Chapter 13 - Part 1

A Pleading From The Ages

The Huey helicopter touches down on the landing pad some distance from the billets of the 1st Brigade, 25th Infantry just outside a village with the peculiar name of Hon Quan. To the 10 replacements huddled beside the vibrating walls, such a place had only been an insignificant speck on a map, 25 miles north of Saigon and 10 miles east of the Cambodian border in a slender country reaching south from China, through the Gulf of Tonkin and out into the South China Sea.

The props of the helicopter slowly stop and the vibration ceases, leaving a rather nauseous feeling in the stomachs of the young men who remain motionless for a moment, feeling the outside heat and humidity as it pours through the open doors. Their legs are cramped, and they all have a slight limp when they stand, swing their duffle bags over their shoulders and timidly move to the door. There, they stop and cautiously peer at the sweltering base before jumping to the ground. 

Quite by chance, George Haines is standing at Randy's side, just as he has been all through their training, but he hasn't uttered a word since they lifted off from Saigon. He just stands there with that childish, innocent look, gazing at the billet area. He takes off his helmet and runs his hand through his short, blonde hair, but his babyish, blue eyes somehow don't convey the blind confidence in everything they were told in training when he had constantly spoken of "being a good soldier," like he expected to get some kind of report card or something before shipping to Vietnam. He had really been taken in by it all.

One of the replacements utters, "Oh shit," and points to a rather large Negro sergeant 1st class toddling towards the helicopter.

The man has faded letters on his name tag that spell "Dorsey," a very dark skin tone and a full round face. He seems impatient and with a deep, insistent voice, snaps, "All you FNGs line up right there!" before moving over to the helicopter and signing a rather official looking document on a clipboard.

The men begin to whisper among themselves, "What's a FNG?"

An adolescent voice answers, "Someone in Saigon told me it means fucking new guy."

A small and obviously apprehensive young man, who can't be over 19 years old, points to a group of 5 long, wooden boxes sitting outside what looks like a supply building and says, "What do you think those are?"

Sergeant Dorsey barks, "Those are corpses, soldier. We got some of them coming in and others walking out or being carried out. That's why the hell we need replacements like you."

He lines the men up and marches them towards the billets. His command voice is very assertive, and he counts cadence in a fluid and almost melodic tone - all quite military.

Dates and statistics flash through Randy's mind, and he is surprised he can even remember such details - all those things he has heard on the news within the past year. In 1969, the United States began pulling out American troops from Vietnam - 25000 in June, 35000 in September and 50000 in December. The goals of further American involvement were uncertain, but the apparent phasing down was clearly taken to satisfy deteriorating public opinion, reduce expenditure, and there was even talk of phasing out the draft. He thinks of all those months he had hoped his educational deferment would allow him to beat the draft, since marriage and the luck of the draw in the lottery idea seemed so inequitable, and the marriage method only created artificial relationships which, in some ways, were far worse than being drafted. At least, it had seemed that way until now.

The 1968 Tet offensive had worsened the already deteriorating public opinion, and he remembers those terrible reports of the siege at Khe Sanh. Initially, the Viet Cong and NVA (North Vietnam Army) had taken many towns; and although they were eventually retaken in American and ARVN (Army of Republic of Vietnam) counterattacks, the fact that Tet been waged at all disclaimed the pretenses of the Johnson Administration as to the progress of the war. By March, Congress began a review of the American policies and by the end of the month, Johnson withdrew from the presidential race, making some kind of self-righteous contention he was removing himself from politics so he could devote his full attention to ending the war.

Sergeant Dorsey halts the indecisive formation in front of the supply room and gruffly commands, "At ease!"

All their eyes wander to the body boxes. The helicopter that delivered them rumbles overhead, kicks up dust and blows a little white, crescent-shaped, metal pin to Randy's feet. He picks it up, and his heart stops a moment as he looks at the red diagonal line across the crest of the pin and the black words, "Don't be the last GI killed in Vietnam." Randy can feel his spirit dropping with each passing minute. Seeing the body boxes was bad enough but that pin only reminded him that American involvement is winding down, creating an understandable impression of pointlessness in the confused minds of everyone who remains here. Live ammunition is issued, and everyone has that passive, tired look about them. There is no expression on their faces, which are scorched by the blistering sun. They all look almost identical - blank expressions and sweat blotches under the arms and behind the collars of their fatigue jackets.

The billet area is the traditional military setting. There is even a few whitewashed rocks around the orderly room. The barracks buildings are unpainted, faded wood with screens running from chest level to the roof lines. Their cheaply constructed appearance creates the argumentative impression they were not built for a war that would last this long or perhaps, the war would soon end under conditions set by the enemy.

Inside the billet is the same as any other Sunday afternoon. It's only about one-quarter full with some men lying on their bunks, staring at the ceiling. Others are writing letters.  Randy and George begin to unpack their duffle bags, and Randy notices the buck sergeant chevrons on the collar of the fatigue jacket hung on the bunk next to him, and "Bryant" on the name tag. The man sitting on the bunk has a dark complexion with a narrow face and small, cold, brown eyes. He is leisurely puffing a cigarette and brushing his hand through his short, black hair that is so thick it doesn't have a part.

Walking over to him, Randy asks, "Sergeant Bryant, how close are we to the front?"

Bryant emits a one syllable snicker and mockingly says, "There ain't no fucking front. What in the hell did they teach you in training?" He looks up at Randy's name tag and says, "Coleman." A ridiculing smile comes to his face as he adds, "Lieutenant Hardin told us we were getting 2 replacements. Aren't you the college boy?" He looks up at Randy's timid nod, gets up and scoffs, "The nation's finest," before walking from the building.

One of the other men sits up in his bunk to be sure Bryant can't hear him before looking at Randy, and in something of a less ridiculing voice, cautions, "You don't want to fuck with him. He's a bad ass. This is his second tour in this shithole."

Night falls, but the heat does not relent and Randy lies in his bunk, listening to faint sound of small arms fire in the distance. He can scarcely make out the chopping sounds of helicopters. When he was in college, he felt safe with his educational deferment and never imagined he would someday find himself here. Always, he had felt the war would end before he graduated and hoped the draft would be discontinued. Just before leaving Euclid Avenue, however, he saw a news interview with a Georgia Senator who described the Vietnam involvement as, "A war we will not end, yet refuse to win." 

Suddenly, there is a loud explosion somewhere in the company area. Randy and George, in a frenzied panic, drop from their bunks, crawl to the rifle racks and tensely remove their M16s. They crawl around on the floor for a few moments before finding themselves under George's bunk. No one else even moves from their bunks, and a few of them begin to laugh. Someone begins to sing in nursery rhyme style, "Lieutenant Hardin, you stupid son of a bitch, I hope you're smart enough to see fragging is gonna get you before you get anyone else killed."

George and Randy lie there on the floor, befuddled by it all, not knowing what has happened or what to do.

In a moment, Sergeant Bryant casually walks across the floor, seems somewhat amused and says, "You FNGs down there on the floor, put your weapons back in the rack. Someone just dropped a grenade outside Lieutenant Hardin's quarters."

Sadistic laughs stir through the building as the 2 men replace their weapons and slip back into their bunks. Nothing is like Randy had expected - it's far worse. Everyone seems so withdrawn. He lies there, listening to the distant sounds of a war with boundary lines, political limitations and unheralded casualties. Only now does he grasp what is about to happen to him.

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Last night was but one of many sleepless nights that are to follow. Randy sits there in the mess building, and the humid morning heat encases his body. His fresh fatigues already feel dirty. The slightly burnt eggs and sausage, unattractively spread out over the metal tray in front of him, do little to foster an appetite, but he looks across at Sergeant Bryant who is consuming the unsightly preparation as though it were a gourmet's delight. Randy studies the trance-like stare that seems locked on his face, declaring no obliging feeling and only an acceptance of the unsure existence of duty in Vietnam. He wonders why in the hell anyone would volunteer for a second tour as his eyes fall down on Bryant's fatigue jacket and the cloth Combat Infantryman Badge sewn just above the US Army insignia. 

Craig Bryant seems somewhat more conversational that the previous evening and asks with only a slight suggestion of sarcasm, "How's one of the nation's finest this morning?"

Randy shakes his head and forcibly swallows a mouthful of the rations. Hesitantly, he asks, "What did they mean in the barracks last night - what's fragging?"

Bryant hesitates but finally answers, "This damn war, or whatever you want to call it, has been going on so long that 60% of the men in Vietnam now are draftees instead of professional soldiers. Some of the officers and cadre are piss-poor. That stupid ass, Lieutenant Hardin, has only been in the Army about 18 months and doesn't know any more about leading a platoon than he does the 4th dimension. Someone just wanted to let him know that if he keeps ordering the men to risk their lives for damn fucking nothing, someone's likely to shoot his ass off in the next firefight." He pauses a moment. His eyes squint. An intolerant draw comes to his mouth. "What is it Washington is saying now? The situation over here calls for 'patient and prolonged diplomacy'? Like shit. Diplomacy is the process by which a crisis is prolonged. Only more men are gonna die for nothing. With crap like that coming out of Washington, self-preservation is the only concern. Nobody fucks with anybody anymore."

A startled expression comes to Randy's face. He looks down at his tray and murmurs, "How could this ever happen?"

Bryant immediately assumes his antagonistic temperament and snaps, "You mean they didn't teach you about it in college?"

Randy is confused by such a question and surmises anyone who would pull 2 tours in Vietnam is even more stupid than such a senseless act suggests, if he thinks terms like "fragging" are in the college curriculum. There is sarcasm in his own voice when he half-heartedly responds, "No, they didn't teach us anything about fragging."

"That's not what the fuck I'm talking about, smart-ass," Bryant snarls. "All this shit didn't start when the first American put his foot in this cesspool in the late 50s. Look back at the American Industrial Revolution. We came to think we could export idealism the same as the products of a capitalist society and that the expansion of that marketplace would produce a world prosperity that would automatically generate freedom and democracy as we understood them. All we needed to do was sit back and let American commerce transport one impoverished country after the other into copies of the American culture." He throws his fork down into his tray. "Well, those backward countries had more resolve that the the theoreticians thought. Most resisted the idea of what they called Western Imperialism. After the 1917 Russian Revolution, a competition for men's minds resulted. Everybody got this god damn idea that the world should be divided into Capitalist and Communist camps, and the purpose of both systems was to free everyone under the injustices they both claimed existed under the other system. What in the hell did they teach you in college anyway?"

Randy is shocked at the rather crude form of insight he has just heard but is equally aghast when he realizes he only related college to passing tests and not what it all meant in the real world. His thoughts reach back to those seemingly meaningless pages in his world history text. He slowly begins to recount it all. Bryant listens, periodically nodding. Randy struggles at first but slowly, it all comes back to him. "Wasn't it in the late 1890s that Vietnam came under a French protectorate resulting from military action?" He remembers several essays he read during his junior year. "After World War I, America developed as an isolationist and lost the opportunity to become a world leader. Some theories at the time were that our offering food and economic assistance might cause some of the smaller countries to accept our ideals."

Bryant seems engrossed and interjects, "They called it colonialism. What happened in 1945, just after the 2nd War?"

Randy is embarrassed that the crude loser before him seems to know more about world history than he and tentatively says, "I don't know."

"DeGaulle announced that French Indochina would soon be liberated. From 1940 to 1944, it had been largely under Japanese domination. In 1941, Ho Chi Minh had placed Vietnam with the antifascists, and an armed insurrection began. There was something of a revolution in 1945 and what resulted was the Viet Minh insurgency that started to oppose the French who wouldn't release Vietnam from her grip."

"I remember now," Randy says, finding himself increasingly interested in the conversation - much the same as he had in some of those classroom debates among students who really were not as smart as they thought. 'That was when the Marshall Plan was bringing the world economic system back into balance."

Bryant attentively listens as though he expects Randy to continue his explanation of the intellectuals' view and seems disappointed when the explanation stops with only the rote facts. "You mean that's all they taught you?" he says, as he leans back and almost falls off the bench. Again, the ridiculing expression returns. "There's a lot more to it than that. Roosevelt opposed the idea of reestablishing France as a colonial power and favored independence for Vietnam. Southeast Asia seemed of little importance with most of the postwar attention going to Europe where Russia was viewed as the main threat to world peace. Between 1946 and 1949, France tried to reintegrate Indochina into the French Empire and continue colonialism, but there was determined opposition by the Viet Minh. Even the damn Marshall Plan aid to France went to finance her military effort in Vietnam.

"Southeast Asia was viewed as unstable and something called the 'domino theory' resulted - that is, if one country fell to Communism, it would start a chain reaction and they would all fall, so the United States took a strong position against the expansion of Communism. Since 1947, United States attention had already turned from China to Japan as the model of pro-capitalist modernization. That enhanced hate for the West in Southeast Asia, due to fear of the re-establishment of the Japanese sphere of influence that had been Japan's goal during World War II. France resisted United States efforts to allow independence and by 1952, the United States was furnishing 40% of the cost of French operations in Vietnam. 

"The North Korean invasion of South Korea gave credence to the domino theory, and the whole Communist strategy was glaringly obvious - exhaust American resources and patience by mounting a series of local actions around the world at times and places of their choice. The French were defeated at Dien Bien Phu in May of 1954. Conveniently for the reds, that was towards the end of the Korean War, and their tactic of exhausting patience seemed to be working.

"At Geneva in 1956, Vietnam was divided into North and South, the same as Korea had been divided after the World War II, and the fucking Viet Cong insurgency began the next damn day. By 1959, supplies and advisors were being sent over the Ho Chi Minh Trail through Laos and Cambodia, and the whole frigging thing started all over again. That might not be the way it's recorded in the history books but the world Communist conspiracy and domino theory are real. The only thing that has stopped Communist world domination is the resolve of the Western world in shit holes like Korea and Vietnam."

He coldly stares at Randy for a moment and adds, "Those stupid fuckers back there doing all the protesting on college campuses - they're supposed to be so damn smart and can't even see the truth when it's right in front of them in those books they're supposed to be studying." He looks at Randy with a rather disenchanted expression, stands up and walks away as he says, "Think about it."

Randy watches him walk from the building and glances over at George Haines as he sits down beside him. Some of George's enthusiasm has disappeared. He looks rather pale and begins an ominous dialogue. "Some of the men were telling me that Captain Garnett Sain, the company commander, has only been in the unit for about 2 weeks. They said he was just about to wash out of the Army, because he couldn't pass enough of Command and General Staff School to be promoted to major. No one really knows how long he's been in the Army, but a man in the chow line told me the company clerk saw his 201 File, and he was a private towards the end of World War II. He got a battlefield promotion for awhile in Korea but was cut back to an enlisted man afterwards. He went to OCS in the early 60s and got sent over her as an advisor a few years after that. I guess this his his second tour."

Randy remembers what Bryant has just told him about 60% of the men in Vietnam being draftees and how piss-poor many of the officer and cadre are. Again, the sick feeling returns to his stomach. It's difficult for him to grasp it all. His own men are "fragging" the platoon leader, the company commander appears a loser who can't make it on the outside or even through those damn silly Army courses and as a result, is in the pitiful position of having to accept a second tour in Vietnam to hold on to a career, which by all accounts, should have ended years ago.

During the first week, there is the boredom of constantly doing equipment maintenance, which does nothing but add to Randy's worry as to the competence of his superiors. Seeing Lieutenant Hardin for the first time did anything but enhance the smallest degree of assurance. He can't be over 24 years old and is so jumpy and unsure of himself, he looks like a boxer who has taken too many punches - quite the contrary to the young men Randy knew in college and at the investment firm. Hardin is simply the "good old boy" type - the sort of man that drives a dirty pickup truck with a rifle in the back window. He must have joined the Army because he thought it made him feel more like the type man he thought he wanted to be. How he ever made it through OCS is a plaguing question only adding to Randy's apprehension.

Captain Garnett Sain is equally unimpressive. There are all sorts of ideas in the company about how he has managed to remain an officer so long, yet is only a captain. His uniform never seems to look exactly right. He's short and slightly overweight, has thinning, black hair that has receded several inches above his forehead, seems to have a limited vocabulary and is always struggling to express himself. Neither he nor Hardin is what Randy had expected to find in "today's modern Army."

Some of the men insist the first mission is always the worse. Others insist they become progressively worse, because the closer one gets to the end of his tour, the more paranoid he becomes about something happening to him. Seeing men die, seeing the wounded, lying there gasping to hold on to life until the Medevac helicopters can get them out - all that accumulates in the minds of most soldiers, many of whom are only 21 or 22 years old. Randy is approaching 25 and feels he shouldn't be here at all. He wishes so much he had gotten it all over with before finishing college. The deferment and lottery methods failed him, and he wants to blame it all on someone else.

These past few nights, the VC have lobbed mortar rounds into the company compound. Everyone knew some unit would be sent out into the jungle to find them. Something told Randy it would be his company. Garnett Sain was unimpressive and did little to promote anything resembling confidence when he issued his verbal operation order. The whole context of the scheme of maneuver seems defeatist - simply find the enemy and call in artillery bombardment.

The 1st and 2nd Platoons stand just behind the defense perimeter and remind Randy of school children waiting for a school bus, but what they are waiting for are armored personnel carriers to transport them to who knows what. The riflemen on duty behind the sandbags encircling the base stare at them and seem glad it isn't them that is going out into the bush. Sergeant Dorsey is striding towards the 2 platoons and doesn't have on his field gear, so he must not be going on the mission. His eyes are fixed squarely on Randy, and there is a disapproving scowl on his face, which seems to glow like a neon sign with the sweat from the early morning humidity. He stomps up to Randy and places his large lips not 3 inches from Randy's face and shouts, "Boy, get that magazine in your weapon! You're in a fucking combat zone!"

Randy fumbles through his ammunition pouches and awkwardly tries to cram a magazine into his M16.

"You're trying to put it in backwards," Dorsey says as he takes a few steps backwards and stands there with his arms folded. He turns around and walks away mumbling, "I'll bet you're a big hit in bed with the ladies."

Some of the other men in the platoon manage entertained snickers. One of them takes a few steps towards Randy and says, "He don't like white people - especially educated white people."

Presently, a group of 11 M113 ACAV vehicles comes sputtering through the compound, and all the drivers are seated on top of them with some sort of improvised steering mechanisms extending up from the interiors. Randy moves closer to Sergeant Bryant and with a degree of astonishment, asks, "Why are they sitting up there like that?"

Bryant isn't amused and answers, "If those damn things ever run over a land mind, everyone inside's gonna get castrated."

The squad slowly slips into one of the vehicles. Randy can feel his heart pounding in his chest. The inside is very cramped, because there is a layer of sandbags on the floor in yet another improvisation against land mines. It must be 120 degrees. Sweat is effusing from every pore of Randy's body as the vehicles depart the secured area in single file but quickly assume the echelon formation, just outside the compound.

The ride through the open field surrounding the base is rough, and the men softly curse with each jolt that slams their backs against the walls of the vehicle, which are too hot to touch. The uncertain nausea that has been in Randy's stomach since the moment he set foot in Vietnam is churning, partly because of the heat and partly because of fear of a sort he has never felt. He feels as though he will vomit, but Bryant places his hand under his chin, lifts up and says, "Take deep breaths through your mouth. Hold your head up."

Nodding, Randy loosens his fatigue jacket, begins to gasp, but surprisingly, the hot, stagnated air rushing through his lungs seems to abrogate the bitter, pungent liquid at the bottom of his throat. He loses track of time, and as the vehicle comes to an abrupt halt, the nausea is suddenly superceded by a nervous energy. His skin is tingling. His hands are trembling when the driver slips out the top hatch and mans one of the two 7.62 millimeter machine guns mounted behind a metal shield on each side of the vehicle.

The squad hurriedly rushes through the back doors into the outside air, which is cool compared to the oven-like interior of the APC and has a restorative effect on the cramped bodies huddled behind Bryant at the side of the vehicle. He scans the thick tree line some 100 yards ahead and then, looks to his right. Discontent sweeps over his face as he mumbles, "Come on, Hardin. Make up your fucking mind."

Suddenly, machine gun fire breaks out everywhere. Randy hugs the ground and buries his head under his arms as the rattling bursts sever through his very soul. His skin is cold and clammy. There is no feeling in his feet, and his mouth is dry and parched. Someone is tugging at his sleeve. It's Bryant pointing to the drivers of the APCs, all sitting on top and raking the edge of the jungle with the vehicle-mounted machine guns. The rounds eat into the foliage, tearing whole limbs off the trees until all falls silent except for the ominous echoes of the gunfire deep down in the jungle. Randy moves back up on his knees and looks at Lieutenant Hardin, who is undecidedly staring at the tree line. The men in the platoon are more intent on observing the lieutenant than the assumed objective, and Bryant's mood quickly becomes a coalition of impatience and sympathy.

The echoes subside and the scrub brush at the jungle's edge gently tosses in a slight wind that stirring from the tangled undergrowth. It's like an ill omen that's only supposed to exist in a Shakespearean tragedy. Randy's stomach cramps as he stares into the shadows of the dark wasteland before him. The thoughts rushing through him make a mockery of everything - all that time in college and all that time working night and day at the investment firm, all gone to waste, running around in some underdeveloped country no one back home gives a damn about and in fact, is tired of even hearing of. Inexplicably, he sees the face of that secretary back there at work - the one that was supposed to be so easy to screw but always, every time he thinks of a woman, his thoughts immediately change to Evette. There was something so special about her unpolished mannerism, her coarse, yet somehow feminine voice and her response to any masculine advance in good taste.

Any trace of authority is diluted from Hardin's voice, and his hand signals to the squad leaders are unclear. Finally, Bryant mumbles to the squad, "On your feet. He doesn't have any fucking choice."

All sorts of undertones filter through the platoon as it delicately weaves its way towards the tree line. Randy expects Viet Cong small arms fire to break out at any moment, but there is nothing. The platoons skeptically crouch at the edge of the jungle. A cool and inviting drift of air exudes from the shadows and sweeps across the faces of the young men, now showing only dread and resent. They begin to murmur among themselves. One voice sounds above all the rest. "God dammit, Hardin, you're out of your fucking mind if you're thinking of going in there. It's a frigging ambush waiting to happen!"

Bryant's voice is more scornful than supportive of the skittish lieutenant but restores some degree of order as he blurts, "Shut your fucking mouth!"

An irresolute quite prevails over the hesitant platoons as they crouch low to the ground and stumble into the jungle. The sound of panting breaths floats through the damp, heavy air and again, all eyes turn to Lieutenant Hardin, who turns around and motions the APCs into fire support positions.

Randy glares at the lieutenant and isn't sure if he literally doesn't know what to do or lacks the confidence to do it, but a harrowing quiet settles over the sweltering infantrymen as they gaze into the thick undergrowth. Large vines hang from the towering trees down to the moist jungle floor, which is a labyrinth of brush-like vegetation, save for one small trail that is staring at them, looking like an illusion that appears and disappears as the sunlight glitters through the overhead canopy, slightly swaying from side to side. The whole setting is vile, and Randy is ruled by fear that the Viet Cong is lurking somewhere there in the shadows, but he is even more menaced by the whole atmosphere of needlessness, so clearly written over everyone's face.

Irresolutely, Hardin motions the 1st Platoon into an abreast formation and signals the 2nd Platoon to remain in reserve in its present position. Muffled, disapproving undertones fill the humid air as the platoon begins to warily walk into the dark and ominous maze. The sun disappears above the leafy overhead canopy, and Randy feels as if the whole world were closing in behind him. All the scornful mumbling stops and there is only the sound of men brushing against the foliage, which is becoming thicker and thicker with each step they take.

The trail has almost disappeared and fingers restlessly snap the M16 safety releases on and off. The skin on Randy's hands and neck tingle with a tormenting itch from the oil from the leaves and what seems thousands of insects until suddenly, Lieutenant Hardin stops, kneels down on one knee and gazes down what remains of the path that drops straight into a ravine only about 20 yards ahead. Muffled profanity slices through the air.

Without shifting his eyes from that mystic stare, Hardin motions for the radio operator, and a young man who looks to be about 20 years old moves without enthusiasm to his side. Hardin enters the radio net and makes a short transmission, which seems to meet with the approval of the men closer to him. He hands the transmitter back to the radioman, stares back down the trail and faintly says, "We'll wait here."

George Haines slips up to Randy and whispers, "What's going on?"

Randy shakes his head, removes his helmet and begins to wipe the sweat from his forehead as he watches the other men in the platoon, all of whom appear immediately more relaxed, although trouble expressions still possess their faces. There is a rumbling sound of artillery from one of the firebases somewhere in the direction of the compound, and in only a few seconds, rounds are tearing through the thick vegetation about 300 yards ahead. Soft earth erupts into the air, leaving a brown, mist-like veil of soil sparkling in the rays of the sun that rushes in through the hollowness ripped through the trees by the massive firepower.

Randy stares at George, whose face projects the same quizzical glare and then, just for a moment, he catches Bryant's eye where there is an unclear intimation - certainly not one of satisfaction, but more one of appeasement.

The artillerymen fire 3 groups of 6 rounds each. Hardin is on the radio again, and by then, it registers with Randy and George what they are seeing. Hardin has radioed a firing mission on a target that does not exist and is now giving the firebase a correction to authenticate the ruse. Several more groups of 6 rounds follow before Hardin calls off the pretense that enemy contact has been made and begins to circulate among the disinterested cadre, giving some sort of instructions about a "reasonable body count."

Without even receiving an order, the patrol reassembles on the path and starts moving back towards the scrub brush, but suddenly, one of the men in the squad ahead screams out, "OOOOOHHHH! God dammit!" and drops to the ground, grasping his left foot. "I'm a son of a bitch," he hisses at the top of his voice, as he clutches his helmet in both hands and slams it to the ground.

Randy and George fall down on their knees and feverishly begin looking all around, not knowing if they are under attack or what, but to their surprise, everyone else shows a rather passive response, just sitting down at the side of the trail, as a medic runs to the injured man's side.

Gazing forward, Randy and George see what appears a perfect square in the ground just ahead of the fallen man, who continues softly cursing. There looks to be a small, square board attached to either side of his foot, and out of curiosity, they both slip closer.

The man looks up at the medic and Bryant, and almost in tears, utters, "God damn booby trap!" He lies flat on his back as Bryant and the medic grip one of the wooden blocks at a time and jerk it from his foot. He screams aloud, sits up and watches them unlace his boot, take off his sock and begin to apply his first aid bandage. His gaze begins to wander over to the side of the trail and comes to rest on the crude contraption on which he has just stepped, which looks to be 2 wooden blocks about 4 inches square with 8 nails driven through each of them. They had been placed in a concealed hole at the side of the trail, and when he stepped into it, the nails ate into the sides of his foot. He sits there looking at his wound, and in a few moments, turns his head to one side and begins to vomit.

Hardin is again on the AN/PRC-25 radio.

George looks at Randy and whispers, "I think he's calling a Medevac helicopter."

Almost in slow motion, the platoon reassembles on the trail with the wounded man still mumbling under his breath, "Those slimy son of a bitches."

George reaches out, grabs Randy's arm and points down to the booby trap, still lying there on the ground. The man's blood is dripping from the nails, which are smeared with human excrement.

Bryant walks in between the 2 of them and says in an embittered voice, "When you're over here, you're gonna get shit on in one way or the other."

They both fall in behind him, overwhelmed by it all, and glue their eyes to the ground before them, expecting another booby trap with every step. The coarse reality of  poor morale begins its unyielding grip on them. The dirty and oppressive environment seems to be choking any measure of resolve from their wills and most of all, for the first time, they vividly see their own lives are in danger in this living nightmare that, from most any reasonable viewpoint, could have ended years ago, had only a portion of the available massive firepower been directed against large strategic targets and not only small, tactical ones, which in some cases, were only empty jungle. 

The sound of the Medevac helicopter is heard towards the east as the platoon approaches the clearing, and the reserve platoon stands up, anxiously searching through the file of men, looking for the wounded. An audible muttering breaks out among them. They seem relieved there is only 1 casualty.

The white square and red cross glow on the nose of the approaching helicopter and seem to be the lone portraiture of clemency in the reprehensible vacuum that has taken so many men and changed them into something they no longer recognize as themselves. Randy can see it, even after only a few weeks in this worthless place and is even beginning to feel it in himself. There seems a common identity, a ruling hope that tours of duty can be completed and mercifully not destroy whatever kindness existed in their souls before Vietnam reshapes them into something they had never imagined. 

The prop-blast from the helicopter causes the scrub brush to toss wildly and kicks up the arid dirt, which is scorching under the punishing sun. The medical crew, all wearing neat uniforms, bounces out of the chopper, loads the casualty, and in only a few minutes, is gone. The platoons crawl on top of the APCs, which casually turn away and make their way back to the compound.

The night is but a cruel echo of all the others. The mortar rounds again fall on the compound, and Randy lies there in the bunker, listening to the terse explosions. He tries to hear the sounds of the mortars as they are fired, guesses how far away away the VC is and wonders how close the patrol had been to them out there in the jungle earlier in the day, or if they had been there at all.

____________________

Captain Garnett Sain sits there behind one of those folding field tables that must be his desk in the cluttered quansit hut that is the incarnation of disorder. Field gear is scattered everywhere, men are sitting here and there with various parts of their uniforms missing, and there is the suffocating odor of tobacco lingering in the heavy air. Randy has only seen the captain a few times, but he looks the same as always before. There are perspiration blotches around the neck and straight down the back of his fatigue jacket, which is pulled out of his pants, and the bottom 2 buttons are loose. His fatigue pants are bloused inside his boots instead of with elastic bands, and there is an overflowing ashtray on the table. Randy remembers someone's telling him the "old brown boot Army" always bloused fatigue pants on the inside of boots.

Randy walks up in front of him, remains at attention, gives a sharp salute and briskly says, "Private Randall Coleman reporting as ordered, sir." Instantly, it occurs to him this is the first time he has referred to himself as "Randall," but the moment seems not to call for the contrived, progressive image of the informed financial representative. 

Captain Sain looks up, appears somewhat surprised at Randall's military courtesy, smiles and returns his salute as he politely says, "At ease." He looks at him for a moment, nods and looks down at his 201 File before saying, "I was looking at your aptitude scores on your entrance exams. You scored exceptionally high but elected not to go to OCS."

Randall finds it difficult to contain the laugh he feels boiling in his throat but thinks better of saying what is in his mind, so he simply replies, "I'm a draftee and not really cut out to be a soldier, sir." He wants so much to tell him all he has seen since coming to Vietnam has further convinced him he doesn't belong there or anywhere in the Army.

Sain nods again, but the smile begins to vanish from his face. He faintly mumbles, "I was a draftee once." He pauses and again looks at Randall. "A lot of the younger men say that." He looks back at the 201 File and adds, "You're a few years older than most draftees."

Randall is beginning to resent being reminded of that. He always worked very hard to get his education and begin achieving his career goals with no idea it would lead him to a place like Vietnam. He feels it demeaning to be under the command of someone like Lieutenant Hardin, who seems to have a limited education and even less motivation. He looks down at Sain and feels it equally degrading to be receiving a poorly articulated career consultation from someone who, under any reasonable standard, should be regarded as an incredible failure. 

The captain picks up a crumpled letter from the corner of the table and with a suggestion of displeasure, says, "Speaking of officers, we just got a notice from battalion that we're getting a new executive officer - First Lieutenant Matt Daniels. He's a West Point graduate. It says here he finished at the top of his class and has been to about every tactics and leadership school in the Army." His face goes blank for a moment as though his thoughts were of other places and other times. "Sometimes, that type didn't fit in back in the old brown boot Army."

Randall grits his teeth and tries to hold back the grimace. Everything is becoming progressively worse. There is the incapable leadership that has no control over the platoon, and here is a company commander so desperately trying to hold on to the past, because the supposed 'modern Army" passed him by long ago. Now, he's something of a pitiful anachronism, obvious even to the most casual observer. He doesn't know if what he feels is resent or what, but he is convinced being put into such ridiculous circumstances would surely be disheartening to anyone with the most remote inclination towards meaningful ambition. 

He doesn't completely grasp what Sain is saying to him - some pretentious assertion about his being welcomed to the unit. When it appears Sain can't think of anything else to say, Randall salutes and begins to walk towards the door, which opens just as he is reaching for it. He stands to one side as a very neat and polished 1st lieutenant walks in and, just as any gentleman would, removes his hat. He is dressed in a clean and starched short sleeve, khaki uniform and has short, light brown hair that is combed to one side. His clean-shaven face and clear complexion make him look younger than he probably is, and his uniform looks as though it was tailored. His shirt buttons, highly-shined belt buckle and the zipper on his pants are perfectly aligned. He seems the perfect addition to make the company even more non-concordant than it already is. 

The whole platoon is sitting around the back of the billet, cleaning the M16s - something necessary almost daily due to the hot, humid climate. There is a harsh antagonism churning in Randall's stomach as he looks down at Sergeant Bryant, another man of simplistic ambition, sitting there laboring so intently over such a childish task as cleaning a rifle. He thinks of his office back in Atlanta, tries to determine what time it is there and what he would be doing, if he were there where he belongs. He tries to picture Bryant in a richly-appointed conference room giving a presentation on a prospectus and laughs to himself. 

Bryant acts as though Randall isn't even there, and that makes him feel even more antagonistic, so he says the most abrasive thing he can think of. "What do you know about My Lai?"

Bryant immediately stops but doesn't look at him. "What do you want to know?" he asks as a rather serious mask comes over him.

"I read about it in the paper," Randall says, somewhat surprised he seems to have penetrated Bryant's usually blank personality. "The media seems to have the idea that these people over here are being victimized by a powerful country and are too weak to do anything but swallow our story about Communist aggression." He feels his confidence, or maybe his resent, building and his voice becomes more assertive. "Killing all those innocent people like that was just another way of victimizing people who couldn't defend themselves."

"You believe everything you read in the paper, schoolboy?" Bryant asks as his eyes squint and a slight draw comes to his mouth. 

"Well, I don't believe the newspapers are all controlled by liberals who have some sort of subversive idealism behind them, which is contrary to American ideals," Randall retorts. "There's no way in the world you can justify killing a village full of innocent people with no reason."

Bryant lays his weapon down and stares at it there on the ground for a moment. "Justification might not be the correct term," he says as he starts to put it back together. "There was a lot more to My Lai than you learned from the newspaper."

Randall really isn't open to receiving another unseasoned treatise on military tactics and mumbles, "A lot of innocent people were killed for no reason. How can you explain it in any other way?"

"You need to understand it before you try to explain it," Bryant says with a very unyielding inflection. "That American company had tried to penetrate another village, My Son, for 3 days and had lost a number of men to enemy fire and booby traps. Just after that, they stumbled into an enemy mine field and lost 32 men. The papers probably didn't report that about that time, only 7% of officers on duty over here were West Point graduates. Some of them were leaving the Army after 2 or 3 combat tours in this fucking place. The Army had to turn somewhere for officers and NCOs. Many of them came from OCS and NCO academies, and the simple truth is not all of them were ready for what they found when they got here. You can't blame them for that. Have you ever found yourself doing something and felt your situation was so unfair? Many people rebel against something like that in one way or another."

Randall starts to voice some degree of disagreement but suddenly thinks of Lieutenant Hardin and imagines himself in his position after only 6 months of formal OCS training. It strike him that Bryant is not arguing with him but is earnestly trying to explain something he has quite obviously reasoned out in his own mind many times before. He is surprised to find his own hostility waning and a developing receptiveness to what Bryant is reaching within himself to relate to him. 

Bryant's eyes are glassy and fixed on the ground as he says, "Did the papers report that several days before the platoon went into My Lai, it had been mortared and most of the men's personal possessions were destroyed? A few days after that, 4 men were killed, including the last experience NCO. The strength of the company was about 100, and in the month before My Lai, it had suffered 42 casualties, not to mention the constant pressure within the unit to control its own members and still more pressure from superiors for 'body count.' A few days earlier, the VC had captured one of the Americans, and all night, the company heard him screaming. The next day, they found him. The VC had skinned him alive, soaked him in salty water and tore off his dick. The day before that, they had seen the village chief hysterical when the VC gave him a portion of his son wrapped in an earthenware jar."

Bryant's face is unstable. He looks up at several of the newer men who are now gathered around. They all intently listen as Bryant continues. "The company had received fire from the village for several days, but when they moved into it, there were no men - only women and children. They knew they were all VC and those supposedly "innocent people" had probably laid the mines and set the booby traps that had killed so many of the company. They were all unbelievably tired, resentful and afraid. If they had called in an air strike before entering a suspected VC village, it would have been a lot cleaner and no one would have said a fucking word about it. Imagine yourself in the situation they had been in for weeks. Maybe you're not as pure of heart that you wouldn't have felt the same ruling hate they did when they started shooting."

Randall feels less animosity, studies Bryant's almost apologetic disposition and asks, "How do you know so much about all that?"

Quickly, Bryant's remote mannerism returns, and he snaps, "Because god dammit, I was there!"

Randall watches Bryant walk back into the billet and wants to get it all our of his mind, but he can't dismiss what he has just heard. He thinks of those times in his life when he has been disheartened - those times in college when he had studied so hard but done poorly on an examination and those other times at work when he had researched an investment so carefully, only to have the client place the order with another councilor, because his competitor had a more pleasing personality but knew virtually nothing about the advice he was rendering.

He is beginning to grasp what it must be like to be fatigued due to days of combat field duty and wonders what he would have done, if he had been at My Lai. He feels a formidable apprehension seeping over him when he realizes that in the months ahead, he might well find himself in just such a situation and become a victim - not of the sort as those who were gunned down at My Lai, but a victim nonetheless.

____________________

These last few days, it has been so obvious that Lieutenant Matt Daniels has such an acute disdain for Captain Sain, and such a reaction is not entirely without explanation. The 2 are products are entirely different worlds. Sometimes, such a fact alone creates suspicion and mistrust. Daniels gives the impression he views himself as something like royalty, assumes everyone is comparatively uneducated and of a much lower class. His orders are abrupt, yet polite, but there is always the implication that sincerity is absent. Naturally, there is a feeling of resent among the men, but his unmistakable self-confidence has discouraged them from all but ignoring him, as they do Lieutenant Hardin. Daniels shows that trait so common to those who are sure of themselves. His is outspoken, intolerant, and strangely, much like Sergeant Dorsey, although in a much more cultured affectation.

For the past few days, men in the orderly room have overheard several less than congenial conversations between Sain and Daniels. The lieutenant was openly criticizing what he described as "outdated tactics and the flagrant need for updated thinking."

As the APCs roll out of the compound, Randall at least feels more at ease to be under the command of Daniels - at least, he can identify with him to a greater extent than someone like Hardin, who by all accounts, just doesn't have the capacity to be a leader.

There is yet another contradiction of identities, because on this mission, Sergeant Dorsey is second in command. He is much the same as Captain Sain, a subscriber to the old school that a war be fought simply by overpowering the enemy with force of firepower - that the proper combination of fear and violence will ultimately prevail over any other tactics and that the resultant friendly casualties are an unavoidable consequence. On the other hand, Daniels seems more inclined to try to out-thing the enemy and optimize the benefit of superior firepower.

The briefing before the mission very much resembled a classroom lecture and began with Daniels referring to the last mission as a "hide and seek game" with a bunch of men walking straight into the jungle and straight into whatever the enemy had waiting for them. He had no way of knowing Hardin probably never had any intent of walking into anything, but still, it was encouraging that Daniels kept saying this mission would be on our terms. As he explained it, American firepower would be used to its best advantage in a tactic he described as a "deliberate ambush." He seemed to have anticipated all sorts of contingencies for which he explained his plans by designating the point of ambush on a map overlay and also the rallying points where the patrol was to reassemble should anything go wrong.

Randall is confused by his own feelings. He isn't exactly undoubting but nonetheless, understands the concept is at least more creative than simply following the man ahead of him.

The sun is low in the sky, and the men are unusually quite inside the APC as it tosses over the rough terrain, moving through the near identical route as the ill-faded previous mission. Everyone has at least momentarily been taken by Daniel's confidence and at the same time, is very reluctant to stand up to the overbearing methods of Sergeant Dorsey.

The 5 APCs suddenly move out of the echelon formation and into single file as they approach the jungle. Randall's squad is in the last vehicle in the column and abruptly stops but only long enough for the squad to slip out the doors and crouch in the tall grass behind. All of a sudden, there is Lieutenant Daniels feeling his way towards the disoriented men. The APCs quickly turn in unison and begin to head back towards the compound, but Daniels leads the squad along behind them, through the tall grass and into the thick foliage of the jungle. There is only about 45 minutes of daylight remaining, and Daniels directs the men to remain in place while he meticulously observes the terrain before them.

After about 10 minutes, someone mumbles, "We're gonna just sit here for awhile and then go back to the compound - just like we did the other day with that stupid-ass Hardin."

Randall moves closer to George and whispers, "I don't think so. If those VC mortar crews are in there, there's a good chance they didn't see us when we left the APC."

Daniels intensely studies the path leading into the jungle for a few moments and then turns to Sergeant Dorsey and says something. He attentively listens before moving towards the squad and looking directly at George and Randall, saying in his typical belittling tone, "College boy, you 2 follow me."

It seems incredible the 3 of them are about to start down that narrow path that most certainly is booby-trapped the same as the other one, except this time, there's only about 30 minutes of daylight left. All of a sudden, the influence of Daniel's confidence disappears, and its the last mission all over again. The uneasiness returns to Randall's stomach, his tongue is dry and feels as though it is swollen. His hands begin to shake, and a cold perspiration trickles from his forehead.

Daniels assembles the remaining 8 men behind them and they all begin to move into the jungle, which looks even more threatening than during the last mission. The long, orange rays of the sun streak through the thick branches, fashioning silhouettes that deceive the senses and offer to everyone whatever they fear most is waiting for them there in the darkening jungle. The prospect of not seeing sunset is vivid and terrifying.

There is something of a relief when Dorsey doesn't lead the squad onto the trail but instead, creeps down into the brush some 40 yards from it.

"Here," Daniels whispers, as he turns to a few men carrying duffle bags. They move a little closer to the trail and begin placing a M181A1 Claymore anti-personnel mine on its spikes. Randall feels a mocking amusement when Daniels scrupulously checks the mine to be sure the letters FRONT TOWARDS ENEMY embossed across the front of the apparatus are really facing towards the trail. They place additional mines at about 40 foot intervals along the side of the path and during the process, Daniels positions the men, each with a control wire connected to the mines, a safe distance away and in the concealing underbrush.

It's near pitch black and strangely, everyone seems to have been positioned except Randall, George and Dorsey. With a warranted concern, George whispers, "What do we do?"

Dorsey's black face is smeared with night camouflage paste and all that can be seen are the whites of his eyes, as he says, "You and college boy here are the security team. He shoves the AN/PRC-25 radio he is carrying into Randall's stomach, holds the transmitter to his mouth and whispers, "Point to Nightwatch 1. Security team in position." He listens for a moment and murmurs, "Wilco." Sternly glaring at the confused FNGs, he whispers in a tone that is more a threat than an order, "You 2 stay right here until either the VC or me comes and gets you. If you hear anything coming from the jungle, get on this radio and alert the lieutenant. College boy, I know you've got brains but all you need to do this is push this button and start talking." With that, he turns around and disappears into the darkness, leaving Randall and George standing there staring at one another.

The night seems so threatening, and the shock of being alone for the first time causes all sorts of images to rush through Randall's mind. He recalls those boxes containing the bodies of men killed in battle, which were the first things he saw when he arrived at the base. He remembers how inept Lieutenant Hardin had looked on that first mission, sitting there in the jungle, not knowing what to do and just as afraid of his own men as the enemy. Everywhere, there was that complacent "don't fuck with me" attitude but it's understandable self-preservation has become the major concern as the war drags on and on with public opinion requiring as much management as the conflict itself.

The shock gradually subsides, and Randall manages to pull his mind away from the steaming jungle. Sitting there, gazing into space, reminds him of the out-of-towners around the bar at the Domino Lounge, waiting for the prostitutes to arrive and then, not being completely sure what to do when they got there. There was that first time he saw Evette there on the strip platform, gradually removing that black, satin dress. He can see the perfect symmetry of her shapely legs and her breasts oozing from the top of her brassiere. Never being completely sure if she was a prostitute always held him in such a captivating abstraction, not to mention her accommodating receptiveness to his masculine advances, which he always attempted to confine to good taste. She seemed to appreciate the presumed gentlemanlike nature, which sometimes suggested she was accustomed to  more business-like encounters. There was even the enchantment of never being sure how he really felt about her. Dating an older woman evaluated his masculine ego, especially since she always seemed to enjoy being with him, no matter what they did. Now, he misses her more than he ever imagined he would and so hopes that someday, he can see her again. Maybe each of them could better appreciate the other from what they had learned from life and about themselves.

"I think I hear something," George whispers in a wavering voice.

A piercing tinge comes into Randall's throat as he leans forward and glares out ahead. He can faintly hear the muttering of oriental voices on the trail and moving straight towards the ambush site. His thoughts turn back to Advanced Infantry Training and that class on the Claymore mine. Figures and facts start to roll through mind as though he were studying for al college economics test. The Claymore mine can expel 700 ball-bearings at waist height, has a 60 degree spread and optimum effective range of 50 yards, but he remembers the instructor's saying something about the range is reduced in close terrain. He is surprised he can even remember but somewhat pleased he can remain so analytical in the face of what is sure to become his first combat experience. An even greater shock comes to his stomach when he suddenly realizes that both he and George have completely forgotten to report enemy contact to the rest of the team, somewhere up there on the trail. 

With a trembling hand, he hurriedly raises the transmitter to is lips and is seized by yet another fear - how close is the enemy? What if they hear his transmission? He has even forgotten the call word Dorsey used when he reported to Lieutenant Daniels but dismisses any concern about formality, weakly whispering, "This is the point. There's voices on the trail. I think they're coming towards you."

"Received and understood," is Daniels much more confident response. 

The voices are louder, and Randall and George both clutch their M16s, pulling them close to their bodies. More of the training registers in Randall's mind. The VC often remove booby traps at night, so the trail must be clear. They have been in the dark long enough to have good night vision and see a series of small figures, leisurely moving down the trail. Ambush is a VC tactic, and they seem unconcerned it could be they who will come under such an attack. They look to be a platoon-size unit and move closer and closer until they're only 20 yards away. Randall and George hug the ground and all but quit breathing. The men on the trail are carrying something. The objects can barely be seen but appear to be base plates, bipods and barrels, so Randall reasons they must be the Type 63 mortar, which was designed to be carried without full disassembly. More of such supposedly irrelevant facts stream into his thoughts. The maximum effective range of that weapon is around 1500 meters, and a good crew can fire about 20 rounds per minute, but the compound had only received intermittent fire for the past few nights, which probably meant the enemy was operating some distance from its home base and had little ammunition. The goal of such fire probably wasn't to produce casualties but achieve the very beneficial psychological effect - a constant reminder the enemy was there and intended to remain there. 

Slowly, they pass. The voices gradually diminish until one of the Claymores explodes and screams of pain and panic slice through the strange night sounds of the jungle. Everything stops. For a moment, there is a deceiving silence - nothing, no movement, only a pointed hush. It suggests both friend and enemy have decided to give it all up under the striking realization what has happened or will happen on this night will be pointless and have no relevance except to further harden the hearts of those men huddled somewhere out there in the sweltering and uneasy stillness.

The jungle sounds resume, inharmoniously blending in with the tortured moans of the enemy, which command  no suggestion of sympathy. Quite the contrary. Both Randall and George are please the ambush has yielded enemy casualties. 

"What's happening?" George whispers.

"Nobody knows what to do," Randall responds. "They're all just waiting."

Just then, there is the sound of a M79 Grenade Launcher - PUNNPITT! The orange explosion illuminates the trail only for a few seconds, but there are more screams, confirming the round was well-placed. Then, there are jabbering oriental voices, and the night is alive with panicked movement. There is the coarse voice of Dorsey above it all, "Now! God dammit, now!" Immediately, there is the short, blunt sound of the Claymores exploding and short bursts of M16 fire. The VC have walked straight into the killing zone covered by the mines, are in  chaotic disarray and are not even returning fire. Randall imagines himself in the hopeless situation of the hapless enemy. The thought is frightful, falling victim to ball bearings from the anti-personnel mines, spraying across the trail and tearing into flesh and bone. The VC have no advance medical evacuation system, and a serious combat wound means near certain death. 

The Claymore explosions and rifle fire echo deep into the jungle and linger only a short while before the fire fight stops.

"Listen," George murmurs.

Randall's heart is pounding in his chest. There is the sound of mumbling voices and men gasping for breath moving straight towards them. For a fleeting moment, his fear leaves him and he racks his mind for some hint of what is happening. Once again, something from one of those pointless training classes strikes him. The VC always remove their dead from the battlefield, and he knows the survivors of the ambush are moving back down the trail, dragging the dead away. Mixed in with his confused thoughts, he recalls reading all those newspaper stories about body count and wonders how such accounting could have been accurate when confronted with such a practice. 

Then, there they are - right there in front of him. There are about 10 of the miniature figures. Some have wounded draped over them and others are clutching the feet of the dead between their shoulders and waist and pulling them behind, like a donkey pulling a cart. Spontaneously, he snaps the fire selector on his M16 to automatic and begins firing straight into the mass of living, wounded and dead not 30 feet away. The full 30-round magazine is discharged in seconds into the unsuspecting enemy. Some emit tortured shrieks as their legs collapse and are dead before striking the ground. 

In only a moment, the trail is deserted. Once again, the night is morbidly quiet. Everything is so still. George is crouched as though frozen, and it is obvious his good soldier attitude has fallen prey to the fact he is finding the Army nothing like he expected. Many are overwhelmed by reality when it draws them from their storybook vacuum and innocent supposition that their own determination can somehow make the world clean and pure. Randall has at least been spared that shock, because his attitude about the military was negative at the outset, but still there is no consolation when reality begins to ebb away one's view of life - regardless of what was expected or unexpected.

Randall is stunned but slips another magazine into his weapon just as there is a rustling in the brush behind. He spins around, raises his rifle and suddenly realizes he has forgotten the challenge and password from the briefing, so he simply utters, "Who's there?" in a timid and barely auditable voice.

"You'd better learn the challenge and password like you're supposed to, boy!" is the contemptuous and overbearing response from Sergeant Dorsey. He glances down at George, who has yet to move, and harshly adds, "Get on your feet!" He snatches Georges weapon from him, smells the barrel and blates out, "You haven't fired a fucking round!" as he shoves it back to him.

Lieutenant Daniels emerges from the pitch black and without even stopping to look at them, says, "Don't worry about that now, sergeant. You men, follow me."

They all crouch low to the ground and move up onto the trail where motionless figures are sprawled on top of one another. All of them are wearing the loose, pajamas-type clothing, black pants and long, beige shirts with large necks and collars.

Daniels cautiously approaches the mangled mass of bleeding flesh and attentively begins examining the enemy weapons. He picks up one and calmly says to Dorsey, "This is an AK47 Kalashnivok. The Russians began producing it after World War II from captured German designs."

Dorsey seems surprised and disinterested in Daniels' untimely effort to educate him on the history of military weaponry and tersely responds, "The bastards have got stores of ammunition and weapons across the Cambodian border, and we can't do a frigging thing about it except just sit here and wait for them to use it on us."

Daniels seems unconcerned, just nods and says, "There'll be no mortar attack tonight. Let's get back to the compound."

The 4 of them walk along the trail back towards the remainder of the squad, and Randall glances down at the VC. He wonders how many of them he killed. The bodies are all tangled together, their heads lie straight back, and most of their mouths are open. The killing zone is littered with bodies cloaked in garments that are ragged from the fragmentation mines. Whole limbs are torn from the frail bodies.

Strangely, the squad does not seem at all pleased that the mission was such a striking success and is only relieved that another day has passed. Randall is confused. He isn't especially sorry he has taken lives and is more concerned about Dorsey's comment about the enemy's Cambodian sanctuary. The whole concept of fighting on the enemy's terms is so ridiculous. He knows all missions will not be as successful as this one and such small operations contribute little or nothing to ending the war. They only serve to produce inexact body counts for the enemy but a resolute accounting of American losses that will only serve to further deteriorate public opinion. That serves the Communist aggression far more than a body count score card tabulated at the end of each week and flashed across television screens as though it were a score in a sporting event with no time limit and no rules favoring only the adversary.

The squad is in single file, moving into the scrub brush when Randall remembers someone told him back in basic - in the Army, never be at the front or end of any line of men. Cadre always gets those for shit details from fronts and backs of lines. Just as he dismisses the thought, there is Sergeant Dorsey, with than same judgmental smirk on his face and that same demeaning voice saying, "Boy, you and pussyfoot here stay about 20 yards behind the column." He stops in front of George and adds, "If you see any more VC, you'd better fire that damn weapon this time."

Daniels is up there somewhere at the head of the column, no doubt gratified that some textbook tactic, some principle of military planning has succeeded, just as it is explained in some manual - at least, this time. 

It finally strikes Randall that no one has uttered a word commending anyone on a job well done. 

____________________

The past few weeks of perimeter security duty have passed slowly. There were only a few probes by the VC who are obviously waiting for the most opportune time to inflict the most casualties with little attention to tactical gain, only being concerned with the result on public opinion. Randall feels a malignancy pulsating within him and can almost feel his little remaining morale waning away. More and more, there is the punitive sensation that Washington is looking for a method to end US intervention - perhaps not by the most expeditious means but in such a manner that face is maintained and political theories are not placed at risk.

He lies there in the billet, staring at the bare roof joists. Sometimes, a man can feel himself changing and the process leaves him with an unsettling feeling, because he isn't pleased with the change but can do little to change the process. He remembers that beggar lady he would see almost every morning on the downtown streets and those shabby men along Austin Avenue with the "bourdon complexion" as Harold Akers described them. He had never stopped to think what it had been in their lives that had caused them to become such failures. Could the same thing be happening to him? How long would it be before he would become like many in the platoon? If he lives through this fiasco, what will remain of him? Will it be the same man with all those goals and supposed ideals or will it all be gone, and will he have become something like those poor souls on Austin Avenue - a victim and a sorrowful product of circumstances and political expediency?

The few men in the billet are quiet, consumed by their own thoughts and no doubt trying to assess what is happening to them, the same as Randall, who is trying to remember where he heard the phrase "suffering builds character." That isn't always true. Most lives in America have barely changed due to Vietnam, but many who are in this squalid shithole, so foreign and diametric to their former lives, can feel themselves ebbing away. When that begins, such things as the "domino theory" tend to become exceptionally secondary in nature to the nagging and unanswered question, "Why in the hell me?"

George Haines hasn't said 2 words since the unit received the 1 week rest and recreation stand down. He no longer seems obsessed with all those whimsical terms such as "duty and what's right," as he would constantly put it. Even then, some would laugh at him and wonder how he could be so taken in by all this shit about duty in some cesspool no one cares about.  No one is laughing now - not even George.

Bryant is sitting there, slowly inhaling a cigarette and finally says, "I thought you would be in Saigon with everyone else."

Randall isn't in the mood for conversation and just wants to be left alone, but Bryant is looking at him, expecting some sort of explanation as to how someone who feels his education should have elevated him above all this elects to spend his off-duty time. "I just needed the rest," he says, hoping to end the conversation. 

"Those Saigon Cowboys can come up with some stuff that is pretty restful and relaxing," Bryant quickly responds with a mocking laugh.

Randall is already annoyed, but since he learned Bryant was at My Lai, he has developed a latent fear of him. His moods change so quickly. One minute, he's the model soldier but the next, something seems to take him over yielding resent and deceit towards nearly everything. He disinterestedly utters, "What is a Saigon Cowboy?"

Bryant puts out his cigarette, and his voice takes on that customary ridiculing tone. "They're pimps. Dipping your wick into a spicy little oriental number will do wonders to take your mind off almost everything."

"I'm not sure I'm quite ready for that yet," Randall reacts, becoming more and more disinterested.

"Wait awhile," Bryant prods, obviously amused that Randall is offended by him. He starts to chuckle and then begins to speak in a very pretentious and intellectual tone, "Psychologists tell us that a certain amount of sexual release is necessary for the proper relationship between one's inter-self and how we project that towards the circumstances with which we must deal. Feminine companionship is necessary, if a gentleman is to be well-adjusted. It's almost as essential as eating." Without explanation, his voice takes on a more serious tone, and he appears to be going into one of his frequent and unexplained mood changes. "Don't underestimate the power of a whore on a lonely man. When the French were still here, they legalized prostitution. Hell, the Vietnamese Army even permitted them to travel with the troops in the field. At Dien Bien Phu, the hookers were nurses and some of them were even front line fighters when the fucking gooks encircled the base and destroyed it. The suggestion of ridicule returns to his voice, and he adds, "Get it? Fucking gooks?"

Randall is relieved when Bryant shuts up and walks from the building, leaving him lying there with the heat closing in around him. He sits up and is mopping his head with his handkerchief when one of the other 2 men in the barracks gets up, walks towards him and sits down on the bunk beside him. He is tall, thin and red-headed and appears to have the impression he is counseling Randall on some ultra-important deliberation when he says, "That's a bunch of shit. You'd better not go into Saigon and get within 10 feet of any of those whores. You wait. In about 9 days, them bastards that are dipping their wicks, as he put it, are gonna come down with the drips. All them women got the Heinz 57 variety of the clap. There ain't no cure. Once you got it, you got it, and all you do is drip, drip, drip."

Randall attempts to appear appreciative, the same as someone would be after receiving liberating information on a case tied up in the courts for months. He smiles, nods and walks out of the building himself. There are only a few other men in the company area, aimlessly walking around, just as he is. He looks over towards the orderly room and sees Captain Sain walking briskly towards the officers' quarters. He wonders if all he has heard about him is true and this is his final duty assignment before being forced into retirement because he hasn't passed enough of Command and General Staff School to be promoted to major. He must have been in the Army for at least 27 years, and Randall compares him to some of the men back at the investment firm who have been at their jobs for many years. They all had big homes, attractive wives and plenty of money in the bank. Their hard work had given them tangible benefits, but what about someone like Garnett Sain? What keeps such a man going? Surely, he didn't regard his career as a success, and why would anyone even try to prolong such a failure - especially in a shithole like Vietnam?

The days drag by, and his remaining time in the Army seem something that will never end. He thinks back to all those news reports he heard while in college and the different theories as to how such a war should be conducted. The social and military advisors in the Johnson Administration were constantly at odds with one another, not to mention the voters who thought they were getting a conservative when they elected Lyndon Johnson. Much shock resulted from his domestic policies, but that shock didn't approach the dismay of many who really believed they were getting a president who would preserve the peace instead of, as Johnson insisted during the campaign, falling prey to the near certain war that would result form the election of Barry Goldwater. The Johnson campaign had been a hoax from the outset and by 1964, he had acquainted everyone with Goldwater's alleged shortcomings but had never thought it necessary to define his own policies in any detail.

He remembers all those terms on the nightly news. There were Search and Destroy Operations with the goal of using the massive American firepower to recover territory held by the VC at which time, the South Vietnamese Army was to be brought in to stabilize the areas and prevent further VC infiltration. Somewhere in this enlightened overview, the social planners had incorporated a plan to improve the lives of the villagers, but simply by listening to some of the men who had been in Vietnam for only a short period, it is obvious the whole idea was flawed from the very beginning. There wasn't enough American soldiers to chase over the country like a dog running after a jackrabbit, not to mention the South Vietnamese Army that didn't have the capacity to hold the taken territory and certainly not the faculty to implement the suppositions of the social planners, whose practical experience had never extended beyond arm's length from their textbooks or wherever their reality-famished ideas originated.

Gradually, Randall is piecing it all together. As the war dragged on, one failed theory led to another. Eventually, came something called the Enclave Theory providing for the establishment of a number of American bases throughout the country and serving as points of operations from within a number of zones - all laid out like gerrymandering counties for a political election. It all looked very pragmatic - all those neat little lines drawn on a map and probably was more realistic than Search and Destroy but did little to halt the flow of supplies and men from sanctuaries outside Vietnam. Ultimately, it only guaranteed the stalemate would continue indefinitely, and all the while, American public opinion would continue to deteriorate, the body count and casualty reports would continue and all for what? The war, therefore, became a tabulation of numbers, and the American public began to look at the weekly reports much the same as an investor would check the stock market results each day. When the investment in men and material failed to produce significant results, the outlay became one of obvious poor management, mandating a full sell-off to limit further monetary losses. And now, everyone wants to just get out and forget it all - that is, all except the "silent majority," and who knows how it feels, if it even exists?

It had to happen. Word just came down the entire battalion would be going into the field, but even the type duty had become stereotyped. Units will stay in the field for 12 days, searching for the enemy and sometimes, not seeing a single VC. Then, the units would be moved by helicopter to a firebase for guard duty for the next 5 days. With the evolution of theories, the firebase idea seems more practical, because it means superior artillery can be used to its best advantage. A number of such bases are now positioned around the country in order that fire support can be called in from most any place contained within those lines on a map.

Randall listens intently Captain Sain in the company briefing. Somehow, Sain looks more like a soldier than in the past. He's wearing his full "combat kit," and his webbed belt and suspenders are carrying the same load as the men in the rifle squads but still, his butt pack, 2 canteens, 2 ammunition pouches and field dressing pack do little to embellish his appearance with that aloof, officer-like image corresponding so naturally to Lieutenant Daniels.

Randall reaches down and picks up his own butt pack, which is loaded with 300 rounds of ammunition in boxes. It feels heavy now, and he wonders how it will feel after 12 days in the field. His jungle fatigue pockets are stuffed with fragmentation grenades, making him feel further immobile and somewhat like a bloated giant compared to those little miniature creatures he saw on the night mission, slithering like serpents through the underbrush.

Sain is commenting on increased enemy activity southeast of the compound around some places called Tay Ninh and Binh Long, where a combination of North Vietnamese Army and Viet Cong units has been moving into the area from across the Cambodian border and attacking the South Vietnamese units assigned to that area. It isn't clear which social theory or military operations concept is currently being implemented in those areas, but the mission is simply to find the enemy and call in a variety of available fire power to destroy it. That most closely resembles Search and Destroy, so that must be the proper name for the mission.

Everyone is quiet as they load into the 2 1/2 ton trucks that will transport them into the proper "zone" which is west of Route 1 and close to the Cambodian border. The canvas covers are off the vehicles, and along the way, Randall stares at the diminished, oriental figures working in the rice paddies on either side of the road. Some of them look up as the convoy passes, but others only ignore it. He wonders how many of them are Viet Cong? How many booby traps have they set? How many American lives have they taken? Do they have any idea who the enemy really is? Probably not, because their race isn't at all driven by compassion for any sort of governmental system. They just want to be left alone and are only accepting the persuasion they fear the most.

"What are you thinking about?" Bryant asks.

Randall can't immediately detect which of Bryant's ever-changing temperaments has possession of him at the moment and is uncertain how he should phrase his response. Without emotion, he replies, "I'm wondering how the VC can keep popping up almost everywhere after 5 years of American occupation."

Bryant snickers and glances out into the rice paddy. "All this shit started a long time before 1965. It started in 1959 when the North Vietnamese decided to support the insurgency in the south. Of course, the fucking Russians were willing to give them whatever equipment they needed. It was only a question of logistics - simply getting the equipment in the hands of the insurgents. It all started out being moved over a series of small mountain and jungle trails running along the Laotian and Cambodian borders. The routes were gradually improved to accommodate wheeled vehicles, and guess who supplied them the trucks?"

"Russia and China," Randall responds, again finding himself becoming annoyed - not by Bryant's intimidating mannerism but more by the near identical association to circumstances at other places and other times in the world. He recalls the Communist takeovers in China and Cuba and the invasion of South Korea, plus all the unrest in any number of small countries since the end of World War II. Russia was always there to supply the insurgents. Could it be the Domino Theory is not political conjecture but something that has happened throughout the world for decades?

Bryant is absorbed in his dominating part of the conversation. "As time went on, the Ho Chi Minh Trail became more and more elaborate. There were rest stops and stores of medical and other supplies. Hell, the fuckers even began growing crops along the trail. By 1964, we had quite a few advisors in South Vietnam but by then, the trail would accommodate the wheeled vehicles they were getting from Russia and China."

"What about the bombing we've been doing across the borders?" Randall asks, finding his opinion of politics and war  gradually taking on a new dimension.

"Shit!" Bryant sneers. "Most of the bombs are falling on empty jungle. The fucking gooks have got repair units stationed along the trail. They're not stupid, you know. They've got staging points spaced at 3 mile intervals to conceal large movements from air reconnaissance. When they were fighting the French, it took them 6 months to get material to the south but now, it takes them less than 12 weeks."

Randall's tolerance with the unending contradictions is growing by the day. He exhales and snaps, "Don't tell me you don't think the bombing is doing any good."

"No. You didn't listen, college boy. Damn, I thought you educated people were supposed to be able to think things out. The gooks have been at this for decades. They've mastered the art of infiltration. What in the hell do you think would have happened if the Allies hadn't invaded Germany. They'd still be fighting."

"Don't tell me you think we ought to invade North Vietnam," Randall quickly reacts. 

The heads of the other men on the truck alternate between Bryant and Randall, as both progressively become more intimidated with the other. 

Bryant leans forward, and his face becomes very stern. "Think about it, college boy. These people, if you want to call them that, over her are nothing like those back in the States. They've never had much during their lives and are, I guess you could say, innocently taken in by all that propaganda about how the West is exploiting the rest of the world. You could even say they're a lot like Sergeant Dorsey. He and a lot of others have been taken in by all that shit those supposed civil rights leaders have vomited up about equality. The damn Communists are using people like them to stir up unrest everywhere in the world, just sitting back and then moving in to pick up all the pieces after insurgents have gained control. All those shit head war protesters and civil rights activists are playing right into their hands by putting some damn self-righteous mask over it all, and all the while stirring up more hate than those they claim are so fucking unholy."

Randall remembers a political science professor during his junior year in college. He never fully agreed with his ultra-liberal views, which sometimes tended to be rather radical, but at the moment, rationality isn't his primary concern. He only wants to seize a means to disagree with Bryant and expose his unrefined, redneck pretense that some redeeming insight exists with his foul imputation of everything except his own narrow-minded views. One minute, he's bitching about a war with boundaries and sanctuaries for the enemy, and the next he's blindly accepting the whole line about the Domino Theory and some malignant Communist conspiracy that's the blame for near everything that's amiss in the whole world. "I think you'd better look at the Constitution," he says with a rather authoritarian connotation. "That's the whole theory behind a democratic government. Everyone has the right has the right to free speech and dissent. Our whole government system is build around a system of checks and balances, so no one section of government seizes too much power and the rights of people are lost as a consequence."

"Like shit!" You're just like Dorsey and all those fucking civil rights people. You take some bleeding heart idea that the American system is supposed to guarantee everyone nearly everything they think they're entitled to have and never once consider the determination and qualifications of the individual. Look at the damn government. For every 1 affirmative action shit head in a job he's hopelessly unqualified to do, there's 2 others working behind him to clean up the mess. Don't tell me you haven't heard the government keeps getting bigger and bigger. Hell, that's why."

Randall is thinking out his next retort when one of the other men towards the back of the truck speaks up. He's very young, has a light complexion, red hair and a rural accent. His helmet seems to swallow his small head, adding to his adolescent appearance, but there is a certain conviction in his voice when he says, "You're both overlooking 1 thing. People like Joseph McCarthy and Martin Luther King, Jr. are all extremists. They use people's emotions to override their better judgment and that only produces hate and fear that nullifies what little truth exists in their rhetoric. Everywhere, there's always 2 sides to any political question, and each blames the other for everything that's wrong. They spend more time at that than anything else."

Everyone on the vehicle snickers. Randall and Bryant are still staring at each other, realizing no one has been taken in by their argument and that they're all smart enough to distinguish the true crusaders in the world form those who only profess to be and use people's needs and fears for their own benefit, or at least to advance some sanctimonious cause, often openly politically proclaimed but seldom completely heartfelt.

Somewhere up ahead, rifle fire breaks out, and the convoy comes to a sudden halt. Voices ring out with confused and garbled instructions as the men come pouring off the vehicles and instinctively dive into the ditch at the side of the road. Randall and Bryant are side-by-side, staring up towards the head of the column where the lead deuce and a half is sitting sideways in the road with coolant spraying from its radiator. 

Captain Sain and Lieutenant Daniels are running through the company with a radio man tagging along behind. They crouch behind Randall's squad and appear to be consulting over the radio with the battalion commander. Presently, they move forward and say a few words to Lieutenant Hardin, who until that moment, had faded into the surroundings as though he were not even there. Daniels and Sain confer with Hardin for a moment before he stands, faces the platoon and gives the signal to assume the file formation.

With no hint of enthusiasm, the men move into position among disapproving mumbles, "Hell, call it off." "Call in fire support." It's fucking stupid to go chasing off after them."

Abruptly, Bryant faces the squad and says, "Shut your frigging mouths! Who in the hell is gonna spot fire support? That's Captain Sain up there and not Hardin. Don't fuck with him. He'll have your asses."

In a strange sort of way, Bryant's crude choice of words promotes Randall's confidence. At least Sain and Daniels can maintain control of the men who remain quiet, but as they move to the front of the convoy, there is nothing but dread in their faces. 

A Jeep is speeding up the road from the opposite direction and comes to a jerking stop. A young 2nd  lieutenant jumps out and gives Daniels a modified salute, which he returns with textbook correctness, but with an abasing voice, immediately begins to tear into him. "Lieutenant, I thought this road was supposed to be secure! If your unit can't keep abreast of what's happening in your security zone, you're going to jeopardize the mission."

Captain Sain steps forward and seems somewhat amused. He raises his hand, begins to shake his head and says, "Lieutenant, lieutenant," looking straight at Daniels. He puts his arm over the shoulder of the befuddled 2nd lieutenant, and the 2 of them walk a few steps away where Sain listens very intently to what the young man is telling him. The conversation only lasts a few moments, but there is a marked change in the expression on the lieutenant's face when he snaps to attention and give Sain a sharp salute before getting back into his vehicle. He coldly looks at Daniels, and with clear disgust, motions for the driver to turn around. The Jeep starts off back up the road, presumably returning from wherever it came. 

Randall edges closer to Bryant and asks, "Aren't they afraid the VC will attack them?"

"That's not the way they operate," Bryant replies. "They hit and run and are long gone by now. They know they don't stand a chance against our firepower."

Sain checks his M16 and walks back towards Lieutenant Daniels. He stops in front of him, looks him squarely in the eye and calmly says, "Lieutenant, don't ever reprimand a subordinate like that in front of everyone else. That man's unit has been on duty for 2 weeks here in the brush. The gooks are coming in across the Cambodian border and hitting them every night. You might say he's a little pissed off, and you don't need to add to it."

Randall's mind is clouded with all sorts of things as the platoon begins to prod up the road. The conversation he was having with Bryant begins to eat at him. Bryant has such a closed mind on nearly everything, but Randall tries to get the man's one-sided views out of his mind and focus on the operation, however pointless it might be. He looks forward and is surprised to see Captain Sain is still there and will apparently lead the platoon wherever it is going. 

Gradually, the unsettling reality of what must be happening begins to come over him. Perhaps for the first time, he begins to think of his situation from something other than an antagonist viewpoint and starts to piece together what he has heard since arriving in Vietnam. The Viet Cong are moving across the Cambodian border at night over terrain with which they are familiar into small villages and spreading their influence by taking advantage of the ineptness of the Saigon government. It probably isn't especially difficult to convince them the Americans are their enemies, because they are foreigners in their country. As soon as the VC is discovered, they slip back into the Cambodian sanctuary but leave weapons and advisors behind. He is beginning to see how the near hopelessness of such a condition, permitted to persist year after year, has quite naturally created bitterness and resent in people like Sergeant Bryant. Dorsey seems to have been bitter a long time before he even saw Vietnam, perhaps because of some of the things that adolescent boy was saying before the convoy was stopped.

Randall's discontent with being drafted and sent to this place is largely one-dimensional, because he feels it is a needless interruption to the career he had planned, never seriously considering such things as the Domino Theory or the possibility of anything like a world-wide Communist conspiracy, even though he had always held enough faith in his country to know it would not wage an "immoral war" solely to advance its own political idealism. As an educated person, he knows that since the Marshall Plan, the whole criteria around which American foreign policy has been built is one of foreign aid and not the encouragement of armed insurgency wherever there happens to be discontent, but until now, all that had simply been facts in a textbook with no practical application and nothing remotely related to him. 

The platoon moves slowly up the road, and Randall scans the tall grass growing in the fields surrounding it. He remembers training and the various types of booby traps used by the Viet Cong and can see the man on that first mission, lying there in the jungle with that feces-smeared board with nails driven through it hanging from the side of his foot. As little as he knows about military tactics, he can see a dozen places that would make excellent sites for an ambush. There are spans of heavy foliage off in the distance that would offer the enemy a means for a short attack and an easy escape route, just as they have been doing since the first day of the war. The idea of using American ground units to locate the enemy and then, call in a variety of firepower is certainly well-intended but not always effective. Now, more than ever before, Randall realizes the war is being fought on terms and at places set by the enemy, not  to mention the sanctuaries. He isn't sure what is happening to him and is bewildered that he is beginning to agree with Bryant.

The column suddenly stops. Someone up ahead says, "God damn. Look at that!" Many of the men turn their heads away from the group of medics gathered around the truck, still standing there sideways in the road. The windshield is shattered and splattered with blood. The driver is still sitting there, slumped over the steering wheel. One man is lying face down in front of the vehicle. His uniform is soaked with the coolant, which is still dripping from the radiator and encircling his body. Some of it is discolored with his blood. 

There are strained voices and frantic activity in the ditch beside the vehicle where medics are laboring over 2 men, but all Randall can see is their blood-soaked fatigue jackets being cut away by the medics.

Sain knows what effect seeing such a scene is having on the men and quickly moves along the column, directing everyone to move out into heavy brush along the left side of the road. Most of the men don't look down at the wounded. Others only glance at them. Randall's attention is fixed on 1 man lying alone some distance from the others. He is small, frail and swallowed up by by baggy fatigue uniform, making him look younger than he probably is. He reminds Randall of a few boys he knew in high school. Like him, they had planned to to on to college and already had tentative ideas as to what sorts of careers they wanted. He wonders where they are now, if they achieved what they wanted and what that dead man lying there soaked in his own blood wanted to make of his life.

Lieutenant Daniels and another young lieutenant, who must be an artillery forward observer, hurry up beside Captain Sain who is crouched in the grass, studying the intermittent sections of jungle ahead. 

Daniels is resigned and offers, "They've probably slipped away, just like they always do."

"I don't think so," Sain responds, still surveying the terrain. 

Daniels quickly adopts his aloof manner and mockingly responds, "You mean you think they're still in there?"

Sain is slightly intolerant as something of a smile comes over his face, and he firmly says, "I know they're still in there."

Daniels is clearly annoyed that the captain seems to be patronizing him, begins to shake his head, and with no suggestion of military courtesy, curtly adds, "They could be anywhere. There must be 4000 square yards of concealed terrain out there."

"Think about it, lieutenant," Sain says, as he stands and takes a few steps down into the brush. "This isn't an algebra problem requiring some sort of permissible ratio between one side of an equation and...and...what was that term you just used?"

"Concealed terrain," Daniels meekly responds with an uncertain tone.

This is the first time Randall has been in the field with Sain who seems a great deal more sure of himself than he did that day in the orderly room.

The aging captain moves back towards Daniels and says, "That sounded like AK47 fire a minute ago and judging from the way it riddled that truck, it was fired from well within its effective range. They can't be more that 300 meters away, lieutenant."

Daniels' face goes blank for a moment. Somewhat annoyed, he turns to the artillery forward observer and asks, "What's the closest preplanned firing coordinate you've got for that area?"

The observer begins to ponder over some papers on his clipboard, but again, seeming entertained, Sain offers, "That's no good, lieutenant. They'd be long gone before you could zero in on them, even if you knew where they were. That's probably what they're waiting for us to do anyway." He turns around and motions 2 M60 gunners and their ammunition bearers forward and with no hint of hesitation, looks at Daniels and says, "Take the 1st and 2nd Squads and move about 100 yards forward. Then, call in 6 rounds of artillery on that coordinate the observer don't seem to be able to find."

As Daniels and the 2 squads go probing off into the field, the remaining rifle squad and weapons squad, with Captain Sain and Lieutenant Hardin at the front, start off to the other side of the road and at a moderate jog, move out ahead of the convoy, still halted in the middle of the road.

Randall has never been especially athletically inclined, and the weight of the combat load tugs at his leg and hip muscles. His heart throbs in his chest, and a lather of sweat begin streaming down his face. His breathing is becoming heavy when Sain orders the procession to stop. 

The 2 squads kneel at the side of the road, and Randall stares at the officers up ahead. Hardin is distant, just going through the motions with no apparent grasp of what he is doing. Sain is calm and calculating. Since he left the convoy, he has barely taken his eyes off the clump of jungle where he insists the VC is hiding. Kneeling on one knee and bracing himself with his M16, it almost seems he is enjoying what is proving an excruciating experience for Randall who can't see the other 2 squads that must be 3 or 4 hundred yards behind. 

Somewhere back towards the west, there is the vague sound of artillery. Immediately, Sain stands and motions the squad into the waist-high weeds on the side of the road. The tall, thick blades cut at Randall's hands, leaving a stinging sensation which is aggravated by the sweat streaming down onto the stock of his M16. The detachment of men feels its way up the gentle slope until it reaches the peak and Sain pronounces, "Here!" He turns to the M60 crews but quite suddenly, stops dead in his tracks and looks at Lieutenant Hardin who still has that vacant stare on his face, which is streaked with sweat-soaked dirt. Quickly, Sain moves towards him, and the 2 kneel down. Sain puts his arm over Hardin's shoulder, much the same as he had done with the other young lieutenant whom Daniels had openly reprimanded. Sain makes several pointing gestures towards the jungle. Initially, Hardin's devoid stare changes to surprise but gradually commutes to one of guarded attentiveness. 

In a few moments, it is Hardin and not Sain that moves forward to position the M60 crews about 40 yards apart. Sain is kneeling about 20 yards behind, nodding in approval as the uncelebrated platoon leader even turns to Bryant and orders him to position the 10 riflemen between and to either side of the machine guns. The ammunition bears crawl up along side the gunners who are hurriedly placing the bipods on their weapons. 

It's the first time since Randall has been in the unit that he has seen anyone place the first particle of confidence in Hardin, whose response has been quite unexpected and even implies a small suggestion of initiative. He situates the squads and machine guns with clear fields of fire, and the assumed killing zone is well below the 800 meter maximum effective range of the M60s with bipods. 

Randall's body jerks and a cold, stabbing sensation clutches his stomach as the 6 artillery rounds begin exploding at least 50 yards short of the tree line of the jungle. Hardin glances back towards Sain like some 3rd grade student who is weeks behind the rest of the class. The captain just nods, points his finger at him and never moves. Again, Hardin seems somewhat surprised, but after only a momentary hesitation, moves in behind the center of the squads. 

All the men creep a few feet forward, sliding the muzzles of their weapons a few inches outside the concealing grass. Small arms fire breaks out somewhere behind where the artillery spotting rounds have just fallen, and Randall first thinks it is the VC but then remembers Sain ordering Daniels to lay down small arms fire across the tree line just after the rounds fell. He is mystified at his own reaction. There is something of a remittent interest building within him - something like those calculus problems in college that had seemed so pointless but were captivating in an annoying sort of way. He completely forgets the punishing heat and how unclean his perspiring, dirt-tarnished body feels as he scans in front of the ill-placed artillery rounds. Again, he begins to breath heavily, and there is that same tingling to his skin. It's almost the same feeling he had that night in high school when he was finally in the starting lineup. He was afraid then, but it wasn't exactly the same. He had not been afraid of being injured so much as he was making a mistake and having to face everyone afterwards. Now, it is precisely the opposite - he doesn't especially fear making a mistake, because this whole war is a poorly synthesized collection of mistakes, but he acutely fears he or someone else will be killed or wounded because of something he does or fails to do. 

The men restlessly begin to edge forward, but Hardin immediately directs, "Hold your positions!"

It's the first thing Randall has ever heard him say with any degree of assertiveness. He separates the thick brush with his rifle barrel and feels a chilling excitement rush through his veins when he sees 2 files of men in those same beige and black garments running along the opposite outside edge of the jungle where the artillery rounds have just fallen. They're running straight towards the concealed ambush position which remains motionless and silent until someone whispers, "NVA!" 

Randall's hand nervously clutches his rifle stock. He sees a number of green-uniformed soldiers intermingled with the VC and immediately knows they are North Vietnam Army regulars. Contradictory thoughts flash into his mind. It's strange, but he remembers a speech made by Martin Luther King, Jr. in which he referred to this conflict as "an immoral war." Then, his thoughts turn to that opinionated history lesson Bryant gave him on the Ho Chi Minh Trail. If the discontent in South Vietnam was supposed to have started because of discontent with the Saigon government, what in the hell gave the North Vietnamese license to supply the insurgency and even send in its own troops that are now before his eyes? He can vividly recall images from the television news reports on the anti-war demonstrations and civil rights protest marches, always given as though they were somehow related. Regardless, a lot of people in American are discontent, but whether their discontent is justified or not suddenly doesn't seem the pertinent issue. The US had not given some other country the right to support an insurrection and all the while, denying its own soldiers were even in South Vietnam.

The enemy soldiers are moving closer and closer, but they're in single file at a right angle to the ambush position and not good targets. Hardin whispers, "Wait....wait."

Suddenly, 2 of the North Vietnamese jabber out a firm command, and all of them quickly turn to their right and begin running into the taller brush leading to another section of the jungle some 200 yards away. Within seconds, the whole force, which must be a full company of men, is parallel to the machine guns positions, and as they move into the taller brush, all that can be seen is the tops of their heads.

There is an unexpected hint of resolution in Hardin's voice as he says, "Aiming point 200 yards...wait...wait...Open fire!"

The enemy is precisely in the middle of the open space between the 2 sections of jungle when the M60s erupt with a deafening roar. Their bald ammunition slices through the tall brush, severing it at the top. The enemy soldiers are hopelessly caught in the killing zone and begin to fall in large numbers. A North Vietnamese, in panic, shouts out some command that can't be heard over the sound of the weapons. Before the initial shock is diminished, most of the enemy force is still and motionless on the ground.

Hardin orders cease fire. There is only a morbid quiet, no sound, no hint of how many have been killed or how many are waiting there somewhere in the brush, confused, afraid and not knowing what to do.

Randall removes his empty magazine and looks down the line. George appears petrified and has not fired a single round. He's only aimlessly staring across the field with an astonished and pale face. Finally, he manages a weak, "They didn't have a chance."

Bryant spits out, "Damn! A soldier with the mind of an infantryman and the heart of a social worker."

Sain and the radioman move to Hardin's side. Sain nods with a slight smile, looks at him and says, "Good job." He raises someone on the radio, presumable the battalion commander, reports, receives instructions and then says a few words to Hardin who moves along the back of the squads, advising the men they are to stay put until the rest of the company joins them.

Everyone seems encouraged. Certainly, Randall feels quite different than he did that first night when someone fragged Lieutenant Hardin's quarters or that day in the jungle when that same uncertain young man had called in artillery fire on a target that didn't appear to exist. Even more encouraging in Randall's mind was the fact that Sain had not made a tactical decision by trying to fit a template governed by some failed theory over conditions requiring initiative.

Daniels seems always to question Captain Sain. It isn't clear if he really thinks the captain's judgment is as outdated as he implies or if his self-esteem requires that he constantly ornament his own assessment by questioning someone else. "Aren't we going to pursue them?" he asks, somewhat impatiently.

Sain is pushing some loose M16 cartridges down into his M16 magazine and doesn't even look up.

Randall has started watching the other men who have combat experience and begins refilling his own magazine but his feeling is short-lived when he looks over at Bryant and asks, "Such small successes don't serve any real purpose, do they?"

"Extremely perceptive of you, college boy," he quickly reacts. "Such uncelebrated events are rarely reported in the press, and one might even speculate such things really serve the enemy by prolonging the war and allowing public opinion to further decline."

The decision is made that the advance will continue west on foot, staying on the road so as to avoid VC booby traps. The long column of men reminds Randall of history book pictures of the marches into Germany during World War II, but the outward appearance is the only resemblance. Even the Korean War had a definite front. In Vietnam, nothing was clear, there was no clear front, and everything was spinning around in a travesty where friend and foe were sometimes undistinguishable. The first few days in the platoon, he had feared some of the other men; but with the collapse of morale, it's understandable when one finds himself mistrusting nearly everyone.

Randall has lost all account of time. The sun is in his face, so it must be afternoon. He can make out a strained look on George Haines' face, but it doesn't appear one of physical fatigue but more a statement of trauma in seeing a world of the sort he never thought existed. The same could be said for many who serve in Vietnam.  Possibly, he might be disappointed in himself, because his professed determination and optimism are not providing the consoling influences he had always thought them to be. His glassy eyes and jerking motions are clear pronouncements that the close family circle from which he was extracted simply could not have prepared him for the ugly world into which he has fallen..

Bryant and Dorsey are walking not 10 feet apart. Each of them is a perfect manifestation of all the other hates, and they hardly ever speak to one another. In a clearly unconventional way, Bryant seems to have have educated himself and the process has left him with the adept ability to take facts and use them to justify his own views. Strangely, the more he learns about the world, the more unlikely it becomes he will ever be anything but the harsh loner he is. Randall wonders what it was that got him started down such a path, seemingly leading him further away from almost everyone and everything.

One could hardly call Dorsey educated in any manner. His prejudices against many things, mostly the white race, seem to have blinded him from making any objective analyst of anything that would ultimately render and accurate opinion. Instead of explaining all his prejudices with an inferred version of intellect, he simply produces some poorly-assembled barrage of blame revolving around some assumed injustice, presumably absolving him, and all those like him, for their resentful reactions, however preposterous they might be. Randall tried to remember how that priest had put it - something about in worldly terms, men were characteristically unequal. Now, he feels all sorts of organizations back home were wrapping themselves in the robes of saints and using their explicable resent of inequality in worldly terms - not to find creative solutions through resolve and determination but to simply establish, or even create, blame. Ultimately, it was only making things worse by inciting misunderstanding and suspicion towards their declared goals. 

The days are so long and punishing. Sometimes, there is a slight chill in the morning, but that is quickly expelled by the staggering humidity. When the afternoon rains fall, they leave everything but a cleansing illusion and only serve to enclose one more fully in the desperate grip of resent and hate. Randall often remembers those in the boarding house and along Euclid Avenue. Some of them had failed to reach what the world recognizes as success, and towards the ends of their lives, had been set aside and forgotten. But now, it is Randall that is finding a bitterness within himself - much the same as Bryant and Dorsey. Now he feels forgotten and that all his hard work to get his education was for nothing. It's ironic how circumstances can take people with such different backgrounds and values and turn them all into the same thing. 

The sun beats down on his back as he folds his shelter half and looks at the other men in the squad. Their faces are all streaked with sweat, their hair is all matted together and no one is no more than 5 feet away from his weapon. The battalion hasn't seen a single VC since that first day on the road, and this is the last day in the field. Always, there is distant rifle fire and the constant over-fly of an indefinite variety of aircraft. It's something like a needle stuck on a record, playing the same thing over and over. These past few days, just from listening to the comments from the more experienced men, Randall recognizes the sounds of the assortment of weapons in the distance. All morning, there has been the distinct sound of the AK47, and it seems to be moving closer. There is a nervous anxiety on everyone's face as they tensely stare at one another with each volley of fire. 

George throws his shelter half to the ground, begins folding it and with a tight mouth, says, "I'd like to know what fucking good they think we're doing out here. It's all a bunch of shit." He stops, walks a few steps forward, mindfully looks around and adds, "We ought'a get the hell out of this stinking place. Who the hell wants it? It's the asshole of the world."

Since that first night at Fort Jackson, those are the first words of profanity Randall has heard George utter with such conviction. He's made quiet a change since they were at the Reception Center where he seemed sincere, although somewhat childish. His gullible receptive attitude has quickly yielded to the "don't fuck with me" sentiment that seems to possess almost everyone else. 

Randall stands there beside him, staring at the defense perimeter some 100 yards away. Even at that distance, he can tell the men in the defensive positions are becoming edgy. There is a needle-like throbbing in his temples, and that vacant, sickening feeling is beginning to clench at his stomach. He turns around and sees Captain Sain walking towards the M60 positions protecting the bivouac area and remembers that day in the orderly room when he had welcomed him to the unit. Then, he had only felt pity and contempt for someone who was desperately trying to hold on to a few months, maybe another year, of a career that if prolonged, would even seem to make his life all the more a failure - but now, he's glad to see Captain Sain and feels reassured by his presence. Maybe it's only his imagination but somehow, his stomach feels easier as he watches Sain staring off into the sun and then back at the unit before pulling a map from his fatigue jacket. He looks at the map for a few minutes and then walks briskly back towards the company, finally breaking into a jog and shouting, "Platoon leaders!"

Soon, Hardin is running back towards the platoon and without stopping, directs, "Follow me!" He leads them about 50 yards behind the perimeter, stops, faces the platoon and says, "The captain thinks they're gonna be attacked. If he's right, they'll hit us with mortars first." He begins positioning the men in pairs and telling everyone, "Don't group up. Stay this far apart."

Randall and George drop down and lay several M16 magazines in front of them. At first, George doesn't say a word and just stares ahead, but in a moment, he murmurs, "This is damn stupid. We're right out here in the middle of this damn pasture, or whatever it is, with not a fucking bit of cover."

Randall turns around and looks back towards the battalion area. The other companies are all meandering around their areas. Some of the men are still eating their C-Rations and others are casually walking from one tent to the other. He searches for Sain and finally sees him on an AN/PRC-25 radio man crouched beside him, apparently trying to raise battalion. Randall looks at George and asks, "What do you think's going on?"

"Who in the hell gives a damn, as long as it happens somewhere else," is George's genuine response. 

Randall is puzzled and at first, thinks he should simply keep quiet but finally asks, "What's come over you since Fort Jackson? You seemed almost glad you had been drafted then."

There is a short silence before George replies, "I hadn't planned on anything like this. This is fucking idiotic, chasing a bunch of gooks over this shithole. What's the point? We'd be better off without it. The protesters are right."

At first, Randall thinks he should respond with the line about the Domino Theory, but something else rushes into his mind and prompts him to say, "The protesters aren't concerned with what's practical and non-practical. They say this is an immoral war against the Vietnamese people."

"It's immoral all right," George snaps. "It's the American soldiers that are getting pissed on. These damn Vietnamese don't have sense enough to know a Communist invader from an invader from another planet. Some of us are never gonna be the same again. Just look around. You can tell by looking at them. Some of them can't even get rid of that VD they've got. The next time you go out on leave, just go to Saigon and look at some of them whores. A man's gotta be at the bottom of the pit to even look at those filthy sluts. Taking a man and turning him into something like that is about as immoral as you can get."

All those things Bryant told him merge into Randall's mind. Observance of boundaries in Korea had enhanced the Communist strategy, which was directed as much against public opinion as it was the UN forces. The similarity between that fiasco and this one is becoming all the more obvious. His mouth is already open to respond with some point that will no doubt sound much like Sergeant Bryant, but inexplicably, his thoughts abruptly turn to Blanche, sitting there in that bygone kitchen on Euclid Avenue. He never paid much attention to the rambling of an old maid who refused to let yesterday go and is surprised he even remembers those things she told him about "the boys along the street" as she put it. Her brother, Charles, was sorry he enlisted by the time he reached the front in World War I. Yet, even though he was disabled by that terrible wound, having served seemed to have given him an inner strength he did not have before, even during those last few years when he was confined to his bed.

He remembers what she told him about Jamie Williamson. When he enlisted before Pearl Harbor, everyone thought it was because he couldn't find anyone that would hire him. When he came home, at least for awhile, he was so proud, and people even looked up to him. It was unfair that the level of confidence the service had given him was ultimately what led him to that horrible beating by that girl's boyfriend. Randall is confused by his own emotions. He's never felt quite as he does now.

He wonders what it must have been like for Jamie's mother - that old lady sitting there all alone with her house decaying around her, her life slipping away and not knowing if her son was living or dead. Randall always felt uncomfortable, even annoyed, when Blanche would speak of Loren. She would always start to cry for a moment but then,