He forgot so much. Sometimes it seemed like he had been in combat just a few days. But other times it felt like he had been up there forever, waiting, moving forward, moving backward, thinking that at last he was beginning to get the picture, but not sure, never sure, never sure of _anything_. If only he could recall something beside the immediate present. Then maybe the situation would start to make a little sense. He knew why he was fighting, vaguely. It was to safeguard certain inalienable rights, which ones he could not exactly remember. The odd thing was that the enemy was fighting for the same goal--he sensed that intuitively. But who _was_ the enemy? He thought he had known once, but that had been quite a while ago. What did they look like? He would have to ask someone. An infrared flare blossomed some distance down the valley. Tom adjusted his binoculars and scanned the slope. Nothing. Remotely the monotonous rumble of atomic artillery began pounding through the night. From far away echoed the transient whisper of a jet. Now his legs were beginning to get cramped. That happened every night, and he knew that no matter which way he bent them the pain would continue to grow. However, there was always the consolation that toward morning they would become numb. He opened his one remaining ration can, tore back the layers of thermofoil insulation, and started devouring the warm lamb stew. The dull staccato of automatic fire commenced far down the valley. Somebody screamed. Tom contemplated his own flashless weapon, trying to recall what he had been taught about its principle of expulsion. That had been so far back. A year? Two? He did not remember. It was time for the corporal to take over the watch, but Tom decided to give him another ten minutes. Wearily, he raised the binoculars to his eyes, pushed the switch. The battery was about exhausted and he replaced it. Overhead a flare was drifting downward, and he watched as it illuminated the murky battle ground. * * * * * "Light up!" the platoon sergeant growled. The troops had been waiting for a quarter of an hour beside the road. Tom had long since learned the futility of speculation. But conversation was vital and there had to be a topic. "Maybe they're trying to get trucks for us," he muttered to the soldier next to him. "Maybe they're plannin' a picnic for us," the other suggested. "Trucks. Picnics. You guys make everything too complicated," a third soldier remarked. "Every time something happens you figure out a different reason for it. Not me. The way I see it, there's just one cause for everything they tell us to do or don't do, say or don't say, think or don't think. And that's _discipline_. Look at it that way and you're always one ahead of 'em." "I like the idea of a picnic," the other replied obstinately. "Only it's supposed to be a surprise, and _that's_ why they don't tell us nothin." "Okay, you guys. Strip those butts!"