We stood in our foxhole, sharing a bottle of sake we found on a dead Japanese officer. We'd fought all night, firing until the barrel of our .30 cal glowed red, and then replacing the barrel and firing more, again, still. We'd stopped two stupid kamikaze charges and three smart flanking attacks. A tropical rain was falling and drops of it hit our gun. The drops sputtered and steamed off. Our faces were smeared with the calico of battle, and we all had seeping wounds caused by grenade shrapnel, but damned if that sake didn't taste better than anything. Better than laughter. The enemy dead were piled up around our position, and we knew we'd be burying them all day, but Mike and Tom and I just passed that bottle around, the three of us left standing. We were smiling. All of us. Nodding and grinning in the beginning of another day. We stood in that slaughter, half-deafened, happy as we'd ever been, and I wondered if there would be more times like that. Quiet times - just after. I could taste the clouds, hear them roiling in the wind. I was standing in mud that was the color of blackberry jam. I had holes in my arms and legs and I was covered with the insides of good mothers' sons but, God help me, every hair on my head was celebrating.