There were three of them in there,  hiding.  The one he shot was still alive. He could hear him crying in the grass. 

"Finish him!" 

He fired shots into the grass until the crying stopped. 

He went in to retrieve the body he had shot. It was that of a youth, not much more than a boy.  Between the three of them, they had an old WWII pistol. 

They had to bury him before it got dark.  They couldn't eat their dinner in the dark.  The shallow grave was too short, so he jumped on the youth's legs, broke them, and folded them back over his body.  

Troppo came up, laughing hideously, blasting the upturned face with his AK47 until it was pulp. 

They quickly covered him up.

Then they sat down to eat their dinner. He looked down, and there were brains on his boots.  He brushed them off.  He really enjoyed his meal. 

Then they sent him home and told him to forget it ever happened. 

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