PHI - Part Two

     Pee-Pee had a roll of ass-wipe in one hand and was fingering the buttons on his pants with the other when today’s wake-up mortar round landed thirty-five yards east of the latrine. He squealed and whirled around and beat feet for the safety of his trench. Mad Dog checked his watch. Thirty seconds later the second shell took out the red barrel.
     Five minutes passed without bombardment.
     Then: "Cheyenne! Get another barrel and paint it red," yelled Sarge.
     Cheyenne was shaking so bad his teeth were chattering. He peered frantically at Crawl with saucer eyes. "Heeeee—sssss ka—ka—kiddinnnn’, ain’t he?
     "Welcome to The Turd, Cherry," said Crawl, glad to be one rung up the ladder.

     Motor Mouth shouted "Incoming!"
     Twenty heartticks later the mortar round exploded five feet southwest of the newly painted red barrel, hurling it in a rainbow arc in the direction of the latrine where Pee-Pee had just squatted over his favorite spot. The barrel landed in the trench with a splash, narrowly missing him.
     "Holy shit!" screamed Pee-Pee, covered in it. He scrambled out from behind the black tarp that served as a privacy curtain, pants down around his ankles, and hobbled away as fast as his scrawny legs could carry him—sans his prize roll of toilet paper.
     Motor Mouth didn’t have time to warn him of the next inbound shell, which struck Private Paul Powell about bellybutton level, blowing him to shit-come-high-water.

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