Eighteen hundred hours. OK, go, go, go!
Ten metres away across the dark, moonless sand, a lone sentry stood. Behind me, black parachutes, like water holes in the desert.
Orders were ‘no shooting’ – ours not to reason why!
Running softly, knife at the ready, I ran the few paces. At the last moment the sentry turned, revealing a strikingly pretty face. I hesitated. Somehow she launched a flare.
“Bitch!” I stabbed her through the heart and her shirt turned black.
Behind, someone screamed as shrapnel ripped their guts out.
In the now-lighted scene she lay, wearing a smile of triumph.
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Featured in the book, To Cut a Short Story Short, vol. II: 88 Little Stories
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