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See the stern fierce
eyes, the firm proud jaw, the bull of his strength cloaked in abject
cotton. Biggen is a master of men in a world of shit. His canteen cup
holds vile C-rat coffee or bitter hot cocoa, which he has boiled with a
pasty chunk of stolen C-4. It’s the morning after and we are back on
base.
The day previous, Delta company is weary. We are sitting in the jungle
near the edge of an empty field waiting for choppers to fly us away.
After four weeks of patrols and nothing to show we are flat out tired
and careless. There is no perimeter. No trips or claymores have been set
out. No one posted on OP. We’ve had no contact in a month. Why bother?
Even the well used trail seems lifeless. We sit and banter, play Hearts,
smoke the five-in-a-pack-C-ration cigarettes. Wait for the birds that
will fly us away. There is the heavy scent of the jungles heat. There is
the sound of no sound. There is too much quiet. A twig snaps. We duck,
then rise, then see them: Two NVA walking the trail. Maybe they’re new
recruits. Or old hands like us. It doesn’t matter. Every man opens fire.
“Where’s the fuckin RTO?” point man Larry Roy shouts. We’ve taken cover behind
uprooted trees. “Where is that cock sucker? That fucker. Where’d he go?”
Larry Roy grabs an M-79, stands it on its stock, angles it upward, lobs
the blunt 40 mm grenades like mortar shells. The machine gun team moves
forward. Opens up with a crackling burst. The trapped soldiers throw
themselves down, try to escape but it’s hopeless. While the others take
frantic shots Biggen and Six take their time, squeeze off the
tumbling rounds, pick off the human targets one by one. The last to die
emits a terrible scream, then falls, his bushy head, his ragged body
trapped in a thicket of dead bamboo.
Running forward, our bandoliers slap our chests. Our half full canteens
makes a shaking sound. We stop, circle and kick the corpses. Then short
muscular Crazy Frank smiles his crazy smile, pulls his thick Fu Manchu,
lifts the bodies up, throws them down, pokes them hard to make them
bleed. He stops just before the Captain arrives.
“Nice shooting, sir,” he says, putting his knife away.
In the midst of our joy the tall lanky RTO crawls out from an enemy
bunker, lifts the square metal radio to his back, walks toward us, a
dopey grin filling his face.
"What you got there?" he asks, eye brows arched in masquerade.
“Ha!" laughs Larry Roy. “You fuckin pussy. You fuckin coward.” The thin
wiry point lunges at the RTO, hammers his delicate fist on the tall
man’s chest. Thumps it. Thumps it. “I oughta waste you, you
motherfucker. You fuckin coward. I oughta waste your fuckin ass.”
The radio man says nothing as the platoon gathers round.
“What’s your fuckin problem?” asks Wilson, cocking his right arm,
drawing it back.
Unchallenged, Larry Roy hurls clumps of red dirt into the frightened
man’s face.
“Coward,” he says. “You motherfucker. You fuckin coward.”
He shouts and shouts then abruptly stops, fascinated by the muddy tears
which tumble down the RTO’s reddening cheeks.
“Birds inbound,” someone yells.
A moment later there is the sputtering hiss of popped yellow smoke.
Biggen stands in the center of the field, M-16 raised over his head to
guide the birds in. The RTO buries his face into the palms of his hands.
It's over. We grab our gear and move out.
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