So the situation's desperate. Platoon's pinned down near the crest of a ridge as Taliban forces close in behind a hail of AK fire and grenades. Most of the guys are wounded to some extent; the lieutenant has had zero luck getting a call for fire or close air support, and won't, since the radio's been holed by shrapnel. Weary, exhausted, he tries for one more bit of bravado, hoping to get his guys to hang on just a little longer - he can see friendly Cav troopers advancing, but they're still a ways off.
"I know there's five of them to every one of us," he calls out, "But if each man does his part, we'll get through this! Hang in there!"
On the crest, he watches one of his guys, a rawboned lanky lad from Kentucky, known for his deadeye accuracy with his M4. Without moments, the Kentuckian fires off five rounds, then calmly turns away from the scene, settles down, and lights up a smoke.
The Lieutenant rushes over. "Hey, you OK? What happened? Why aren't you shooting?"
The Kentuckian looks back. "Got mah five."
__________________
At Fiddler’s Green, where seamen true
When here they’ve done their duty
The bowl of grog shall still renew
And pledge to love and beauty.
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