With two other men I am in Ivy Park at the center of a large and parched field. There is much dirt and hardly any plants or grass. Suddenly mortars begin to drop close by. "They're walking them in," I shout, terrified. Swirling, low-hugging clouds erupt where the bombs hit and explode; they fall in a neat vertical line, closing on our position. We run up field. I turn around and see a dark brown wild horse caught in the bombardment; it escapes with few or no injuries from shrapnel. Then a black man, handsome and confident, appears down field. He swings a golf club in our direction. I recover the irregular red shaped ball and throw it back to him with unexpected precision. He catches it on one sharp bounce and thanks me. Recollection ends here.