Richard Wilson

“ The last of the big trucks had rumbled in from the battlefield. The sergeant watched the gate close in the fading light. Beloved enemy, he thought.
"Three hundred today," he said aloud. "And one was my personal contribution. My platoon was strung out behind me, and she came up over the hill—"
"Sergeant!"
"She was mine. I got her personally. I aimed slow and held the sight on her. Then I let go. It was almost like—"
"Sergeant!" The lieutenant was trembling. "The third person singular is prohibited! You know that, sergeant!"
The sergeant was calm. "Yes, sir." He looked at the young officer. ”

“ As the sergeant lit them he could see a bit of the red tip in the lieutenant's mouth. He dragged deep on his own, pretending he could taste lipstick.
"Lieutenant," he said. "It doesn't matter where you hit them, does it? I mean it doesn't hurt them at all?"
"No," the lieutenant said. "No, it doesn't matter. They just go to sleep."
"I'm glad." After a while the sergeant said, "I guess I'll hit the sack."
"It's still early."
"Yes. But I like to get up early. There's always a line in the latrine—at the shaving bowls."
"Combat troops don't have to shave," the lieutenant said. ”

“ At dusk the sergeant leaned over the parapet, weary, looking south toward the enemy lines. For him this was the worst part of the day. The fighting was done until tomorrow and the enemy casualties were being brought in through the gate below. Their bodies were piled in awful abandon on the big flat-bed trucks.
A phrase from another war came to his mind. Walking wounded. There were no walking wounded in this war. They came in on the trucks, still and tangled, or they didn't come in at all. ”