This story assumes that Jim was in Vietnam...which is stretching it a bit...but it was written coming out of an RPG where we assumed that the events of the series had taken place in the eighties...anyhow...enjoy in spite of that....

   The wind whispered overhead, a moment of near pristine silence followed, and in that moment he sucked in a lung full of air. It smelled of gunfire and rotting bodies. His foot was itching and burning and he could no longer tell if it was trench rot or gangrene. He raised a hand blackened with soot, and wiped sweat from his eyes. He craned his helmet back slightly and tried to look up. He couldn't see shit. He was totally pinned down, and it was only a matter of time before the enemy called in aerial to finish off the stragglers. If he wasn't out of here by then, he was fucked, good and proper. He used his arms to pull himself forward by degrees, the pain in his foot, being temporarily drowned out by a new pain in his forearms which he was cutting to fucking shreds on shrapnel and broken glass.
   Gunfire started up again and he prayed silently that none of the shots would hit him this close to the ground. Chances were that if one did, he would never know. Most likely the rifle round would hit him in the head, and bore straight on through him if it did. He didn't even know what his helmet was for, except as a wash basin. Maybe at one time, in another war, it might have been armor. Now it was just fucking heavy.
   He struggled with the strap, and shrugged it off. He continued forward and realized suddenly that his forearm had come to rest on a land mine. His eyes teared up. Fucked. Fucked.
   He closed his eyes, and lifted his arm, and it was all over at last.
   Jim sat bolt upright, gasping for air, his bronzed skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Miggs looked up at him.
   "Yo, Hell?" he piped up. "Everything chilly, man?"
   Jim nodded, and looked at his buddy.
   "Yeah, fucking dream. No sweat."
   'So, you didn't hear anything or shit?"
   "No man, rest easy."
   "Cool."
   Miggs rolled over and within a couple minutes was peacefully snoring. Jim smiled and considered putting a few rounds through his fucking skull. Then he realized there was no point. Miggs was the least of his worries, noise-wise. He was lucky he ever got to sleep between the monkeys and the parrots and all the other fucking animals out there in the jungle.
   Miggs and the rest of his platoon at least tried not to get on his nerves. They had this notion that somehow he had magic powers, some kind of sixth sense about danger. He was fine with that, it meant that they gave him some space, and watched his back.
   He laid back on his kit, and closed his eyes. He knew he wouldn't sleep, but at least he could rest.
   Three days later, and three dreams, Jim and the rest of his platoon were headed back to base camp. He looked like shit, and he felt worse. Normally, when the rest of the guys were joking back and forth, Jim would be right there with them. Today, he just grimly took point and walked, one foot over the other again and again.
   Miggs came up beside him, and tapped him on the arm.
   "How it hanging?"
   Jim just gave him a look. "How do you think, Miggy?"
   Miggs smiled. "Yeah, no shit. Nightmares are a bitch."
   Jim nodded.
   "Hey, you wanna talk about em?"
   "Nah, just lemme be."
   "S'cool."
   Miggs walked beside him for an hour without saying anything.
   Jim didn't mean to be short with Miggs. He liked Miggs, genuinely, and that was a rare thing for him now, and getting rarer every year. Miggs wasn't the shiniest dime in the jukebox, but he kept his head up, covered your back, and was, if nothing else, loyal to his buddies.
   "Miggs?" he said, craning his head to the side.
   "Yo?"
   "You ever have really fucked up dreams, that you totally can't explain?"
   "Hell yes." Miggs laughed. "You know somebody who doesn't?"
   "Well, yeah. Me for one. I never remember my dreams anyway. I hate this shit."
   "T'ain't nothing but a head thing, Hells. You gotta relax."
   Jim shook his head. "I'm not crazy, Miggs..."
   "Whoa, big fella," Miggs said, grinning, "Nobody meant that."
   Jim laughed.
   "Okay...okay. These fucking things are really eating at me."
   "Well, maybe you're trying to tell yourself something? My sister says that when we dream, what is really going down is that we are cleaning out the attic, man. Tossing the old broken shit out the window, dig?"
   "Maybe. I dunno. Basically, Miggs, I keep dreaming I'm on the front-line..."
   "Front-line? In this shitty war?" Miggs started to laugh.
   "That's the thing. Not this war, man. Every fucking dream is different. One time, I'm a red coat in the Revolution, the next I'm in the fucking Battle of the Bulge. Or D-Day. Whatever. Getting killed over and over in every fucking war that we ever fought in."
   Miggs whistled under his breath.
   "Seems to me, Hells, that maybe what you're trying to tell yourself is that you maybe done too many rotations in this shithole. Fuck me, Hells, why do you keep coming back. When my term is up, I am getting the fuck out."
   "It's all I know, Miggs," Jim answered, his gun seeming very heavy in his hands.
   Jim was desperately trying to focus, trying to hear how many of them were out there. He could hear them chittering to each other from the brush. He was hoping that they would move off, thinking them all dead. It was almost true. He had led his platoon right into a fucking ambush, because he couldn't pay attention. It was his fault.
   As far as he could tell, it was just him, Miggs, and Esteban, who, God help him, had taken one in the belly. To his credit, Esteban was doing his best to keep his moaning quiet. Miggs was crying and holding Esteban's head on his lap. The three of them were hunkered down in a patch of tall grass.
   "Esteban, you sonuvabitch," Miggs said, "you hang in there. Don't you fucking die."
   "Miggs," Jim hissed, "shut the fuck up."
   Miggs looked up at him, eyes large and moist, and nodded his head. The poor kid was totally fucking lost.
   They lay there for fifteen minutes, Esteban making soft choking noises, and Jim was sure that the Cong had left them for dead, Thank Christ.
   "Hells," Miggs said, "The radio's shot to shit, man. What the fuck are we gonna do? We can't fucking drag him back to base, with his guts hanging out."
   Jim took Miggs by the shoulder and looked him in the eyes.
   "Miggs...Leo...listen to me. Esteban wouldn't make it now, even if we could get a med-evac chopper in here. He is already dead."
   Miggs looked at him with horror and dismay.
   "I'm sorry if that sounds cold, but that is the truth. My priority now, is getting you back to base in one piece. You understand?"
   Miggs nodded. "Okay," he said, his voice a tired croak.
   "Good. Okay. What we are going to do," Jim said, still keeping eye contact, "is head over to those trees. Then..."
   Miggs' head came apart in a spray of gore right in front of Jim's face. Jim felt hot needles drive into his face, his arm, his stomach, his thigh, and he fell back to the grass. The ground thumped again and again, his body shaking, his nose filling with acrid smoke. The air was on fire above him, and then it was quiet again.
   He heard the Cong giving each other the all clear, and moving off, satisfied now that they were all dead. And they were, even Jim, who couldn't sit up. His spine was probably severed. He felt tears on his face, and realized it had been fifteen years since he had cried. Hell of a time to start now. Even Esteban had stopped moaning now.
   On the other hand, he could feel his wounds pulsing hotly, so maybe his spine was fine. Goody, now he could enjoy bleeding to death.
   The smoke hazed the air above him and made everything indistinct. He felt himself fading into darkness.
   He came to, some unknown time later. Someone was gently slapping his face.
   "C'mon, big guy," a friendly voice said, "wake up. Hey. Hey."
   His eyes fluttered open, and he saw the face that belonged to that voice. Kneeling over him was a little dark-haired hippie with dark blue eyes. Jim had never seen him before in his life. He wasn't dressed like a hippie either. He was dressed in a pale blue dress shirt, and dark slacks. he had a huge goofy smile.
   "What the fuck..." Jim said.
   The kid laughed, "It's you alright."
   Jim shook his head.
   "What's going on? Where am I?"
   The kid shrugged.
   "Beats me," he said, "Vietnam I guess."
   "You guess?"
   The kid looked around.
   "Okay. Vietnam."
   Jim nodded.
   "What are you doing here? You're a civilian."
   "It's called a walkabout. I'll explain it to you someday."
   This kid made no sense. Or maybe Jim was delirious. Either way, he was grateful to have him around. Jim felt warm and safe, although he didn't know why. He closed his eyes.
   "Okay," Jim said, relaxing, "okay..."
   The kid slapped his face again
   "Stay awake, Jim. You're hurt really bad. I think you should stay awake until help gets here."
   "Help," Jim said, rousing himself, "Help isn't coming."
   The kid smiled.
   "Jim," the kid said, "Help is always coming."
   Jim tensed for a moment, and then heard the chopper coming in from the direction of camp.
   "How did you...."
   "Just relax, and hang in there."
   The chopper landed forty feet from him, and two medics darted out in his direction. They grabbed him under the arms and dragged him away from the kid, like he was invisible.
   The kid watched him go, smiling.
   Jim protested to the medics that they couldn't just leave the kid behind. They ignored him, and strapped him in. The kid stood, waving at him as the chopper flew away. He watched the kid waving until he was just a spot in the distance.
   Be seeing you, he heard in his head.
   Jim finally passed out.