Articles of War by Nick Arvin

and started toward them, but the corporal bellowed, “Spread out! Spread out! For God’s sake, don’t clump together!”
    Heck ran into the dark, realized then that he could no longer see anyone else, and reversed himself several paces. The truck was gone. The corporal had a map in his hand and was moving a cigarette lighter over it and muttering incomprehensibly. Heck crouched and pointed his M-1 into the night. Close-set houses lined the street on either side, illuminated in flashes by the impacts of artillery shells landing several blocks over. The explosions were disorientingly loud, and he could feel the shuddering of the earth. There was also, from somewhere across town, the noise of sporadic rifle shots and the rattling of machine guns firing and sometimes overlapping in a kind of chorus.
    The corporal stood and called out orders and they moved off in single file, into the city, a string of cumbersome, laden figures hunched over their guns. “Spread out, spread out, damn it,” the corporal hissed, and they did, but a couple of minutes later, Heck noticed, they were bunching up again. He didn’t say anything; it
felt
better to have someone nearby.
    They moved through several blocks in this manner. The corporal stopped at the corners and sometimes referred to a map, then waved them on, with further cursing about their spacing. “A single shell will wipe out every one of you useless shits.” Often in the darkness Heck could not see the man in front of him and he trooped forward blindly, his heart hammering.
    A shot, loud, from somewhere nearby, was followed immediately by the noise of it striking the wall beside Heck. He spun away from the noise and fell over backward, his pack pulling him that way, and he landed on it, his spine arching uncomfortably. Another GI stepped on Heck’s hand and disappeared. The first shot was followed by several more that moved along the wall over Heck, then suddenly dropped and began to ping and whistle askance off the street, throwing sparks where they skipped off the cobbles. Heck struggled to right himself, his thoughts flashing in erratic and incoherent panic. Another soldier tripped on him, fell, cursed, got up, and ran ahead. Heck had to roll sideways to get off his back before he could leverage himself upright again. Shots continued to ring out at confusing, arrhythmic intervals, whining hideously off the street and buildings. Ahead one of the GIs was returning fire and someone was shouting, but Heck couldn’t understand the words.
    He ran forward, blind in the night. He tripped, got up, ran on. A bullet skipped, sparking just before his feet. Suddenly something had Heck around the chest and he was pulled sideways; he nearly fell again. He brought his arms up in a violent attempt to free himself. “Jesus Christ, calm down,” said the corporal’s voice in his ear. He held on to Heck’s shoulders until Heck slumped in acquiescence. “Keep moving forward,” said the corporal, “and keep to cover, but stay calm, maintain distance to the man ahead. That sniper can’t see us any better than we can see him. So don’t fucking panic.” The corporal let go and Heck, although still electric with adrenaline and occupied with jumpy, fearful thoughts, had himself under better control. Dimly ahead along the street he could discern a figure moving away; he followed it.
    They moved cautiously between looming, three-story buildings with boarded windows, keeping to cover where they could and cowering every time the sniper fired again. The sniper was following them, or there was more than one sniper, or the same sniper had the supernatural ability to be in several positions at once. Heck could not understand how the sniper continued to fail to hit anyone, and as he crept ahead his thoughts ranged over the places he might at any moment be hit—arm, hand, leg, foot, hip, rib, neck, face, ear, elbow, shoulder, belly,