Holt crawled slowly forward, and Patty followed. A parrot squawked at them. A little breeze dried sweat on their foreheads. The echo of rifle fire had seemed distant. Now it hung close in the air, and rifle smoke rolled around them. Each new sound carried fear on the early evening breeze. Patty pressed his ear to the damp dirt, but he heard no footsteps, only the beat of his own heart. He crawled forward, listening to the air, listening for the whirr of helicopter blades, but he heard only the wind in the trees and the crack of twigs beneath his body. He looked ahead, and Holt motioned him forward. They'd reached the creek.
Patty had started to smile when he heard the captain scream.
"Help. Help," yelped the captain again and again.
"He'll bring everybody down on us," hissed Patty. "Let's get out of here."
"I'll get him," said Holt. He jumped up and ran back down the trail.
"Shit," muttered Patty. "They're all crazy.” He got up and ran back after Holt.
In a minute, they reached Madison. He lay on the ground, his right leg caught in a bamboo trap and yelling.
Patty dropped to his knees, grabbed the captain by the hair, and clapped his hand over his mouth. He wrenched Madison's head around so they were eye to eye. "Shut up, or you'll bring Charlie."
The captain closed his eyes and turned red. When he opened them, he was calm.
Patty released his grip.
"Sorry," said Madison. Tears welled in his eyes. "I don't know how I could have missed it.” Madison grimaced with pain. His leg was twisted beneath him, hung in a hole full of sharp thin stakes.
"Looks like a little picket fence," said Holt.
"Right," said Madison. He gritted his teeth.
"Cut the talk and move it," said Patty.
"I got to dig out the hole," said Holt. "If the Cong come this way, they'll find us. That's all.”
Holt and Patty clawed at the walls of the hole. At each awkward movement, the captain winced.
"Easy," said Holt.
"I'll bet you're sorry you left that desk in Saigon," said Patty vindictively.
"It's like quitting basketball," said Holt. "There's things you got to do."
The captain nodded.
"Okay," said Holt. He brushed sweat from his forehead. "Bend your knee and raise your leg up nice and slow. I'll guide."
The captain slid his foot out of the hole and fell over on his back. "God, it hurts," he moaned.
The stakes hung from his boot and ankle at all angles. Dark blood stained his pants all the way up to his knee.
"Easy," said Holt. "We'll carry you."
"Pull them all out," said Madison.
"Not here, sir," said Holt. "Wait for the hospital."
Madison bent over and yanked out a handful of stakes.
Patty shuddered.
Blood dripped from the captain's lip as he bit it and pulled out more. "I got to be able to crawl." He pulled the rest out one by one and made a neat pile of jagged sticks stained red and brown. Sweat dripped off his face.
"We got to go," said Patty.
"Yeah," said Madison, his eyes unfocused with pain.
"Can you get up?" said Holt. The captain nodded. Holt handed him his helmet and started to help him up.
"Wait," said Madison. He reached up into his pocket, pulled out a handful of dull metal dog tags, and handed them to Holt. "Second squad."
Holt stuffed them in his pocket. "We'll get you back, sir."
Patty slid Madison's rifle over his shoulder, and he and Holt lifted him to his good leg.
"The choppers are late," said Madison.
"They'll be here," Patty answered gruffly.
Madison put his arms around the two men and hopped between them.
Holt pulled a handkerchief out of his pocked and wiped sweat from Madison's face as they moved down the trail.
"It hurts," panted Madison.
"No V.C. in sight," said Holt. But he felt their presence as little chills crawling up and down his spine, as zombies sliding behind his eyes. "It's my time," he muttered to himself. For a moment he was afraid, but then he accepted it and felt okay. "We're almost at the river, Captain.” He wiped Madison's face again.
"Thanks," said Madison.
Holt glanced back over his shoulder. "Charlie," he yelled. Instinctively, he knocked Madison and Patty to the ground. As he did, a bullet chopped over his head. He swung his rifle and dropped the man with one motion. For a moment, the forest sank into silence.
"Crawl out with him, Patty," said Holt. "I'll cover the trail."
A dozen aimless shots winged through the trees. Patty grabbed Madison by the shirt.
"I can make it," said Madison.
"Come on. We'll all make it together," said Patty.
"Get moving," said Holt. "Just hustle. I'll be right behind you."
Patty and Madison crawled down the trail.
A hundred yards to the river, thought Patty. A hundred goddamn yards. He gripped Madison with one arm and closed his eyes as they crawled forward together and bullets pinged in the trees around them. He pictured Janet's face, and tears welled up inside him. He fought them back and opened his eyes. The river was a long way away. He helped Madison over a root that bulged out of the ground.
"Easy, buddy," said Patty.
"I can make it," panted Madison. It's my fault, he thought. The phrase echoed over and over.
Holt saw glittering lights on a movie marquee, right side up, then sideways, then upside down. Pain stabbed up his leg and he felt himself spinning, hurtling away.
Holt lay quietly against a bush on the edge of the trail. He remembered the comic books he'd read as a child. The marines screamed and assaulted. It was funny, and he laughed aloud. Once he'd started laughing, he couldn't stop. The bullets hitting around him were real, but it all seemed like a big joke from a comic book. He laughed and squeezed his rifle. A bullet fired off. He flicked the switch to automatic and squeezed again. A half dozen shots banged out. A bullet pinged the dirt in front of him and sizzled loudly past his ear. His laughter ceased as suddenly as it had come. He looked back for Patty and Madison. They were gone.
He turned to crawl after them but his legs wouldn't move. He was tired and dizzy.
"Throw the ball, Holt," said the coach. "Come on. Don't just stand there like this is some kind of goddamn picnic. If you're going to play, play. If not, get off the court.”
Holt dragged himself up the trail. His ear buzzed. He pressed it against his arm to stop the pulsing drum beat. Blotches of bright red stained his sleeve. He looked at his blood and licked it.
"Don't pick your nose,” said his mother. “You'll only make it bleed.” He smiled.
He reached for the bushes on the bank, pulled himself up, and tumbled over the edge. He rolled down the incline and splashed face down into a puddle of muddy water. "Cool," he thought as he inhaled it through his nose. Gagging, he pushed himself to his knees.
Patty grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him against the overhang of the bank.
"I made it," said Holt.
"Yeah," said Patty.
"Where's the captain?" said Holt.
"He's right here," said Patty. "He's out."
"They'll be here," said Holt. He blacked out.
"Hey, Holt, I can't carry two men," said Patty.
Holt lay still and pale. Patty grabbed his wrists and felt for a pulse. Nothing. He pressed his ear to his chest. Nothing.
Bullets thudded into the far bank. The rifles firing them were close.
Not long now, thought Patty. He looked at the captain. His leg was one big dark stain. His chest moved regularly.
He looked to be asleep, pale and vulnerable. Patty lay back against the overhand of the bank and closed his eyes.
"The Bible is a good book," said the Captain.
"Yeah. A fine book," said Patty without opening his eyes.
"There are things you have to do, Patsin. That's all."
Patty glanced at him. "Yeah, Captain. What do we have to do?"<
br />
"Wait for Holt."
"He's here. Can you crawl, sir? They'll be on us in a minute."
Madison turned over and crawled a couple yards up the creek.
"Keep going," said Patty. "You too, Holt."
He grabbed Holt by the wrist and dragged his heavy body forward. "Come on, Charlie. Get it over with," he muttered to himself.
He listened for the sound of the rifles, but the firing had ceased. For thirty seconds, the whirr of the choppers had grown louder. Now it pierced his consciousness, and his heart fluttered.
"The choppers are here, sir," said Patty.
"They'll get us too," answered the captain.
"No they won't.”
A hail of fire from the gunships drowned his words.
He grabbed the captain by the leg and pulled himself even with him. "Holt's dead, sir. He'll make a shield."
"Not for me," said Madison.
Patty pulled himself on top of Madison and against the overhang of the bank.
"My leg," screamed Madison.
"Shut up," said Patty. "Your leg's under the overhang. If it hurts, that's tough.” He grabbed Holt by the shirt and pulled his heavy body over them. "Now you can pray.” Patty shut his eyes. Holt seemed to breathe coldly in his ear.
Chopper bullets like rain drops filled the woods and flowed up the stream. A half dozen thudded into Holt. Blood seeped onto Patty's shoulder and neck. He longed to scratch it off, but he lay still.
He counted out the seconds - 100, 200, 500, 1,000.
The din of the helicopters ceased, and the woods went silent in smoky stillness. Patty released his grip on Holt's shirt and shifted his weight. The heavy body slid off. Patty crawled a few feet away and rested his head on the bullet-flawed dirt.
"Patsin, get Holt's dog tag," said Madison.
Patty lay still, his cheek pressed against the cool, damp dirt.
"Come on, Patsin. We have to go."
Patty looked back at the Captain. "Why, sir? Why do we have to go?"
"Get his dog tags."
Patty got up and went to Holt's body. He knelt down and gazed at the empty face. It was so still and quiet. Evening was coming on, but the sky was still lit with long pink and yellow folds. Patty yanked the chain from Holt's neck. It broke, and he took the little metal tag.
"Second squad's in his pocket," said Madison.
"Yes, sir," Patty reached into Holt's pocket and pulled out a handful of dog tags.
"Help me up, Patsin," said the Captain.
Patty lifted him to his feet, and they limped back to the unit together.
"Easy, sir," said Patty.
"It's okay," said Madison. "I'm sorry."
"Just take it one step at a time, sir."
"I got a million dollar wound. When I get better, I guess I'll take that desk job in Saigon."
"Sure. Why not?" said Patty.
"I'm going to make you the new sergeant before I go."
"Take it easy, sir."
"Frank would be better, but you're the man."
"What about Italy or Baker?"
They came out from under the trees, and the cloudless, starless, early evening sky spread out before them.
"It probably means a longer tour of combat," said the captain. "That's why nobody wants the job. But you'll do it, Patsin, won't you?"
"Yeah. I'll do it," said Patty.
They leaned against the bank and rested.
Little C-4 supper fires pointed the way home.
CHAPTER 9: THE GREAT M.P. RAID
Frank shuffled stiffly into the barracks. The screen door banged shut behind him.
"Man, what happened to you," said Camp. He put his cards on the bed and jumped up. "Welcome back home. I thought they were supposed to cure you, not kill you."
"Hey, balloon face," called Italy from the bed. "Looks like they beat you half to death."
"I'm alive," Frank mumbled through swollen lips. He sat down carefully on a footlocker beside his bed. Dark lumps discolored his forehead and cheek. His left eye was almost shut. "You guys still playing poker?"
"Yeah," said Camp. "What took you so long?"
Frank tried to smile. "I been here since yesterday. I dropped by to see my woman. Frenchy is looking fine."
"What happened?" said Camp.
"The M.P.s got me."
The door clicked open and the Colonel strode into the room. "He took four stitches in his lip."
"Atten-hut," Italy yelled as he jumped up.
"At ease, men," said the Colonel. He pushed some mosquito netting out of his way and sat down on Frank's bunk. "Everyone over here. I want to have a little off-the-record discussion."
The men gathered around him.
"Frank, the M.P.s really worked you over, didn't they?"
"Yes, sir. They did."
"You deserved it, and you know it. You were off limits, so I'm making you a private again."
"Yes, sir. I expected it."
"Speak up. Don't mumble."
"My lips are swollen."
"You mean my lips are swollen, sir."
"Yes, sir."
"You're a pretty popular man in this unit, I understand?"
"Yes, sir. I hope so, sir."
"Your friends don't take very good care of you, do they?” He scanned the circle of soldiers.
Frank managed a little smile. "No, sir."
"I don't like to see the M.P.s beating up my men.” He turned to Italy. "What do you think about that, soldier?"
"Well, sir. . . uh, that's fine," said Italy.
Camp barely suppressed a laugh.
"Don't laugh, soldier," the Colonel snapped. "You guys know combat tactics pretty well by now, don't you? Stuff like how to ambush an enemy patrol. If I had that kind of knowledge, and I do, I'd use it to protect my friends.” He looked at Camp.
He stood up. "Atten-hut."
The men snapped to it.
"We're glad to have you back to the unit. Frank, you get some rest."
"Yes, sir."
"Men, I'm not in the habit of visiting the barracks. Remember that.” He turned and strode from the room.
"I'll be damned," said Camp. "Frank, you got friends in high places."
"I'm still a private," Frank muttered. He turned to Patty. "I hear they made you squad leader."
Patty nodded.
"You were a fool to take it," said Frank. "They'll keep you out in the field now 'til you turn green."
"I know," answered Patty.
Frank shook his head. He lifted his mosquito net and flopped on to his bunk. In a minute, he was asleep on his stomach, snoring, his boots dangling over the side of the bed.
"So, we're gonna ambush the M.P.s," said Camp.
"Looks that way," Italy smiled.
"A street fight. Alright," said Mac, making a fist.
"I don't know," said Baker.
"Frank's your friend, too," said Camp. "If you don't want to come, don't."
"I didn't say nothing," answered Baker. "Count me and Leigh in."
"Me too," said Patty.
"I think that'll do fine," said Camp.
Two weeks later, Frank was ready. He gunned the jeep up the dark street to the barracks. The excitement of it beat tightly in his chest. He slammed to a halt and killed the engine. Sitting still at the wheel for a moment, he fingered the jagged, pink scar at his throat, a souvenir of the booby trap that had almost killed him six weeks ago. It pulsed with his heartbeat. He shook himself, grabbed a case of beer from the pile beside him and vaulted out of the jeep. He jumped the two steps to the barracks door and slammed it open.
"Okay, you bastards. Night time is the right time. Ambush squad, over here. I brought some ammo."
He threw the case of beer on a footlocker and tore it open.
Mac walked up to Frank and shook a fist. "Tonight, brother."
Frank nodded and flipped him a cold, dripping beer.
Camp came up and squeezed Frank's shoulder.
"We'll kill them," said Frank
as he handed Camp a beer.
Patty lay on his bunk. Frank grinned and flipped him a beer. "You ready, Sarge?"
"I'm ready.” Patty grinned back.
"They got small M.P.s who don't carry clubs?" said Italy.
"I'll take good care of you," answered Frank as he handed him a beer. Their knuckles touched and Italy nodded.
Leigh and Baker sauntered over last.
"You guys set?" said Frank as he handed them each a beer.
"Sure," Leigh answered.
Frank popped open a can and drank deeply. He held the can up. "One beautiful mission."
"Right on," Mac responded.
Everybody drank.
"How we getting there?" said Leigh.
"I got the Colonel's jeep," said Frank.
"How'd you do that?" said Baker.
"I sort of requisitioned it.” He drained his beer and tossed the can out the door. The empty clanged as it landed on the dark company street.
"Let's go," he said.
They pounded outside and piled into the jeep. Frank, Camp and Patty squeezed into the front seat. Mac, Italy, Baker, and Leigh took the back.
"Jesus Christ, this thing's a sardine can," said Italy.
"Let's move it," Mac yelled.
Frank gunned the motor and they took off up the dark, dusty street with a jolt.
"Hey, turn on the lights," Leigh yelled.
"Not 'til we're off the base," answered Frank.
"You all can't see a thing," said Leigh.
"Frank flies by radar," said Camp.
Frank spoke up in a deep, happy voice. "Feel that the wind in your face. It tells you all you need to know. Fly free. Fly free.” He punched the dash.
"I talk to the trees," Italy sang out.
"Fortunately, they don't answer back," said Camp.
"Frank, did you let the M.P.s know we're back?" Mac called into the wind.
"Yeah, man," Frank leaned over the wheel. "I dropped by their barracks and told that fat sergeant I'd kick his ass if I ever saw him alone. He said he'd see me in the swamp tonight. Boy, am I gonna kick ass.” He pounded the wheel. "Pass me another beer."
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