Tom took a step, and he felt the soft, torn grass at his feet. In the far off corner of his mind he heard a distant clanging, a horn or a bugle maybe. He dropped something in his hand as he swirled his head around and around, observing the madness. Next to him in the blood-stained grass lay a boy of no more than 17, shredded, torn by the mercilessness of a bullet. His face kept the broken, terrified glare of a rookie hardened by war. Bullets raged throughout the chaos, whizzing past his ear, a near miss. The smoldering gray sky acted like a blanket, hovering over the desperate men, puncturing their souls at the most vulnerable places. Across the dark field lay his opponents.

          "These are not my opponents," he thought. "I hold no grudges against these men."

          The stench of dry blood and disease filled his nostrils. His stomach began to turn as he watched young men to his left and right being cut down by the bite of small black devils. He glanced upward with a feeling of animosity and alienation as he peered at the American flag hanging limply from a makeshift pole. He pulled his damp, heavy head around just in time to see a bullet burrow into him, ripping his flesh as it went. He grabbed his thigh and crashed onto the ground, screaming in agony.

          "Sir! Sir, are you all right?"

          Tom opened his eyes and slowly looked around the small interior of an office building. He looked at the young man who was clutching his arm with a bewildered stare.

          "You were just screaming then Sir."

          "Oh, ah, yes. Yes. So I was."

          As Tom bent down and picked up his hat, he noticed a pen lying on the floor. He picked it up and stepped out of the building. Glancing up above him, he noticed a sign that read, "Army Testing Center for Psychological Warfare."