Dig Bums

They were finally awake. We knew they were awake because we heard heavy, metal implements clanging off hardpacked dirt, loud bangs shocking the still, languid air of a blazingly hot afternoon.

Unseen hands flung the tools of their trade from deep inside a dingy white camper perched on the bed of a Toyota pickup: a shovel, then another one, heavy iron tamp bars, pickaxes. Finally, a hard hat, covered in stickers and obscene phrases written in black marker, flew from the camper like a frisbee, skidded off the dirt, then rolled to a stop. A scrub jay alighted on the brim of the helmet and cawed. Then all was still.

“Fuckin’ bird,” growled a gravelly, singsong voice from inside the camper.

I was sitting with a group of fellow college students in the merciful shade of a huge oak tree surrounded by motionless grasses bleached white by late summer sun. We were somewhere along a dry riverbed within the boundaries of a massive U.S. Army