"She's in a trench."

     The minor journalist shoved the microphone in through the arms lifting a wounded.  "How much did you get paid?" He asked.  The wounded soldier grimaced.  "It ain't about money kid.  It's about saving each others' lives at this point." He had to have immediate IV switch before being wheeled off.  A woman smacked the face of the kid who'd asked the question. The little tape recorder fell to the ground. 

    Two Marines looked at each other.  One said, "We gotta do something."  The other said, "We do.  Now." 

     They started a perimeter with a friendly-funky dance step that fell into a bit of a march and catch their guns. 

     "That's not what I heard," the woman who'd smacked the cub reporter was holding the little tape recorder out to the blurry face crying.  "What do you mean mother?" A priestly looking man asked as he took the tape recorder.  On the whole time.  "That wasn't," the chopper blades sliced at the air, "The question on the relay." 

     The woman burst into tears.  Her hands shook like she was on earthquaking ground.  Then her shoulders.  "All I heard," body trembling, "Wah, was, Can you call my mother?  And, I answered, "I can't.  She's in a trench."  Her body shook her swaying and her knees buckled.  The priestly man caught her.