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First published on Spillwords Press.

Under a copse of oaks, a mile or so from the ridge, we sit well hidden from the enemy. Yet we’re less concerned about the Yanks than finding relief from the stifling heat. Hot, humid, and not a hint of a cloud in the sky. The woolen uniforms are no help either.
Will stands up, and leans against the tree where we’ve been sitting, and tries to peek through the leaves toward the ridge where we both know we’ll march against before this day is done.
“Can’t see nothing up there, John,” he says.
“Good,” I say.
“Why’s that?”
“If you can’t see him, he can’t see you,” I say.
Several in the regiment sitting near us join in a laugh. And it tends to cut the tension while we wait….

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