By Smaktakula

I got a bad feeling about this one, Sarge. 

The private’s eyes shone bright and innocent under the moonshadow cast by hibiscus-draped mangroves, hulking and gnarled with age. 

I’m gonna buy it out here.  I can feel it.  

A nightjar’s call pierced the chittering insect liturgy that was the land’s buzz-choked heartbeat.  The young man cried out at the sound.

Sarge’s voice twinkled with checked laughter: You’ll be fine, Kid.  I’ll bet you’re back home in Valley City before Thanksgiving.

Sure, the young man said, trying to imbue his words with a conviction he did not feel. 

And wouldn’t you know it?  Sarge was right: the war ended two days later and everyone involved lived happily ever after.