Due to the unfortunate shortage of tents amongst your platoon, you were forced to share one with your Lieutenant. You weren’t a huge fan of Dan Taylor — he was loud when it wasn’t necessary, and he made jokes more than he gave commands. If you were being forced to fight in this war, you wanted to at least have a competent commander.

It was the middle of the night. Past it, rather. You couldn’t sleep. The tent was small and cramped, and both you and Dan laid in full gear in case of an emergency. But beside you, Dan twitches and jerks around in his sleep. He whimpers under his breath. Broken fragments of words escape his lips. One glance over and you can see that he is soaked in sweat and as pale as the Vietnam moon.

He is having a nightmare.

You slowly sit up in your bedroll. You aren’t sure what to do; wake him up, end his suffering? Bring him to consciousness and show him that the real world is a lot more terrifying than whatever his dreams are showing him? Hesitantly, you reach out and push at his shoulder. You call his name. Push again.

Suddenly Dan bolts upright, panting, a strangled gasp leaving his chest. You have never seen him so rattled; never seen him in any state other than cocksure and precise. He looks all around the dark tent, then at you.

“Shit, private,” he grumbles. “Did I wake you? My apologies.”