  Impact.  An AI voice reported while people scrambled for pens, papers, maps, anything that was not somebody else's.  

  Through the powdery dust mounting like snowfall went the team still up and running.  "Body under a tank 

  "Partially in the mud 

  "Photograph," handed a laminated number card, "Everything with this marker thrown at it." 

  "Done." 

  "On MY count.  LIFT.  

  "HEAVE

"The departments haven't gone away."

  That was the man's baseline defense.  It was up against a maelstrom of What are they going to do to us?! and the twin towers of the driving questions:  What is going to happen to us? 

  What IS happening to us?

  "Well, culturally we've obviously gone to hell in a handbasket to quote my father." Another man said.  And, "I hate it when he's right."  He skipped a flat stone across the pond that had re-stilled after everyone had a group rebellion against wearing the uniform.  We were a mix of service people on a "weekend retreat".

  "Would you like to see the Brig, Sir?" 

  The president swallowed his swig of hot coffee just as a swell ran below the ship and unbeknownst to people on deck lifted and chucked anything not nailed down.  His "I would," seemed to come out of him in slow motion.  "Were you a surfer, Sir?" 

  "'Scuse me son?!" The wind was whipping rope against mast. 

  "You're a natural at this," the person didn't overly look at the coffee drenching the man's clothes.  "Least I held onto the thermos." 

  "Let's go below first and get warm." 

  "K." 

  The guy came up for air, smacked his hands against the pool's surface water which made a loud slaaaaap.  He checked the timer to see how long he'd held his breath that time.  A woman with a kitchen knife wetfoot paddled to the side of the pool.  "Tell me again," the guy had his eyes squished together as he shook his half-shaved hair side to side.  "I LOVE YOU." Then she pointed the knife in the direction of the little group of people who'd come to observe "leisure time".  And warned, "Stay away from my husband's butt." 

  Someone dramatically gasped and ducked and theatrically said, "I'm not gay." People looked around.  The guy opened his eyes and asked, "Who said that?" Looked at his wife, who was showing off an aluminum foil engagement ring on the hand not wielding the knife.  "Anymore," the ducked person finished his sentence.  People theatrically ha-ha-ha'd.  "Okay, and CUT." The director of a training video had finished a segment as another film person arrived.  All were gunning to get practice for what was being called real time working methods. 

"I TOLD YOU," one woman said

  loudly.  This prompted another woman to grab the throat of a guy's tee-shirt and furiously growl-say, How long was I asleep for?!? While two people were pulling her behind some junk in a yard and carefully, but frantically, re-wrapping "the wound that never happened."  Even though, it had.  A clip fell on the ground which the louder woman stepped on without knowing.  "To call me if and when you needed me, not cut a body part off," her totally sunburned face said as it popped up over the junk and dialed down on us. 

  "I neither cut off a body part, nor put one back on.  Don't know what kind of reports you're getting these days." 

  "Well, they don't Airmail something like that Missy, but I FIND OUT." 

  Administrative people in all the Services had spent some "overlap" time with Commanders' support teams.  And had also diligently guard rail'd every conversation between Allies while "the whole" Force pivoted and pinwheeled.  That way "Internationals" could keep abreast of select topics with eachother. 

  "Did you get to be an International?" 

  Ooooowah, "I did." She tweezed.  "What's up with this box of curling irons?" People looked at each other.  A stronger-that-day picked up a tangle of cords.  "That's where that went.  Well, this one's a straightening curler." 

  "How can it be a straightening anything AND be a curler?  She meant rod." One person had gone to a store.  Deftly put a pack of cigarettes and gum on the vanity table.  "Anyone else want anything?"  A car went by outside.  People patted pockets and felt for essential items on their persons.  "All good here." 

  "I'd take a pack of gum if," person cruised past to see the smell, "There's not that." 

  "The nicotine part or the flavoring?" 

  "Personally, I don't tend to buy fruity.  I eat it too fast." 

  "You're not supposed to eat gum brown noser.  And anyway, who asked you for your opinion or whatever that piece of speech just was?!" A person snapped a bubblegum bubble really harsh and asked.  Then pulled a wad into a long string and nibbled it back into her mouth.  "It's gonna be a long night," someone said. 

  Excerpt, War of Attrition (Philpott) 

     "Five weeks after enlisting in the Foreign Legion, Alan Seeger wrote to his mother from barrack at Toulouse, on the eve of his departure for the front: 'we are entirely equipped down to our three days' ration and 120 rounds of cartridges.  The wagons are all laden and the horses requisitioned.  The suspense is exciting, for no one has any idea where we shall be sent.'  After six weeks of hard drilling -- twelve hours a day, seven days a week -- he claimed to 'have learned in six weeks what the ordinary recruit in times of peace takes all his two years at', and all for the modest sum of one sou a day.  Seeger could drill, march and shoot, but he was not yet ready to fight: he would go through a few weeks of tactical training on the old Marne battlefield, within the sound of guns, before going into the trenches in Champagne in late October....

     "Like many thousands of others in 1914 and afterwards, his transition from civilian to soldier would be rapid and intense, as the battles raging across France demanded fighting men at an unprecedented rate" (113, WoA).