Home. Home again.

It's the dark that I remember most. Hell, even today I can't sleep peacefully in a totally dark room. I used to spin the flint on my zippo under my coat just to remind myself that it was the dark; that I wasn't blind. It's not like in the movies where the guy on watch could spot someone creeping up towards the line. In the wet and the mud, the canopy blocked out any moonlight. Someone would have to be right on top of you before you spotted them.
God damned Harvey Jenkins always volunteered to take point. He had this dumb ass country bumpkin look about him. Like he was always smiling, even when he wasn't. You'd think we were hunting squirrels for crissake! We wern't surprised to find him one morning with his throat slit and that dumb ass grin still upon his face. No one heard anything that night. Still, I preferred this to the hill. We knew that the ants were impartial but you couldn't prove it by me. It always seemed like they came at us with a vengeance. Sure you could see, but I'd rather be wet and blind than have them theiving bastards eat a pound of my flesh.
So, this morning I woke up after a good drunk. Lying in the grass that hadn't been cut all summer. The sky was dark and the rain slapping me across my face woke me up. I got three quarters of the way across the field, my heart right ready to pound itself right out of my chest. It wasn't until I saw old Joe Palmer heading up the way for a day of fishing that I remembered where I was.
Yeah. It's the dark that I remember most.