When Can I Stop Running?

by John Podlaski

  We soon came to the first of two bridges that we had to cross before taking a dogleg to the right. It was almost midnight, and we’d been on the move for more than an hour already. For some reason, we stopped, both overcome with a sense of dread. Trolls and witches are real! I knew this for a fact, having learned all about them at summer camp and from the stories Carmen’s mother told us. I even saw a real witch myself at the Sister Witches house! Wayne must have had his own reasons for remaining rooted to the spot; I’m sure his imagination was working overtime, as well.

  We heard some scraping sounds coming from under the bridge, much like someone dragging a rock across concrete. Then a loud splash as something heavy fell into the water, followed by the sounds of deep guttural grunting and high-pitched cackling.

  Wayne elbowed me in the side.

  ” What was that?!”

  Whispering, I said, “It must be the trolls and witches!”

  Wayne sounded astonished,

  “Aw, that’s all bullshit! Urban legends!”

  “Well, what do you think is happening then?”

  “I think somebody’s fucking with us and trying to scare us or trap us on the bridge.”

  “Well, they sure got my full attention!” I stated, unsure as to how we should proceed. “What now?”

  Wayne started to move around and shuffled his feet across the asphalt.

  “Let’s look for something to throw,” he suggested.

  I began exploring the dark, damp earth, hoping to come across something worthwhile. I stubbed my toe against a cantaloupe-sized object. Reaching down, I found what I thought to be a car headlamp. At least, it sure felt like one.

  Moving back toward Wayne, I whispered loudly,

  “Wayne, where are you? I found a headlamp!”

  He responded from the bushes on the side of the road,

  “I’m right here, Partner! Keep talking so I can find you.”

  I continued chatting nonsense until Wayne reached my side.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked.

  “I found some good-sized rocks over there. I’ve got four in my hands and a couple more in my pockets.” Wayne then placed two of the apple-sized stones into my hand. “We’re going to throw these rocks at each side of the bridge to see what comes out. If punk-ass kids are under there, then these will bring them out.”

  “Then what?”

  “We take our clubs and run.”

  “What if it’s not kids?”

  “Same thing, only faster.”

  We each chose a side and threw a single rock, aiming slightly to the side of the bridge. Wayne’s rock hit a tree, and the sudden sharp ‘CRACK!’ startled us. It sounded like one of the Detroit Tigers had just hit a home run. My rock hit the water on the opposite side with a resounding splash a few seconds later. The scraping sound and other ungodly noise from under the bridge immediately stopped.

  “Throw again!” Wayne whispered.

  This time, his rock landed in the water, and my headlamp bounced through some shrubbery near the canal.

  “What the fuck was that?!” someone questioned from the shadows below. The voice was a male, and it sounded strained.

  “There’s something on this side, too!” another voice commented, sounding spooked. Suddenly, the powerful beam of a flashlight lit up the canal on the right side of the bridge and darted through the foliage.

  “Run!” Wayne whispered, shoving me forward, making sure to keep a hand on my shoulder while following close behind. The flashlight beam continued searching for us on both sides of the bridge, which provided just enough light to cross the bridge and safely reach the dogleg. Those underneath never saw us.

  When total darkness enveloped us once again, we stopped to catch our breath.

  “Told you it was just some punk-ass kids!” Wayne threw out in between labored breaths. I could only acknowledge his comment with a head-shake as my mouth was too busy sucking in oxygen.

  We didn’t have far to go now. The second bridge was at the end of the dogleg. After crossing that, we’d be in the clear. The road continued with the woods bordering on the left and a nine-hole golf course encompassing the right. A gaggle of students usually gathered where this street merged into the main perimeter road near the beach.

  Our moment of self-congratulations evaporated when a bright flash of lightning followed by a loud clap of thunder ushered in a chilly Autumn storm. The rain fell suddenly and hard, completely soaking us before even taking a step.

  “This blows!” I grumbled.

  “Yeah, but look at the bright side. The flashes of lightning will light the way for us.”

  “And my mother always told me not to stand under a tree during a thunderstorm.”

  We both laughed, then began running toward the finish line.

  As expected, we found the second bridge uninhabited. After we crossed it and broke out into the clearing, we could see our friends waiting under one of the picnic shelters at the end of the road. Once our silhouettes were visible as we jogged down the middle of the street, we heard them cheering and watched them gather at the front of the structure. Thank goodness, Barb happened to have a couple of beach towels in her car!

  “Wow, man – good going!” She smiled and tossed me a towel.

  Everyone was anxious to hear about our adventure.

  “What was it like?”

  “Were you scared?”

  “See any ghosts or witches?”

  “Nope, it was a walk in the park!” We responded with large innocent smiles. “It was really cool!”

  “God, your faces are all covered with mosquito bites!” one of the girls noticed.

  We’d given up on fighting the flying blood suckers ten minutes after entering the woods, so this is something we expected.

  Ironically, our clothes were already soaking wet even before the rains came. Nervous perspiration had flowed non-stop from every pore in our bodies making us smell sweaty and rank. Thank goodness the rain provided a cleansing shower!

  “Hey, how come you guys are carrying clubs and all those big rocks?” someone asked, garnering the attention of those around us.

  “Yeah, what’s that all about?” demanded another.

  Wayne and I looked at each other, ‘Uh-oh... busted!’

  SIXTEEN – LISTENING POST (0500 HOURS)

  The rain stopped as suddenly as it began just minutes before the team’s hourly sit-rep at 0500. It had temporarily vanquished the mosquitoes, so it was safe for the two soldiers to stick their heads out of their soaking wet cocoons.

  If they had been able to see one another, both would have laughed hysterically at the other. Polack’s boony hat was still on his head, but the wide circular brim had drooped, covering his face and ears, the bulky poncho liner, absorbing its dripping water. The camouflage stripes on his face were smeared and runny like a woman’s mascara after crying. His teeth chattered as his body temperature dropped.

  LG was a mirrored image of Polack except for his boony hat. After Sgt. Rock had jammed the hat over LG’s ball of hair and forced the brim to jam around his forehead, LG left it that way all night. Now, the overstuffed hat was deflated and leaning to one side like a wet dish rag. He, too, suffered from the freezing temperature, his chattering teeth in sync with Polack’s. Even the radio handset looked like it was vibrating against his ear.

  The newly-formed lake within their shallow depression had disappeared; the thirsty ground wasted no time in absorbing the foot-deep water, leaving behind a muddy paste that would dry up and harden within a few hours.

  Their light-weight poncho liners changed colors to a deeper forest green covered with brown caked mud. Soaking wet, the liners weighed almost fifteen pounds, but they would dry within a couple of hours. Meanwhile, it was all they had to help keep them warm.

  Only thirty minutes more for this detail; both soldiers glanced at their watches, silently willing the minute hands to move faster.

  They were facing east and could finally see the first rays of sun
light getting brighter and introducing a new day. The jungle began waking up: foliage stretched, trees grew another millimeter, and the resident creatures started croaking, chirping and singing to their mates.

  As the light illuminated the ground, battleship gray and black silhouetted backgrounds changed into bright green, yellow and brown. A slight mist covered the ground, rising to a height of six feet. This hour was a critical part of the day, as enemy soldiers used the morning mist to conceal their movements and wreak havoc wherever possible. LG and Polack shimmied along the ground and scooted back into their depression, resuming their original positions, allowing the muddy bottom to provide a slight cushion for their sore tailbones. Only one of the three firing devices for the Claymores was still hot; LG brushed it off and then placed the other two worthless clackers off to the side. Meanwhile, Polack plucked the grenades from the mud. Using his hands and the wet liner, he cleaned them, rebent the pin ends and then set them on the rim of the depression to their front.

  With fifteen minutes to go, the trail before them became visible as the mist evaporated. Both hoped that nobody crossed that trail; there’d been enough excitement for one night. LG and Polack were physically and emotionally spent after staying awake for most of the night; their fear of discovery and the very real possibility of dying during the night tapped into whatever reserve remained. Their imaginations in overdrive had caused most of the stress, but thankfully, the light of day chased those dreadful thoughts away.

  LG crinkled his nose and pointed it straight into the air, his lips puckering with each deep sniff.

  “I smell breakfast!”

  Polack faced the sky and took several deep whiffs of his own.

  “Smells like bacon and fresh coffee,” he commented, the corners of his mouth turning upward in a half-smile.

  “This is blowing my mind. What are we, a quarter mile or so from the firebase?”

  Polack shook his head in agreement.

  “Funny how that smell can overpower all the other funkiness in the air.”

  The guys began salivating over the wafting scents, smacking their lips in anticipation.

  “I can taste it already!”

  Their spirits lifted at the thought.

  SEVENTEEN – RETURNING TO THE FIREBASE

  At 0530, Polack left the depression and crawled forward through the thick brush to secure the remaining Claymore mine. He retracted the blasting cap and rolled up the wire onto a spool during his return. LG also pulled in his two wires and wrapped them around the clackers. Both leads were much shorter now with ragged tears at the ends from the explosions. They would come in handy out in the bush when setting up NDP’s.

  With everything packed, they were ready to leave this nightmare. LG called the CP,

  “Thunder 3, Lima Papa 1, over.”

  “This is Thunder 3, go!”

  “Roger, Lima Papa 1 is waiting for Alpha Romeo 6 and then returning to base with them.”

  He grabbed the ammo belt attached to the radio and hefted it onto his shoulder.

  “Roger Lima Papa 1, will inform the perimeter. Welcome back! Thunder 3, out.”

  The radio operator’s voice was different; LG suspected that he was the day shift replacement for the RTO who had kept them company during the night, and who was most likely already in line at the mess hall. The other three ambush and LP teams called in and were also returning to base.

  Polack and LG struggled out of their hiding place and farther through the brush, finally reaching the trail. There, they saw the craters formed by the exploded Claymores and noted the extensive damage. The vegetation was blown to pieces, and many of the nearby tree trunks were missing bark and pocked with dozens of holes; some of the newer saplings were decapitated. ‘No living creature or human being within thirty feet of these exploding mines could have survived or even remained whole,’ they thought.

  Knowing that Rock’s squad would soon be coming down the eastern trail, Polack and LG split and moved apart along the intersecting road to provide security for the group moving their way.

  Five minutes later, Rock’s ambush team arrived and stopped momentarily at the intersection until Polack and LG pulled back and joined them. Most everyone carried a second rifle – the AK-47 rifles slung over their shoulders – two carried NVA rucksacks, and two others struggled with the mortar plate and tripod.

  “Vince,” Sgt. Rock whispered, “give the mortar plate to LG, he can carry it back to the firebase.” The skinny white kid smiled broadly and handed the dense baseplate to the surprised man.

  ‘What the fuck is this all about?’ LG thought, then joined the column in a procession to their home-away-from-home.

  After about twenty steps, LG turned to Polack who was following behind him. “Do me a solid, Polack, and carry this radio. This plate got to weigh 25 pounds or more.” LG held the 26-pound radio by the strap in his outstretched hand, his momentum swinging it like a pendulum. Polack reached out and accepted it freely without saying a word; he let the radio hang from his shoulder and rest against his hip.

  “Rock’s got it in for me,” LG complained after glancing backward.

  “I betcha it’s your boony hat and that cool Afro of yours.” Polack teased, trying his best to lighten the mood and cheer LG up. “I bet he’s proud that you didn’t mess with it after he form-fitted it to your head.”

  “I’m hip, my brother. But I’m still pissed, though. Now I’ve got to get a new hat, and it’s gonna take me a couple of hours to comb out and reshape my ‘do. The Bloods are gonna be all up in my case!”

  “I hear ya’!” Polack agreed, chuckling at the thought of his bud catching hell over his hairstyle.

  The column exited the jungle and once again crossed over the unstable bulldozed clearing, moving in a more relaxed manner at this point, straight to the concertina wire and bunkers of the firebase. All in all, the trip only took twenty minutes.

  As they passed through the main gate, several of the soldiers manning the nearest bunker started laughing and pointing at the column of men. One of them shouted in a Southern drawl, “Hey man, which of you are the guys who played baseball with the apes last night?”

  “Yeah, that must have been far out!” another added. “What was the final score?” The laughing and taunting continued.

  LG and Polack hung their heads as they moved forward. Another voice called from the same bunker,

  “I knew it, it was Polack and LG!” The laughter increased as the men began throwing small rocks toward the column, purposely landing short. “Come on batter, batter, sawwing!” someone hollered in mockery. Mystified, Polack and LG wondered how that bunch found out about their embarrassing experience so soon. When they looked up, everyone in Rock’s group was pointing them out. Their fellow brothers had sold them out!

  “Oh, great!” Polack declared. “That’s some bogue shit!”

  “Fuck it! Don’t mean nothin’!” LG shook his head in dismay. “Those chumps would have spazzed out if they were in our place.”

  “Fuck all you guys!” Polack yelled and raised the middle finger of both hands toward the group on the perimeter.

  “Yeah! And we won the ballgame!” LG added then joined Polack in the silent salute.

  Those men atop the bunker continued hollering insults; their celebration became extremely animated and the laughter intense. One soldier stepped too close to the edge and fell off, landing on his back and getting the wind knocked out of him. The mishap created just enough diversion for Polack and LG to get away. Both knew the group was only blowing off steam. Now that the night had disappeared, it was their way of relieving the stress after living through a mortar attack and hearing those sounds of battle nearby. Only ten minutes more, and the daytime bunker guards would be replacing them.

  Bunkers didn’t have PRC-25 radios and weren’t able to monitor the exchanges between their CP and those units in the bush. Most likely, they found out when the CP informed them with bits and pieces of information during the night.

 
; Soon, the column stopped at the Battalion Command Bunker and began unloading the bounty from their ambush. The colonel and a few other officers exited the bunker and joined the group, congratulating them on their success. One by one, they began picking up the weapons and looking through the other confiscated supplies. At that point, Rock’s squad started to split up, with some heading to their hooches and others to the mess tent. Sergeant Rock remained behind to answer more detailed questions.

  Polack carried the radio into the CP bunker and checked it in with the RTO on duty. First Sergeant Hawkins happened to notice him and called out from behind his desk,

  “Polack, is your partner, LG, still outside?” Top was a big man with a light brown crew-cut, black rimmed military glasses, and starched jungle fatigues with sharp creases on the arms and legs. He sat on an upturned ammo crate puffing on a fat cigar, its blue smoke rising to the ceiling and enshrouding him in a pale fog. He looked through a handful of papers, then set them down on the folding table, removed the cigar, and took a drink of steaming coffee from his canteen cup.

  Alarmed by the sudden acknowledgment, the soldier stopped and turned to face the head NCO.

  “Yeah, I think so, First-Sergeant.”.

  “Good, go and fetch him, and the two of you hurry back.”

  Polack walked through the sandbagged doorway and called over to LG. He had just dropped the mortar base plate next to the tripod in front of the bunker.

  “Hey, partner!” LG looked his way. “Top wants to see us.”

  “Why?” LG asked, trying to straighten his boony hat.

  “Not a clue. But come on, we better not keep him waiting.”

  The two men walked back into the bunker and stopped in front of the First Sergeant.