Chapter 13 - Part 2

It's been 24 hours since the helicopters touched down in a small clearing just outside a thick, sticky jungle that quickly sucked up the company, concealing it from inquiring eyes of an enemy who has long had the luxury of an untouched sanctuary and savored the infinite benefits of the concept of limited war. All morning, the AN/PRCs have been silent. Somewhere off there in the distance is the sound of what must be scores of helicopters.

Within the past several hours, reconnaissance aircraft have droned overhead and quietly disappeared behind the Cambodian border. Long vines hang from the towering trees, gently swaying in an intermittent breeze, admitting irregular rays of sunlight that dance across the damp jungle floor, creating ominous images in the minds of those who wait, wait and wonder what is about to become of them. Men sit in small groups carrying on muffled conversations, but Randall sits alone, still feeling curiously out of place. Only occasionally will someone's comment remove him from his trance-like daze, but just now, someone makes the metaphoric observation, "It's almost like lying in a hospital, waiting to die."

During the past few weeks, the captain has taken a personal interest in Lieutenant Hardin, which surely has been the only encouragement he has received since arriving in this cesspool. As a result, the young lieutenant has undergone quite a change, because all he apparently needed was for someone to free him from the terrible isolation that all but destroyed what self-confidence he might have once had. Before, neither his superiors nor subordinates paid much attention to him, and literally nothing he did struck anyone as being especially rational but then, the same could be said for a limited war fought on terms of the enemy. Now, there seems a purpose to his step and a resolve in his face, as he motions for the platoon to assemble. 

It's gradually registering with Randall that he no longer views committal to such things as military service as a trait only for the ill-bred and uneducated. He is confused at his oblique reason, his persuasion on people and things. He remembers the confidence he felt in Lieutenant Daniels on that first night patrol he had led, but now, his perception of him is totally different, because he is coming to realize in some endeavors, such as military service, intellectual preparedness is a secondary consideration to quite a few other concerns, not the least of which is a feeling of obligation. Maybe people like Dorsey and Bryant, in their crude and vile manners, feel they are acting on those obligations and not trying to escape them through opportunities they never had. And what about Garnett Sain? Is the service that has been the major portion of his life really about to turn away from him, because he is a quite reasonable product of another time - a time Blanche and many along Euclid Avenue wish had never ended? What are all these things in Randall's mind? Are they the beginning of a comprehension not to be found in textbooks or simply outcomes of fear that will quite correctly vanish when he returns to the world where he most certainly belongs?

There is a curious smile on Hardin's face as he kneels in front of the platoon and calmly says, "We're going into Cambodia."

The men restively glance at one another and then back at him. It's difficult for Randall to judge what he sees in their faces - fear, disbelief, but certainly not the determination, which he is beginning to realize can only result form a process rather than a single event. 

Hardin's eyes are stern and calculating. Finding one's self, or even supposing such a phenomenon, can be an emancipating occasion for those who experience it or even think they do. All those names from the past that Blanche refused to let go keep reappearing in his mind. Maybe Hardin is going through something like that man on Euclid Avenue - that is, before he went too far with that woman. Randall searches his mind for his name - Jamie, Jamie Williamson. Just like Jamie, all Hardin needed was for someone to remove him from his terrible isolation. Garnett Sain has done that. 

Hardin has it all so well-organized in his mind as he explains the mission. The company is about 25 miles northwest of Saigon. In 2 days, a massive incursion will be launched into Cambodia for the purpose of finding and destroying the NVA units and arms caches that have long plagued American operations. Through some process he doesn't explain, the company has been selected to cross the border ahead of the attack to reconnoiter the proposed landing zone for units of the 1st Air Cavalry. The unit is to maintain strict radio silence unless enemy contact is made, and if the reconnaissance reveals a strong NVA presence, an alternate landing zone will be selected. 

The lieutenant's explanation of the mission is concise, but no doubt by design, lacks certain troublesome details. George immediately asks, "What in the hell are we supposed to do if we make enemy contact? What you're describing is a Special Forces mission. We're not trained for that."

"Maybe the Special Forces were with that 150000 that were withdrawn before they sent our asses out here," someone sarcastically offers. 

Almost in unison, Bryant and Dorsey, mumbling threatening profanity, move towards the 2 men who judiciously elect to cease their heartfelt protest. An obvious appreciative acknowledgement passes over Hardin's face. 

A peculiar quiet falls over the platoon, partially imposed by the threatening manner of Bryant and Dorsey, but largely due to the shock of something they were clearly unprepared to hear. Hardin seems quite composed and isn't the same man whose quarters were fragged that first night after Randall and George arrived in the company. But then, no one is the same as he was when he arrived in Vietnam. That is certainly true for George, but he and Lieutenant Hardin are going in opposite directions. 

All at once, Randall's thoughts turn from other than people and places and focus on himself, because he is somewhat surprised at his own reaction to what Hardin is telling the platoon. He's still afraid and still wishes he were not there, but what Hardin is relating  makes more sense than anything he has heard since he's been in the company. He sees it is 1430 hours and carefully listens to Hardin outlining the scheme of maneuver, which is for the company to wait until dark and slip across the Cambodian border, staying close to the edge of the jungle until they reach the proposed landing zone. If they maintain radio silence until 1100 the next morning, artillery and air strikes will begin bombardment of the area around the landing zone for the 1st Air Cavalry.

George rephrases the question he previously asked, except this time, his tone is more accommodating. "What do we do if we make enemy contact?"

Everyone's eyes are suddenly on Hardin whose mood appears unaffected by the question that is surely foremost in everyone's mind. He simply replies, "Our mission is to reconnoiter the landing zone. If we encounter a heavy enemy presence, we are to break radio silence and alert the assault force towards an alternate landing zone that is being reconnoitered by other units. If that happens, we'll withdraw as best we can."

Men nervously glance at one another and then, at Bryant and Dorsey. No one says anything. After a few moments of silence that quickly becomes very nerve-racking, Hardin dismisses the platoon and instructs everyone to prepare their equipment and be ready to move out at 1700 hours.

Randall is surprised at is own reaction on learning of the mission. He isn't at all enthusiastic but somehow feels more encouraged, because even to those such as himself, who could hardly be described as having a military aptitude, such an operation seems infinitely more practical than probing about the countryside on a search and destroy operation for an enemy who can come and go at will from a protected sanctuary and may even be baffled at the futility of non-productive tactics that have been employed for years. True, such operations had produced a body count that might have look impressive on the week's scorecard but as far as leading to the overall goal of Vietnam policy, little had been done. He continues to evaluate the concept of the operation and suddenly realizes only aerial and map reconnaissance had been done across the border, and no one could possible have any accurate knowledge of what sort of enemy presence was there or what weapons they had. Initially, he's more taken in by the practicality of the mission instead of the possible consequences and in an uncommon sort of way, that makes him feel better about himself. He finds himself thinking of that instructor in training - the one he had thought was so crude and uneducated, because as he finishes preparing his equipment, he realizes he is doing exactly what the instructor had advised the trainees to do in preparing for a mission. He spreads his poncho across the ground, sorts out his magazines and loose rounds,  and places everything in his ammunition belt and field pack. When he finally has everything organized, he lies down on the poncho and rests his head on his field pack. The instructor had said something about getting rest anytime there was a chance.

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For quite some time, he can only hear himself breathing. A slight breeze stirs through the jungle, and the vines hanging from the trees sway from side to side. It reminds him of the shadows that would dance across his bedroom there on Euclid Avenue in the late afternoon when he would sit there by the window, trying to think of the most effective way to present a prospectus. The financial profession no longer clutters his mind, but the images of Euclid Avenue remain. Bertha Williamson, that old bent-over lady with that straw hat drawn down over her eyes. Her life had all but ended when her son, Jamie, chose to disappear and get out of everyone's way. Where is he now? Is he even alive? What has it been like for her, living in that empty house all those years and having to reach far, far back into time for any pleasant memories?

When he first saw them, Mildred and Robert Mathis were anything but what he would have described as the ideal couple, but there they would be, day after day, walking hand-in-hand towards their shabby-looking house. He didn't understand what kept 2 people like that together - at least he had not then. He always compared Mildred to that woman at the office with those short dresses; and from that superficial perspective, there was no comparison. But the way Blanche explained it, Robert's service in Korea had made such a change in him. It had something to do with 2 other men who befriended him and were probably the first real friends he ever had - that is, until they were killed. 

Randall knows now, more than ever before, how fortunate he was to receive an education, but he never thought anyone with definite career goals such as his could ever learn anything from the Army - especially anything that would be of benefit in his future life. Then too, the more he thinks of Evette there at the Domino Lounge, someone he always suspected was so different from him, the more and more he misses her. He misses Euclid Avenue more than he thought possible. Could it be his service is inducing him to look at his own life and reassess his own values, the same as Robert Mathis must have done?

He can see all those houses along Euclid Avenue as vividly as though he were standing there now. The way the old Manning house looked, it was difficult to believe the people Blanche described ever lived there - at least the family they became when Carl returned for World War II. Somehow, his values and assessment of himself had changed as well. He was exactly the opposite of Jamie Williamson, quite a ladies' man and had succeeded at most everything he attempted, yet when he came home, he wasn't the same man. He was the last sort of person one would expect to enter the priesthood. What could have happened to him in Italy to make him such a different person?

When Blanche's brother, Charles, left for World War I, he seemed to have everything he had worked for: a home, a wife with whom he was happy and a promising and growing career. His injury took most of that away from him, yet he never became bitter. What was it that kept him together? Could it have been a simple reassurance in the knowledge that in serving, he had done his best at what he thought was right?

Blanche would speak of Loren so often and in some ways, Randall supposes he is a lot like him. Loren had definite career goals, and right or wrong, placed them ahead of everything else. Unlike Randall, the career Loren wanted as a pilot and the work he had done to achieve that created a clear need for him in the Army Air Corps where, at the outset, he felt he was exactly where he should be. But with the passing missions, he began to fear the very thing that had been the love of his life. What was it then that caused him to resume combat missions. Could it have been the same feeling of obligation that eventually found its way into the hearts of those other men? None were born with it, but they had all learned it from life. Somewhere along the way, all of them must have served with someone like Garnett Sain.

With the falling darkness, there is an unsettling quiet. No longer is there the sound of the helicopters. The distant artillery is hushed. That same tingling feeling returns to Randall's skin, but no longer are his emotions ruled only by fear and resent. Those men he was thinking of - it's almost as though all of them were speaking, almost pleading, with him not to forget them and all the others who have worn the uniform over the storied past of the American military. Many of them had no doubt felt the same resent as he does, but in one way or another, finally realized the services were only responding to a need and not creating it and that their bitterness should be directed against those who were causing all the pain and suffering in the world and not against the military that has always responded to preserve all the opportunities and rewards of life that otherwise would have been lost forever. 

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The company slowly files out of the jungle. Everything is still and ever so quiet, there is very little moonlight and the lofty trees create indistinct silhouettes against the cloudless sky. The heavy night air is oppressive and muffles the labored breaths of the men as they creep along the jungle's edge. Their faces are darkened with night camouflage paste, but the sweat trickling from their temples still glistens in the scant light.

Randall still feels that tugging at his stomach, but since Hardin briefed the platoon, that sentencing, nightmarish impression of lack of purpose has mercifully resigned its grip over him. All his thoughts are so different, because he isn't thinking of all those things he had studied and worked for. All of that has been replaced with  dreamlike visions of the old boarding house and so much Blanche told him about those along Euclid Avenue. He never before even imagined he could identify with anyone who he thought exemplified failure more than anything else. Jamie Williamson, a stuttering halfwit who finally give up on life and chose to flee from it all. Carl Manning, a contentious cock-hopper who was such a disappointment to his family but somehow, he ended up in the priesthood. Robert and Mildred Mathis, that tired-looking couple who are so far from what present day advertisers have created as the ideal marriage - that is, until you realize they sincerely love one another for what they are.  All those years that Charles Wilson spent as an invalid in the room just below his own there in the boarding house. How Loren's life had been cut so short and what it must have been like  for Blanche, seeing her loved ones pass from this life under circumstances that seemed anything but equitable. Those shabby-looking people along Austin Avenue, that beggar lady he would see almost everyday on Peachtree Street. What put them there? He had never stopped to care, because he was so absorbed in what he wanted for himself. 

That tree line ahead, the rolling terrain all around, the crouched figures of men, no doubt just as afraid as he is at the moment, but who are all now so remittently confident in Garnett Sain, are all fused together with all those images that have always been but pictures in tattered books, faded magazines and flickering, old newsreels. He can see all those men of World War I, rushing from the trenches across barren ground with scores upon scores of them being cut down, yet something, something had kept them going. He can see the blank faces of the men on the Bataan Death March as they looked down upon the bruised bodies of their fallen comrades in arms who had given everything that was within them. It's almost as thought he were among those men who so bravely rushed up the Normandy beach under the withering German machine gun fire from the higher ground, so many slumping to the ground, so many floating in the unsettled ocean, never having made it out of the water. All those men who were on the Pusan Perimeter and all those men who were on that frozen mountainside the night the Red Chinese came screaming down upon them - how were their lives changed? Where are they now? In a manner he cannot fathom, he can identify with them all, and his thoughts of the men who have worn the uniform in the past give him a consoling resolution of a sort he has never known.

The clouds ebb away and the moon reveals a tall, yellow grass tossing in the gentle night wind. Actuality reclaims his senses and assorted fears return to his mind in the notion that the explanation of the mission suggests the unit is expendable, because if discovered, it will be cut off from everything and its benefit lost. He fears VC booby traps with every step, but that passes when he considers the enemy probably isn't expecting an incursion across the Cambodian border and with that, something is forming in his thoughts that might even be a concurrence with the concept of surprise and denying the enemy the luxury of a sanctuary.

He loses concept of time, his nervous tension subsides as he becomes more accustomed to the heavy, humid air, and his breathing becomes less labored. The file abruptly stops, and there are those oriental voices he has come to hate somewhere up ahead. His worse fears immediately materialize - the unit is about to be cut off, and the attack will be directed to another landing zone.

The company crouches in the concealing grass, and 8 or so of the small figures are barely visible some 75 yards ahead. Again, there is a soothing confidence. It must be a small group of VC who should have no reason to suspect the sanctuary is about to come under attack.

Sain studies them and intently searches the terrain for others, but there are none. He waits and listens for quite a few minutes before signaling the company to resume its ever so meticulous movement farther and farther behind the border. Sain knows exactly where he is leading them and has obviously made a very exacting map reconnaissance. Randall wonders what is in the captain's mind as the unit moves down a steep incline, which would have been obvious on the map from close contour lines, but still does not stray far from the jungle's edge. Is Sain preoccupied with the mission or the fact that the life of everyone in the company depends on his judgment? But again, there is the menacing realization that a limited war fought on the enemy's terms so often cannot be guided by judgment.

Randall feels a cautious confidence as his thoughts unexpectedly turn away from the mission and his own fears, and he begins to think of all those other places and all those other nights in World War I, World War II and Korea when men just like himself and those around him had been on missions just like this one. He is uncertain what is churning in his stomach, but it certainly isn't the resentment that has been there since the day he received his draft notice. It might well be a pride, not only in all those of the past but himself as well.

Hours have passed since the company crossed the border. Sain stops the advance and begins to study the flat clearing just ahead. He whispers a few words to Daniels and Hardin, who soon begin positioning men around the edge of the clearing, which must be the proposed landing zone. No one says a word but all inquiringly peer about the surrounding jungle and listen, listen for some sign of enemy presence, but there is nothing, save the strange and unfamiliar sounds of a foreign night.

The men are positioned in pairs just as so many others have been on countless other battlefields reaching far back over the decades. Hours pass. Randall's head nods with exhaustion. A faint yellow appears in the sky to the east, and as the morning approaches, the heat and humidity close in around him, bringing back that ever-present nausea to his stomach. He abruptly jerks at the sound of artillery and reflexively, he grasps his rifle.

"What in the shit?" George mumbles.

Randall tries to get his bearings and says, "I think its ours," just as explosions begin to rip into the entangled jungle.

The artillery bombardment tears gaping holes in the jungle, tossing dirt, foliage and broken tree limbs hundreds of feet into the air. After only a few minutes, the firing pattern changes and the rounds begin falling dangerously close to the company's unprotected position, which quickly comes under a shower of dirt. The percussion gnashes at the faces of the startled men. 

George grimaces and snaps, "I knew it! This is gonna be another damn fuck-up! Why doesn't Sain do something?"

"What can he do?" Randall offers. "We can't break radio silence."

"That's damn stupid! That's damn stupid!" George grumbles in a heartfelt disgust. He glares at Captain Sain and adds, "That half-witted son of a bitch! I wonder what the fuck he thinks he's doing?"

Men hug the earth all throughout the morning, thankful that none of the friendly rounds fell on them. There is a punishing aloneness, and something about it all causes Randall to remember all Blanche had told him about Jamie Williamson. He had lived his whole life in solitude and probably wasn't nearly as afraid at Bataan as Randall is at this moment.

Towards 1000 hours, the artillery bombardment stops and the men inch forward, looking at the landing zone and into the gaping voids the 105s have cleaved out of the jungle. Again, there is only the ominous quiet that does little to console the ravaging imaginations that pierce through everyone's mind until there is the welcome swishing sound behind them of an approaching formation of Phantom jets that begin to shower the jungle with rockets and napalm. Each man has the strange, although completely justified, hope the massive firepower will take someone else's life and preserve his own. 

Randall remembers the picture of Loren in Blanche's living room table and wonders what he would think if he could see how far aviation has come since those days he flew the B17s. Many of the people along Euclid Avenue seemed unwilling to accept the changes that time, sometimes so unmercifully, bestows to everyone. For the first time, Randall wonders what sort of a person he will be 40 years from now. 

The Phantom's rockets and bombs leave the jungle in flames, forcing high columns of black smoke far into the air and sending waves of heat rolling across the flat earth, reassuring the watching, awe-stricken men that surely, if any gooks were there, they could not have survived an attack so technologically impressive, yet still every bit as savage as when the first caveman crushed the skull of his foe with a primitive ax. 

The men enjoy the demonstration of firepower. Their heads move from side to side as though they were watching a tennis match, but the air attack breaks off after about 30 minutes, and that same rigid expression returns to their faces. Something about it all reminds Randall of himself when he was in grammar school, returning to class after recess. 

Sain eye's are fixed on his watch, and at exactly 1100 hours, he motions for the AN/PRC-25 radioman, which precipitates an anxious gnawing in Randall's stomach as an unsettling quiet settles over the smoking terrain. He looks up and sees something that only a few weeks ago would have been inconceivable. Bryant and Dorsey, appearing completely congenial and at one another's side, are running towards the squad, each carrying a combat pack full of something. Surprisingly, Dorsey's customary vindictive tone is observably absent from his voice, which in fact, seems more cordial than Randall can ever recall, as he begins handing out smoke grenades and says, "Follow me. Release these on my command."

Dorsey leads the squad along the front of the landing zone. Randall's skin tingles and his thoughts are filled with images of the wounded from other missions. He conjectures as to what it must feel like for an AK47 round to tear into a man's flesh, how utterly terrifying it must be feeling one's bones being shattered and collapsing to the ground, feeling life ebbing away as warm blood weeps over a broken body. He nervously glances into the jungle, stumbles over his own feet and falls squarely on his M16, knocking his breath out.

George's positive, good soldier attitude has long since departed him. He only looks at him, and with a distinct suggestion of revulsion, mumbles, "God damn."

A strong hand reaches out and clutches him under his arm. He looks up and sees Dorsey with a look about him that might even be concern, as he pulls him up and hands him his weapon. 

Dorsey leads the squad around the edge of the landing zone, holds up his hand and signals everyone to kneel  behind the tall grass where all feel more secure, first gasping to regain their breaths and then, anchoring their eyes of Dorsey.

There is the sound of motors behind them, and Randall instinctively jerks in that direction. Immediately, he is overcome by what he sees. Two columns of tanks and APCs followed by Sheridan reconnaissance vehicles and M48 Patton tanks are making their way along the left perimeter of the landing zone. A smile comes to his face and a feeling of pride radiates within him, at least momentarily banishing any suggestion of fear or resent. Then, there is the familiar sound of the helicopters in the sky behind them. Dorsey shouts, "Now!" and begins throwing his grenades towards the front of the landing zone. 

There is a burning enthusiasm that immediately pours over his exhaustion as he and the other squad members begin tossing their grenades, which emit a green marking smoke, signaling the helicopters the landing zone is not under enemy fire. Immediately, the helicopters break formation and descend to the ground. Troops of the 1st Air Cavalry begin pouring through the doors and start a machine-like assembly into their attack formations. Within seconds, they are racing forward, dispersing into units no larger than squads on a wide front forward of the landing zone and crouching in the grass, waiting for directions from their leaders, all of whom are a short distance behind them with their radio operators who are entering the communications net. Shortly, everyone is on his feet, pressing forward. The warfare within boundaries policy has obviously ingrained a mind of security within the enemy, who isn't to be seen.

The men in Randall's squad make their way along the landing zone back towards the company where men are beside themselves, running around shaking hands and slapping each other on the backs. For a fleeting moment, Randall's memory turns to that first mission when the platoon had simply concealed itself in the jungle and called in artillery on a non-existent enemy. The positive spirit of a purposeful offensive has quite easily suppressed any thought of a bitching, negative reaction.

The helicopters begin taking off and soon, a placid quiet falls over the field and surrounding jungle. Sain is on the radio, no doubt receiving orders for the deployment of the company. Just now, somewhere out there in the distance, is the sound of rifle fire. Randall's heart  all but stops as he listens to what begins as a small firefight but gradually grows in intensity. Men become unsettled and restively stare where they last saw the men of the 1st Air Cavalry.

Randall feels a hand grasping his arm. He looks up and again sees Dorsey with an almost friendly smile on his face, pointing to the sky where about 10 AH-1G Cobra helicopters are swooping down over the firefight, making pass after pass and saturating the enemy positions with their 40 millimeter grenade launchers, 2.75 inch rockets and 7.72 millimeter mini-guns. It's a peculiar feeling Randall has, watching the splendid exhibition as though it were a wide-screen movie, hoping what he is seeing is the messenger of death for scores of the enemy, but that is exactly what he is feeling with no suggestion whatever of guilt. It doesn't require a military mind, or much education for that matter, to know this is exactly how this war, which should have ended years ago, should have been fought from the outset - making the best use of firepower, striking the enemy where he is, regardless of borders or lines on a map and risking the lives of as few Americans as possible.

Sain assembles the company. His face is pale and drawn, evidencing how utterly exhausted he is, but there is still a broad smile, proclaiming how pleased he is at how the company has performed its mission. Only a few short months ago, Randall would have viewed such an emotion as one of childishness, denoting someone who is ill-bred and has no meaningful ambitions, but now he finds himself sharing the same gratification, because the same smile is on his face as he looks at the old captain who has found a place in his heart unlike anyone he has ever known.

All around is the sound of the Cobras - the humming of their engines as they make their passes over the target areas, the rasping sound of their rocket launchers, the repetitive thumping of the grenade launchers, all blending together in a pleasing sort of harmony. Somehow, Randall knows the mission will succeed.  He glances over the faces of the men, each showing a distinct aspect of satisfaction, as the sounds of the firepower in the background offer an almost symphonic counterpoint to Sain's briefing on the final segment of the company's mission. The company and several others will begin making their way back towards the Vietnamese border to report any enemy activity behind the attack force and call in any of a variety of available firepower that has been moved closer to the border.

As Randall checks his equipment, his exhilaration starts to wane and the fatigue returns with a bewildering confusion. An assortment of aircraft has been in the air all afternoon, heading towards the battle zone. He has heard only intermittent 120 millimeter cannon fire from the tanks. One moment, he is glad he is about to move away from the fighting, but the next, he finds himself almost wishing he were in the battle - an emotion that only a short while ago, he would have viewed as preposterous.

The company begins to retrace its steps, moving back across the edge of the jungle. The trees shield the setting sun, and a slight wind oozing through the dark and shadowy surroundings distills itself over Randall's sweat-soaked uniform, bringing an intoxicating solace to his mind and a placating restoration to his fatigued body. Dreamlike images cavort through his mind. He can see Evette - not seductively attired in that revealing velvet dress at the Domino Lounge, but sitting with him there at Doby's Grill on Ponce de Leon Avenue, like a little child, telling him about all the things she hoped someday she could do. He never stopped to realize it then, but in her own way, she had very bit as much ambition as he but simply lacked the immediate means to achieve it. 

Randall asks George, "Do you think we'll try to occupy the territory across the border?"

"Who gives a damn!?" he responds with a disinterested sneer. 

Bryant immediately invites himself into the conversation and in his typical abrasive mannerism, scowls, "Shut you fucking mouth, you little prick, or I'll kick your ass over your shoulders!"

George just turns his head and falls back into the file. 

Bryant is quite noticeably annoyed, not only with George, but evidently with the entire situation about which he seems to have given a great deal of thought. He looks sternly at Randall and snaps, "Hell no, we won't occupy the territory. Those self-righteous fuckers in Congress will probably call the whole damn operation illegal!" He waits for Randall to respond to what was clearly a baiting remark, seems disappointed he does not, sneers and moves on ahead. 

Randall is relieved to be alone with his own thoughts, which surprisingly are not of the Dow Jones Industrial Average, his career he once felt had been robbed from him or even what sort of life he can anticipate after his service time. Instead, he is thinking of Garnett Sain, who regards himself as just one of the men, a mannerism he had once regarded as a suggestion the captain lacked self-confidence and had chosen to remain in the Army all those years because he was a deadbeat that couldn't make it on the outside. Indeed, he is a simple man and might well be a failure, judging from the standard of Randall's world. Quite obviously, he'll never accomplish any of the things that Randall, to some degree, still feels are important. Sain has just tried to do his best wherever he found himself, and who can say how many other men have looked at him, just as Randall is now, and known their lives would be forever changed just from having known him and finally realizing the type of person he really is. Who can truthfully call that a failure?

Randall looks at Lieutenant Hardin and Lieutenant Daniels, who are staring at the captain as well. One would have to classify them as complete opposites, regardless of his ambitions or temperament. Hardin is just beginning to find himself. Daniels is just beginning to discover he isn't nearly the man he thought he was and that becoming a true soldier like Garnett Sain will require much, much more than an education, which now seems only an incidental consideration. His thoughts turn to what Bryant has just said about occupying territory and recalls a morbid statement made by Napoleon. What was it? "The boundaries of an empire are marked with the graves of its soldiers."

The movement back towards the Vietnam border is deliberate and uneventful, save the sounds of the attack, which must be going very well. According to what has come over the radio net, during the first 2 days, there has only been 2 Americans killed and 8 wounded. 

As the company moves back into Vietnam, its spirit remains good - even Bryant is uncharacteristically accommodating. At least for the moment, Dorsey's antagonistic attitude towards Randall has abated. The men are in the file formation, moving down a slight incline through a heavily wooded area leading to a clearing where they will be picked up by helicopters and returned to the compound. Randall's attention is fixed on the 2 men on the point, barely visible about 50 yards ahead. Abruptly, they both stop, seem confused and begin to frantically search the ground. Someone shouts, "God damn!" just as there is an explosion squarely between the 2 point men. Both fall, screaming in pain. Everyone drops to his stomach, hugs the ground and immediately, the cold shock of reality reclaims their spirits. One conventional attack into the Cambodian sanctuary hasn't banished the inequitable task the American soldiers still must face - the endless hit and run war of the VC has not gone away.

Lieutenant Hardin is on his feet, sprinting towards the front of the platoon and shouting, "Stay put! Stay put!" He reaches down and grabs both Randall and George and says, "You 2, come with me!"

Crouching low to the ground, the 3 of them move forward and without receiving an order, a medic falls in behind them. One of the point men is laying stock-still, and the other is rolling over and over, grasping his left leg and screaming. Those same sickening fears reclaim Randall from his dream world as thought the reality he had momentarily escaped had reached out and struck him with a punishing blow.

Hardin holds up his hand and drops to one knee, studying the large, leafy foliage on either side of the path. After only a moment, he turns to George and Randall, motioning for them to open fire into the dense vines and leaves on both sides of the trail. They began spraying out M16 rounds, as Hardin and the medics crawl cautiously towards the wounded man, whose screams can still be heard above the rifle fire, but when he sees the 2 men moving towards him, his screaming stops. He extends his hands towards them, and a most grateful tone flows over his face.

After Randall and George have expended 2 full magazines, Hardin signals for them to cease fire. Randall moves forward to join him, but George just stays where he is. The wounded man is rather portly, has dark, black hair that is matted together with dried perspiration and is gently sobbing. He's trying to look at is wounded leg, but Hardin knows he might go into shock, if he sees his own blood, and he is holding his head to the side as the medic cuts a long slit in his fatigue pants. Gently, he peels the uniform away from the wound, and Randall is paralyzed where he stands. He drops down to one knee and feels as thought he will vomit, but it suddenly occurs to him that seeing something like that would most certainly cast the wounded man into shock.

Swallowing to try to keep from vomiting, Randall turns his head to the side of the trail and sees a long trip-wire and an empty beer can with the top cut out. The VC had simply pulled the pin of a fragmentation grenade and inserted it into the can. The trip wire had jerked it out, released the safety hammer and the grenade must have exploded very close to the man's leg. There is a gaping cavity in is lower leg. Long strands of tissue are hanging from the wound and are saturated with dirt and leaf particles. His leg has an irregular shape and is obviously broken.

Captain Sain rushes past Randall, kneels down, grasps the wounded man's hand, leans forward and whispers something in his ear. A belabored smile comes over his face, and he lays his head back on the ground.

Already, there is the sound of a Medevac helicopter landing in the nearby clearing. Sain and Hardin stay at the man's side until he is picked up by the helicopter medics. It is a pained expression that masks Sain's face as he turns to Randall and quietly says, "Find Lieutenant Daniels. Tell him to take charge of the company. Lieutenant Hardin and I will remain on the point until we reach the pickup area." He turns and looks at the dead man as the helicopter crew quickly slips a body bag around his corpse and carries him away.

____________________

Medevac duty is among the most hazardous in Vietnam, yet many pilots and crews volunteer for second tours. The pilot is in communication with a field hospital unit close to the compound, advising the medical personnel on the nature of the man's injury in order that they be prepared for immediate treatment. The helicopter flies at top speed while the man's wound is cleaned and he receives an IV.

The helicopter circles over the surgical tents, and before it reaches the ground, nurses and doctors are sprinting towards it with a stretcher. The prop blast almost knocks one of the nurses down, but her eyes are fixed on the young man whose eyes are glassy and barely turn to her as he is placed on the stretcher. They rush him into the surgical tent where everything is already prepared for emergency surgery. He has lost much blood, and they first begin a transfusion. The lead doctor looks at the wounded man and says, "Start treating for shock!" as he unfolds the surgical instruments. The young nurse grasps the wounded man's hand, and a smile comes to her face as he blinks his eyes and turns his head towards her.

His leg cannot be saved and is amputated in a surgery that lasts only about 30 minutes. The nurse watches as he is wheeled into the recovery tent. She wonders what will be his first thoughts when he regains consciousness and sees he has become yet another victim of a war with boundaries, managed by politicians guided by statistics and body counts. The smile on his face, as she held his hand, is indelibly written on her heart with many others she has seen in the 10 months she has been in Vietnam. She walks back to her tent, sits on her bunk and stares at the floor for quite a long time. She tries to get it all out of her mind, and her thoughts turn to that handsome, young doctor she met during her first week at Henry Grady Hospital in Atlanta. Someone's first love, regardless of the outcome, is always precious in some ways but her disappointment in having extended an unreturned love only gave way to a hurt that remains with her to this day.

Another nurse walks into the tent. She looks up and says, "I thought we were going to lose that SP4 with the leg wound. He had lost so much blood, I didn't think he could stand up to the surgery."

The other nurse hesitates before saying, "You mean the amputation? He went into a seizure after he went into the recovery tent......He's dead."

A searing stab comes over her. All thoughts of the past are expelled from her thoughts as she slowly walks towards the recovery tent. She stops dead-still as she sees the man through the raised flaps of the tent. No one else is in the tent except him, and he is laying there, but not with that innocent look she first saw before he was off-loaded from the helicopter. The whole right side of his face is twisted from the seizure. His head is tilted towards her.  Large, unrestrained tears roll down her cheeks, and she clasps her hands in front of her face.

____________________

Randall sits there with the rest of the squad on top of the APC, thinking of the 2 months of the Cambodian incursion and the months that have since passed. All during operations across the border, the NVA had staged small delaying actions, which were quickly liquidated by cannon fire and air strikes. Only at the village of Snuol had the enemy elected to make a stand and place the American tanks under heavy fire, but during the next 2 days, the entire village was obliterated with an assortment of superior weaponry. No doubt, many innocent people lost their lives. Although the analogue was not exact, many innocent people were also killed during the massive saturation bombings of World War II. In a conflict such as Vietnam, the innocent and non-innocent are often indistinguishable.

Once Snuol was taken, the villages told of vast NVA compounds in the jungle. US jets were called in to strip away the trees and Loach helicopters searched the area until the well-camouflages storage areas were finally located. These areas were well-guarded, but precision American night attacks removed the defenses.

In the days that followed, a massive logistics network was found beneath the shrouding jungle foliage. The storage systems were so immense they even had street signs. Aside from that, 400 thatched huts were found filled with clothes, medical supplies and food. American helicopters searched over the entire area and eventually spotted enemy trucks on a trail that led to an enormous storage area. Again, American troops were sent in, and only after fierce fighting was the NVA scattered, leaving behind the largest weapons cache taken in the war. The mass was staggering and included 6.5 million rounds of anti-aircraft ammunition. How many American airmen now dead or in North Vietnamese prisons could have been spared had such operations been undertaken over the years the war had been permitted to drag on and on? There were half a million rifle rounds. How many Americans are now laying in VA hospitals, invalids for life, because such armaments were just sitting in protected sanctuaries? It was cynically ironic that even General Motors trucks were found - no doubt the unfortunate consequence of some well-intended foreign aid concept.

After 2 weeks, the operation was so successful that President Nixon ordered in many thousands more troops to take out all the sanctuaries along the border. Nixon had long been the enemy of the press, and this only gave the news media another means to attack him. The absurd accusations of "immoral war" were renewed and very quickly, perhaps the most encouraging moment of the war for the soldiers in Vietnam was greeted with a cruel and harsh reaction in the United States. Demonstrations against the war were intensified, and at Kent State University, 4 students were killed in a protest the National Guard had been called in to quell. For the men in Vietnam, especially those along the Cambodian border, the most loathsome development of all was Congressional insistence that the operation  cease after no more that 7 weeks and that American forces penetrate no further than 21 miles inside Cambodian territory. The non-sensicle result was that even in the midst of unprecedented success, the Americans were again placed in a position of disadvantage. The NVA simply pulled back behind the 21 mile barrier where it had the luxury of an untouched reorganization, and all the while, so much enemy material was found, there wasn't enough equipment to carry it all out, and much of it was simply destroyed where it stood. 

Randall's company did move back into Cambodia briefly between 6 and 14 May during Operation Toan Thang 44, but again, there was no hard enemy contact and, this phase of the operation only produced yet more booby traps and sniper casualties.

By 30 June, all Americans were back in Vietnam. With 354 killed and 1689 wounded, the operation was a complete success, at least from one point of view. More than a year's worth of supplies and weapons had been captured or destroyed, yet the enemy had won the more meaningful prize, which was the further deterioration of American public opinion. 

____________________

Randall's tour in Vietnam is nearing its end. Many short-timers keep calendars and logs, marking off the days. Over the years, something of a code has evolved. If possible, short-timers are not sent into the bush, never put on the point and are not placed on listening or observation posts. 

Many regard short-timers as bad luck and avoid them, thinking that surviving 12 months in the asshole of the world without some inequitable circumstances befalling them is an extravagance that cannot last. The rotation policies, which usually keep officers in combat commands for only 6 months have created some peculiar situations since the Cambodian incursion. It is the last week of January 1971, Sain, Hardin and Daniels are still in the unit. No one, short-timer or not, is especially pleased that the entire brigade is being moved far north to support some sort of South Vietnamese offensive, but most frightening of all is the fact the general area of the operation is very close to the North Vietnamese border and close to the old Khe Sanh base where years earlier, Americans had suffered a 77 day siege. 

Again, Randall feels that same unsettling illusion. It's almost as if the souls of those men who lost their lives at Khe Sanh are held in the threatening aura of the dispiriting afternoon and are pleading, pleading they not be forgotten. The movement some 400 miles north has been in segments of truck convoy and helicopter transport, and as the unit approaches what will no doubt become the battle zone, facts once again ramble at will through Randall's mind. The initial goal of the operation has already been achieved. Route 9 inside South Vietnam is secure, and She Sanh has been reestablished as a logistical base. The ultimate objective is for the South Vietnamese Army to drive a 15 mile wide corridor into Laos along Route 9 to a strategic junction of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. The whole undertaking has one of those strange foreign names - Operation Lam Son 719.

A heavy mist hangs low to the ground as the armored columns move across the Quang Tri River. The dreary day conforms to the expressions of dread and skepticism on everyone's face - a natural yield of the deteriorating morale that followed the short-lived enthusiasm after the Cambodian incursion. 

Randall isn't sure how to categorize the mission. Will it be yet another strike outside South Vietnamese territory, not properly followed up and deprived of measurable tactical gain? Only South Vietnamese units are to be deployed across the Laotian border; because since the Cambodian incursion, Congressional restrictions have been placed on American operations outside South Vietnam, and that fact alone has created something of an experimental atmosphere to whatever the soldiers must now endure. 

The column must be on Route 9 by now, somewhere between some place called the Rockpile and Khe Sanh. Randall, George and a few other men are seated on top of their APC, mystically staring across the green meadows and mountain range just ahead. Suddenly, bright orange flashes begin to speckle the road and ground on either side of the column. Men scramble to get into the passenger compartments of the APCs, uttering assorted and profane denunciations of what from all present indications is going to develop into a very unpleasant experience, producing yet more casualties with little lasting benefit to whatever the goal of the war has now descended. 

Randall mutters, "Son of a bitch!" under his breath as he and 3 other men fall down into the APC, all landing on top of each other, just as the hatch slams down behind them. It is pitch black inside and must be well over 100 degrees; but it is the feeling of apprehension that commands everyone's emotion as the column speeds forward, trying to escape the pre-planned mortar firing pattern into which it has haplessly blundered. The APCs are swaying from one side of the road to the other and bouncing over the large clods of dirt unearthed by the mortar barrage. Fragments of something are bouncing off the vehicle, causing sharp, metallic clangs to ring in the ears of the men who are tumbling about inside the oven-like compartments. Abruptly, the APC comes to a jolting halt. Bodies crash against the front wall. Someone's rifle butt strikes Randall squarely in the mouth, splitting his lower lip. Someone is pounding on the rear door. Men and equipment are intertwined, but finally, the door swings open. Men paw at the sandbags on the floor, making a frenzied crawl to get out onto the road where there is a continuous scene of disarray as far as the fading light of day cares to reveal. APCs are scattered like bowling pins. Cadre is shouting confused commands to men who are stampeding like a herd of wild animals under Winchester attack before the early Americans ostensibly took the country away from the Indians.

Sergeant Bryant is shouting at the top of his voice, "On me! On me!"

Squad leaders rush to his side like a group of yearlings in the wild for the first time and afraid to venture 10 feet from their mother's side.

In something of a miracle, Hardin appears from nowhere and looks to have the remaining squads behind him. Briefly, he shouts, "Keep your head! Follow me!"

How many times has Randall seen the comment "follow me" under any number of insignia? He never stopped to grasp its true meaning until this moment.

The lieutenant leads the platoon through the scattered APCs, which are squarely in the mortar impact zone. Suddenly, he stops, reaches out and grabs Randall by the arm and points to a befuddled-looking lieutenant lying in the middle of the road and obviously, not having the slightest notion what he should do. Hardin is breathing heavily, is clearly afraid but the look about him is one of determination as he says, "Go get that man!"

Randall crouches low to the ground, and his body wrenches with each incoming round as he moves towards the lieutenant. All up and down the road, he can see unit leaders are gradually restoring order, but a number of men lay around the APCs. Some are dead-still. Others are jerking with seizure-like motions. Randall's voice is weak and irregular as he kneels down at the befuddled lieutenant's side and says, "Sir, Lieutenant Hardin wants to see you." It reminds him of his first few weeks at the investment firm when one of those egotistic brokers kept sending him downstairs to get coffee.

The lieutenant's voice is almost indignant, and there is an astonished look on his face as he responds in an adolescent tone, "Wh.....what?"

Randall looks back at Hardin who has led the platoon a good 75 yards ahead of the rest of the company, which was the lead unit of the APC column, and more insistently reiterates, "My platoon leader told me to come and get you," pointing to the platoon, which is conspicuously forward of everyone else. 

Reluctantly, the young officer comes to his feet; and as the 2 of them gingerly weave their way through the scattered APCs, Randall notices the Artillery insignia on the lieutenant's collar and surmises he is an artillery forward observer. Somehow, his preppie appearance seems totally inappropriate for the immediate circumstances. There is a M16 slung over his back and a small briefcase tucked under one arm. 

The platoon is huddled at the side of the road and Hardin is carefully surveying the mountain ahead from which the mortar fire seems to be coming. Without looking at the artillery officer, he asks, "Do we have any pre-planned firing coordinates on that mountain up there?"

Mortar rounds begin falling closer to the platoon's position as the observer manages an almost inaudible, "Yes."

Hardin is momentarily torn between whatever options he is considering. He mumbles to himself, "The bastards are adjusting their fire," reaching out to grab both the observer and radio man, adding, "You 2, stay with me!" He springs to his feet and again shouts to the platoon, "Follow me."

Again, the image of a World War II insignia flashes through Randall's mind. It was a silver sword on a blue background with the words "follow me" below.

The platoon falls in behind him and forthwith becomes somewhat dismayed that Hardin is leading them away from any concealing terrain features and straight out into an open field to the right of the road. How many times had Randall heard in training that flat, open ground was a sure killing field for automatic weapons fire?

"What in the hell does that ignorant fucker think he's doing?" George asks as Randall resumes is position in the squad.

The appropriate reply escapes him, so Randall says nothing. 

The platoon runs about 200 yards into the field before Hardin holds up his hand and yells, "Here! Get down here!" Immediately, he turns to the forward observer and says, "It's coming from the reverse slope of that mountain." Pointing to the radio operator, he adds, "Give him the coordinates."

The young lieutenant seems almost relieved to hear something he finally understands and fumbles around in his briefcase for a moment before making several frantic motions, which produce a map, overlay and clipboard containing a long list of target numbers. 

Over the past few months, George's tolerance has become nearly unmanageable. He inches closer to Randall and whispers, "He's lost his fucking mind. Why in the hell has that idiot got us out here in the open ground?"

Randall looks at the 2 lieutenants, who are hurriedly studying the overlay, and as they begin giving the radio man firing orders to the nearest firebase, he manages a slight smile, begins slowly shaking his head and says, "That's beautiful."

"What the hell are you talking about?" George hisses with a vengeance.

"Think about it," Randall responds in a calm voice. "The fucking gooks have got their fire registered on that road and probably all the low ground around it. We're out of range of small arms fire from that mountain. Their mortars are on the other side. They've probably got only a few observers on this side, and they can't call in any fire on our position without firing spotting rounds. If they do that, we'll just move again."

They both look behind where the brigade is scattered on either side of the road amidst a barrage of mortar rounds before shifting their attention to the artillery forward observer, who at least for the moment, seems to have lost his timid apathy and is carrying on an enterprising radio conversation with a firebase somewhere in the area. Within a few minutes, 105 rounds are falling squarely on top of the mountain, exhorting approval but coarsely profane murmurs from the platoon. The observer immediately and judiciously begins to radio firing corrections just as the enemy mortar barrage abruptly stops under the assortment of ordnance falling just over the crest of the mountain. Super-quick artillery fuses explode immediately upon hitting tree branches, spraying down thousands of steel shards while delayed fuses pass through the trees and explode only after penetrating a few inches of ground, spraying their steel fragments horizontally and upward. Just as they have done for years, when the advantage turns against them, the enemy breaks off his attack and melts away into the jungle. 

Men begin to stand and leisurely brush themselves off just as Captain Sain, with Daniels trailing behind him like a pet animal, places his hands on Hardin's shoulder and with a broad smile, says, "Good choice. Good job, soldier."

"Like shit," George mumbles. "What in the hell good did that do?"

Randall looks back down the road where most of the brigade is reassembling. He turns towards the field, where medics are laboring over quite a few men and says, "It spared us from that - that's what the hell good it did."

There is the welcome chopping of Cobra helicopters behind the disarrayed APC column. Everyone gapes at them as they swoop down at the mountain with their 2.75 inch pod-mounted rockets shrieking through the fading daylight. All eyes attentively follow the columns of gray smoke trailing their 7.62 millimeter machine guns mounted on their stub wings, and all the while, vulgar voices emit approving commentaries: "Fry their asses!" Scorch the bastards!" Sadistic laughs and cat-calls blend in with the sounds of the helicopter attack, bringing a strange but deserved manner of gratification to all who watch. 

Randall looks at Lieutenant Hardin, standing at Sain's side, and speculates on what would have happened to the column had he not acted as quickly as he did with what was obviously the right decision. He remembers how he could only pity him on that first mission when he was afraid even to give an assertive command. Now,  he might even owe him his life. 

Within the next few days, the brigade moves to the old Special Forces camp at Lang Vie and is told its mission will be to run security patrols along the Laotian border, but an embittering unrest festers in Randall's stomach each time he is reminded of the political system that has prohibited American ground forces from crossing the border. Strangely, he doesn't especially want to find himself in the battle but was sickened the previous June when Congress repealed the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution and prohibited the use of American ground forces inside Cambodia. Morale only worsened the following December with the passage of the Cooper-Church Amendment, which further prohibited the use of US troops outside of South Vietnam altogether. Quite obviously, the political structure is only seeking a way out, but what is to become of the victims that remain?

The company is placed on a defense perimeter very close to Route 9. South Vietnamese tanks roll forward into Laos with columns of those miniature figures behind them in their over-size United States-made uniforms. During the first 4 days of the operation, there is only small arms fire detectable, but gradually, it begins to build. Artillery is thundering overhead off in the east. More and more American aircraft are overhead, speeding towards the battle zone, leaving all with the ominous feeling the attack is not going well.

Randall leans forward in the hovel he has just carved out of the earth, and a sharp twinge snaps through his body as he sees a Phantom jet, trailing black smoke and losing altitude. He stands up and runs towards Sergeant Bryant. The 2 of them stand there, listening to the irregular RPMs of its engine as the pilot struggles to make it back to the Vietnamese border. "I wonder how many fucking rounds of anti-aircraft ammunition those son of a bitches have just stashed away over there like they did in Cambodia?" he snaps with a tight mouth.

With that pertinent observation, the plane flips over in the air and begins a rapid, spinning descent. Bryant grabs Randall by the arm and with a concerned emotion he rarely reveals, says, "Look!" and points to a parachute slowly floating through the air.

A torturing spasm grabs at Randall's stomach as he expects to hear small arms fire at any moment, but there is only the helpless sound of the Phantom as it comes crashing to the ground. He thinks what it must be like for the pilot, hanging there in space at the mercy of those half-human bastards that surely must be there on the ground, waiting for him.

Within minutes, an air rescue helicopter is flying at very low altitude directly over the company's position. It glides in on the small column of smoke rising from the crash site and circles for a moment before suddenly changing its course and beginning a rapid dive towards the ground. With the same concern for the pilot as Bryant, Randall shouts, "They see him!"

Immediately, enemy machine gun fire erupts from several places in the jungle. The helicopter is helplessly hovering in the air, not a hundred feet off the ground, when the rounds begin tearing into its fuselage, making hollow, pelting sounds that rip into Randall's guts as thought they were striking him. A section of its rotor is torn away and slams into the side of the doomed aircraft, which begins spinning wildly with fire and smoke streaming from its engine. Randall's heart all but stops when a man is thrown through its door, his arms helplessly fighting the air as thought he were trying to swim, falling head first into the dense jungle. All eyes in the platoon are fixed on the aircraft as it skids over the treetops, severing their branches with its disabled rotors, before being devoured by the sweltering maze of vines and trees.

No one says a word, but Randall knows full well what punishing thought is stalking through everyone's thoughts - the same question with which he is consumed. What if he had been in that helicopter? No one could have survived what he has just witnessed, and most punishing of all is the tormenting premonition that in all probability, it was all for nothing. He thoughts alternate between feelings of fear, sorrow for the men who have just died and a possessing resent in speculating on what restrictions the field commanders will have placed on them next. An argumentative counterpoint begins to form, remembering those football games during his sophomore year in high school, when his team had been soundly beaten. The coaches would always take out the starters and put in substitutes. It all lacked purpose - even staying on the field as the games would drag on and on until the time limit expired, bringing a merciful conclusion to the humiliation. The parallel is not exact, but how much longer can this war be permitted to endure?

With each passing day, the verification the operation is going poorly becomes so cruelly obvious. Randall moves under the trees surrounding the company CP, closes his eyes and inhales. His t-shirt is dirty, is heavy with sweat and sticks to his body, which is numb with fatigue, but the cooling shade brings some relief.

George walks up behind him and asks, "Have you heard about it?"

"Heard about what?" Randall responds, expecting George is about to reveal some new catastrophe that has befallen the operation. He casually glances at him and is reminded of their first night there at  the Fort Jackson Reception Center barracks when George had given him something of a do-gooder recitation on the presumed fact he wasn't there by choice but had resolved to make the best of it.

It is a vindictive and detestable man that stands before him now with a withdrawn looks in his eyes and a venomous inflection to his muffled voice as he says, "Some of the men are saying we should bug out of this fucking place, if we see any of their tanks."

"How in the hell do you think we could manage something like that?" Randall responds with a temper of cynical amusement rather than serious interest.

With earnest conviction, George insist, "If enough of us told those shit-heads that are supposed to be our leaders this fucking nonsense has gone far enough, we could do it."

Immediately, Randall realizes the situation is far worse than he anticipated and sternly inquires, "You think we can just walk away? What in the hell would happen to us, if we did that?"

"Not a damn thing! They can't court marshal a whole company. They'd probably do something like they did after My Lai."

"You mean blame it on the leaders?" Randall asks, remembering what Bryant has told him about the conditions that led up to the massacre. The men at My Lai had been in the field for many days, were pissed off and their senses and better judgment were blunted by understandable self-pity, among other things. All of a sudden, those circumstances seem strikingly similar to the present.

From out of nowhere, a firm black hand grabs George by the shoulder and spins him around. It's Dorsey, who has a very haggard look on his face that seems to glow with the sweat beaded on his forehead and cheeks as he pushes George to the ground and spits out a demeaning, "You sorry son of a bitch!"

Dorsey wraps his webbed belt around his hand and jumps towards him, but Bryant jumps in front of him and says, "That cock-sucker ain't worth it. They'd have you up on charges instead of him. Let it go. Forget it."

George remains on the ground and seems aghast at the menacing figure towering over him. Dorsey stands there glowering down at him for what seems quite a long while before finally saying in a more restrained but still very persuasive voice, "If I ever hear anything like that again from your sorry mouth, I'll castrate you. It won't take much to convince anyone who cares that the VC did it."

A group of men, possibly the instigators of the abandonment idea and clearly awed at what they have just seen, timidly stare at one another before dispelling themselves into the surroundings and with that, not another word of deserting the position is uttered.

The days drag by, each one becoming more nightmarish than the last. Several South Vietnamese tanks covered with stretchers bearing the wounded are sitting up on Route 9. Maybe they're all dead - none of them are moving. Many more stretchers are in the center of the road, holding men with their uniforms torn away, revealing that all-familiar and sickening sight of blood-stained bandages. Some grimace in pain. Others are propped up, watching the medical teams parade up and down the road, carrying more and more wounded to the evacuation area some distance down Route 9.

That same unsettling feeling remains in Randall's stomach. His feet are numb, his joints ache and his skin burns with an unclean tingle created by dried perspiration and dirt. 

Lieutenant Hardin is walking at a very brisk pace towards the platoon wearing a full combat load.  He walks straight to George and with an almost sympathetic affectedness, says, "Sergeant Dorsey just told me about that episode some days ago. If you want to go into politics, this isn't the time or place." He just stands there staring at George who can't bring himself to look him in the eye. Hardin faces the platoon and rather impatiently says, "Get ready to move out in 30 minutes. The company has been given a security assignment up Route 9."

The platoon is very quite as it assembles its gear, but suddenly an artillery barrage begins from what must be several firebases. Randall is startled, jerks and drops his rifle. With the next few minutes, the sky is filled with helicopters and fighter planes. He turns to George and says, "The South Vietnamese must be attacking."

"Who gives a damn!" George responds, as he throws his field pack to the ground.

Ever so reluctantly, the company moves across Route 9 into an open field closer to the Laotian border. Randall's senses are dull, his mouth is dry and sweat drips down into his eyes, causing a burning sensation to the only part of his body that doesn't pain with fatigue. All afternoon, he can hear the rocket explosions and sounds of the helicopters off in the distance. Darkness falls and removes the objects of war from sight, but on this night, the mind is denied the interim evasion that removal from sight graciously allows. The air is heavy and stifling, and there is constant activity along Route 9 behind the company's position. The continuing mortar and small arms fire from the battle zone arrests everyone's troubled thoughts and holds them captive - much the same as an innocent person convicted of some horrendous crime.

There's something out there straight ahead. Men clutch their weapons. Their hearts throb in their chests. Rifle fire breaks out somewhere to the right, but Sain is shouting at the top of his voice, "Cease fire! Cease fire!"

George is revolted and makes the disparaging comment, "Look at that stupid son of a bitch. Every VC within a mile is gonna know exactly where we are."

"You don't think the rifle fire has already told them that?" Randall asks, somehow feeling mildly amused. 

The ghostly echoes of the rifle fire remain in the air, blending in with the Vietnamese jabbering, which is coming closer and closer until there they are. It looks like a full company of men. Many are without their weapons and others are heavily bandaged and barely able to remain on their feet. They are only the first of a night-long spectacle of South Vietnamese units, which have been routed in the attack and staggering back across the border. 

Randall remembers himself as a child, lying there in bed, so frightened by the dancing shadows on the ceiling and so afraid of the night, but now every sound from the battle, the near panic activity along Route 9, the blood-soaked bandages on the bodies of the wounded all find him wishing the morning would not come. Past ambitions and career goals now are irrelevant. All those past hopes for success have been condensed to the utter simplicity of just wanting to live, accentuated by the overbearing horror of dying for a cause that seems so clearly lost - now only used by the politically expedient to express some vague idealism of human rights and morality that is so foreign to the cold reality of decades of Communist aggression.

There is a fine mist in the air under a bleak morning sky, as the morning light unveils in vivid detail all those demons that have lurked in everyone's mind for the night. Again, the sky is filled with helicopters, but most of them are Medevac units returning to the border and heavily loaded with more and more wounded. All morning, they have been landing behind Route 9, discharging scores and scores of broken bodies and returning to the battle zone.

Randall has a boiling unrest as he crouches there in his foxhole, watching the helicopters with bullet holes and jagged tears garnishing their bodies as they fly directly over him. Something of an explanation was received after the 0530 officers' call. The NVA is hurling an overpowering number of men and armor into the narrow corridor that the South Vietnamese Army has driven into Laos. The South Vietnamese are in panic and losing all thought of pursing the goal of the operation and are now only seeking to save themselves from complete annihilation. The entire attack force is retreating with its only protection being American air strikes.

The gunfire is louder, and troubled eyes watch the American fighter planes off to the west making their attack runs. The ground shakes with the explosions of their rockets and bombs. Suddenly, the radio operator in the foxhole next to George and Randall is screaming at the top of his voice, "Captain Sain! Captain Sain!"

There is an irregular cracking over the radio and a Vietnamese voice speaking in broken English, just as Sain and Daniels reach the radio man. Sain takes the receiver and is trying to make something of what the Vietnamese is struggling to tell him. Sain keeps saying, "Where are you!? Do you know your coordinates!?"

The transmission leads nowhere but somehow, Sain pieces together some of what the Vietnamese is shouting into his transmitter. He looks at Daniels and says, "There's a battalion of them out there somewhere. They're cut off and almost out of ammunition." Hurriedly, he turns to the radio operator and says, "Raise battalion.'

There is nothing but static over the receiver until finally, the radio man looks up at Sain and simply shakes his head. Torment is written all over Sain's face. He leans forward in the foxhole and begins staring across the Laotian border, and for some reason, the radio man turns back to the Vietnamese frequency where the menacing sounds of small arms and mortar fire are clearly heard over the  harrowing crackling.

Something has come over Daniels within the past few weeks. He's kneeling there a few yards behind Sain, somewhat resembling an understudy standing off-stage listening to a tragic aria, as he watches the captain lamenting over what he must do. 

Sain whispers to himself, 'That man's begging for help," quickly turns to Daniels and says, "Bring half the 3rd Platoon up. I'm taking Hardin's platoon across the border."

Daniels hesitates a moment and utters, "Sir, we under orders not to..." but abruptly stops. The 2 men stand there, staring into each other's eyes for a few seconds until something of a determined expression seizes Daniels, and he quickly turns around and begins sprinting towards the 3rd Platoon.

An unrest stirs through the platoon. Men stare at one another with a frightful skepticism. Finally, George forcefully says, "That's god damn idiotic! That stupid fucker must still think he's stranded on Bataan or somewhere! Our orders are to stay right here! We ought'a refuse to take a step towards...."

Lieutenant Hardin grabs him by the shoulder, spins him around and strikes him with a hard blow with the back of his hand. George drops his rifle, his helmet flies off and he falls straight backwards just as a few of the other men start towards the lieutenant, but Dorsey steps in front of them and jerks the safety off his M16.

Randall is petrified at the scene before him. Going into Laos is literally the last thing he wants to do, and he almost wishes Dorsey and Hardin will remit to the submissive posture he saw on that first mission when the platoon had simply hidden in the jungle for the entire afternoon. He starts to say something. The words are almost on his tongue, but he suddenly realizes he isn't sure which faction he wants to support, so he only steps backwards, deciding the best thing for him to do is what he has done since the first day he came to Vietnam - try to do what he is told but otherwise, just stay our of everyone's way.

There's an observable degree of tension in Sain's voice as he cries out, "Sergeant!" and steps between Dorsey and the others. He looks at the small group of men, not one of whom looks to be over 21 years old. They all resemble some grammar school students caught in some mischievous act at recess. Sain quietly says, "Get back to your squads."

They all mutter something under their breath but decide to relent to the combination of Dorsey's threatening posture, standing there with like a statue with his weapon pointed squarely at them, and the captain's apparent willingness to forget the incident, if it goes no further. 

In a few minutes, Daniels reappears with the 2 squads from the 3rd Platoon and has shown the foresight to bring another AN/PRC-25, plus both an Air Force forward observer as well as the same artillery forward observer who Hardin conscripted on the first day of the operation. He still has that confused and disoriented expression on his face. 

Shortly, the platoon is moving at a brisk pace across the border and in the direction of the firefight, some distance off to the west and clearly growing in intensity. The sun is in the platoon's eyes, and the tall grass brushes against Randall's hands, causing a stinging feeling and only adding to the skepticism that has entrapped his thoughts. His body armor fragmentation vest weighs only 8 pounds, but his skin feels as though it is boiling under it. He begins to gasp for breath, and his legs feel so heavy he can barely lift them when Sain signals the advance to stop. The captain and Hardin kneel down in the grass, carefully trying to pinpoint the location of the rifle fire. Both of them and the observers begin to fumble through some maps for a few minutes and seem to reach some provisional agreement before Sain orders the advance to continue.

The platoon must be well over a mile into Laotian territory. The rifle shots up ahead are cracking into Randall's ears, and as they move closer and closer to the battle, Sain turns and motions for all to crouch close to the ground. They creep up a steep incline, drop to the ground and begin crawling towards the crest. Randall is directly behind Sain, Hardin and the 2 observers and is dismayed at what he sees in the rolling valley below. A large number of North Vietnamese regulars are broken into platoon-size units and are advancing by fire and maneuver up several hills where the South Vietnamese are cut off. Suddenly, there is the flat, pumping sound of mortars, and the barrage begins to rain down with deadly accuracy on the beleaguered South Vietnamese units. 

Sain calmly turns to the radio man and says, "See if you can monitor their frequency."

The radio man scans the fire support frequencies until he picks up a panic-stricken Vietnamese voice but no one can understand a word of what he is saying. Sain waits for a moment, and there is an equally panic-stricken voice that must be coming from a firebase - "I...I can't understand him! I don't know where they are! What the fuck are we supposed to do now!?"

The frequency goes silent and once again, there is only the nerve-racking crackling. 

Sain looks at Hardin, shakes his head in disgust and says, "I was afraid of this. They're accustomed to having American advisors with them to coordinate fire support. They must not have anyone left that can speak English." He looks back into the valley, wrenches his fist in front of his mouth and dejectedly adds, "Look at that. The gooks are hugging their positions. They're too damn close now, even if we could call in fire support." He motions for the observers and says something Randall can't hear. 

The young Air Force officer seems a great deal more attentive than the artillery officer and in a few minutes, is transmitting on the AN/PRC-25, but suddenly, his hands drop to is side and a very pronounced look of disbelief and anger comes over him. He slowly raises the communications device back to his mouth and sternly asks, "What did you say!?" He listens for a moment before turning to Sain and saying, "They've got all the air units committed to supporting the withdrawal in other sectors. They don't know when they can assign another close support mission."

The 4 officers and radio man just sit there, staring at one another until Sain crawls a short distance forward and helplessly looks down on what has become a massacre. The South Vietnamese units are no longer returning fire. Those closest to the advancing enemy are dropping their weapons and wildly running from the attackers who are unmercifully cutting them down with small arms fire. A wall of mortar explosions begins to fall in front of them as the enemy infantry starts a confident advance, but the South Vietnamese further up the hill begin firing, and their line of fire goes straight into their own soldiers.

George is lying at Randall's side and whispers, "I hope Sain isn't stupid enough to think we can do something about that. We ought'a just get our asses out of here."

Randall wants to stay out of the disaster, which is clearly hopeless, but feels sorry for Sain as he watches him lamenting over what he should do. The enemy is too close for artillery fire support, even if it could be called in, and the luxury of air support has also been lost. Finally, he drops his head and stares at the ground for a moment before looking at Hardin and shaking his head. 

The officers roll off the hilltop and motion the platoon into the file formation. With the sound of the carnage still raging behind, the platoon starts back towards the Vietnamese border, all listening to the gunfire as it gradually diminishes until there is a haunting stillness interposed only by the sound of the Medevac helicopters, still flying towards Route 9. Randall and everyone else knows the unit they have just seen under the overwhelming attack is now extinct.

Route 9 comes back into sight, and the activity of desperation seems all the more pronounced. Lieutenant Daniels comes running out to meet Sain, eagerly looking into his eyes, but he reads his expression and says nothing. The platoon exhaustively drops back into its foxholes and begins to wait, wait for some explanation of what is happening, but that does not come. Another night falls, which is like so many other nights since the first American advisor set foot in Vietnam in 1959. There is the distant sound of gunfire. No one knows if it is friendly or enemy, and obsessing questions rule everyone's thoughts. Why? All for what? How could such a thing be permitted to happen? If I ever get out of this place, what will it have done to me?

Before daylight, Hardin and Dorsey are moving through the platoon's position, instructing everyone to be ready to move out with the first light. It strikes Randall it has been some time since Dorsey has bedeviled him with any of his ridiculing remarks, and some undefined quality of understanding, or perhaps forbearance, has emerged between the 2 of them. Randall catches up with Dorsey and asks, "What's happening? What are we gonna do now?"

The scathing reprimand that Randall is expecting does not come. Dorsey only responds in a surprisingly mild tone, "The operation has been called off. We're moving into an assembly area about 2 miles down the road for movement back to the base."

Just being removed from the catastrophe gives Randall and all the others an amity that at least for the moment, alleviates any number of questions and doubts that foreshadow what little reason remains within troubled minds, but such a flight from cold reality only lasts until the company begins a slow march back down Route 9 where some of the troop-carrying and Medevac helicopters are still at the sides of the road, too severely damaged to fly. All of them are cloaked with jagged bullet holes, but his attention is drawn to the insides of the Medevacs. There are large splatters of blood on the walls and floors, which are strewn with torn pieces of uniforms, bandages and boots. There is the strong and nauseating odor of dried blood and decaying human flesh that causes a spasm to come into his throat. He can hardly breath. It is difficult to swallow. 

The scent and feeling of death descends on all who stare at the bullet-ridden fuselages, serving as a grim testimony to the death and demise to many men fallen prey to a war where the design seems no longer one of victory but the arbitrary outcome of public opinion implanted by the politically expedient.

Randall is hoping, hoping with all his heart this will be his last mission and that he can soon leave this place that has seen so many lives lost, given so many like George Haines a bitterness and hatred that will plague them for the rest of their lives. He remembers his first year in college and his reaction to the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution that had passed Congress with but 1 dissenting vote. Then, he viewed what was happening in the world as a objectionable threat to the plans for his own life and thought from the precepts that had emerged from the World Wars - mankind had advanced beyond the point such things could ever happen again and that the dawning of the nuclear age's technology of mass destruction testified another war would yield no victors but only victims. Although he regarded himself as educated at the time, he never stopped to realize the threat of such a cataclysm had given the aggressors of the world yet another means to exploit fear and turn the will of the unknowing masses against the Capitalist societies. All of that had led to wars within boundaries, not decided by superior weaponry, skill or even what was right and wrong. Now, it was all a clash of rhetoric, competing for men's minds and exploiting the discretion of those who simply didn't know any better and those who refused to respect the tradition of all those soldiers of the past, whose memories are pleading, pleading that they and the ideals they so valiantly defended not be contaminated by drug-ridden freaks and all but forgotten.

Sain is at the head of the company, which is divided into 2 columns on either side of the road. As the unit approaches a small village, he orders the march stopped, motions for the point men to get off the road and begins staring over the idle acres of what had once been farmland surrounding the village. After a few minutes, he orders Lieutenant Hardin to bring his platoon forward and signals the remainder of the company off the road.

The platoon huddles around Captain Sain, who points out into the field and quietly says to Hardin and Daniels, "See those discolored patches out there in the grass? What do you make of that?"

Daniels quickly speaks up, still not completely having lost the notion he is in some tactics school and struggling to remain at the top of the class, "It's mined. Look at the pattern."

Randall looks out into the field and vaguely detects a series of brown circles in a fairly regular row pattern. With only 2 weeks remaining on his tour in Vietnam, he feels a whole new dimension of fear and dread as he scans the terrain around the village. He doesn't know if it is an understandably morbid imagination or if he is beginning to think like a soldier, but his eyes fall on a section at the side of the road about 75 yards ahead that is covered with tall, wide-blade grass. He finds it reassuring that he is no doubt considering the same possibility as Sain. Something deep within is telling him the VC has the flat section of road ahead covered by several machine guns and that the most accessible cover area, the grassy section at the roadside, has concealed punji sticks. He surmises there is probably no more than 1 or 2 squads in the village and their intent is not to induce a firefight with a much larger unit but simply to put a short line of fire on the approaching column, hoping it will seek cover among the punji sticks or run into the field covered by mines.

Sain signals the units along the road to stop and carefully studies the terrain around the village. Suddenly, it occurs to Randall that even if the VC is trying to draw the company into an ambush, surely they must know by now, their design has been discovered.

Hardin moves to Sain's side and confidently asks, "Do you want me to check it out?"

George mumbles to himself, "Fuck! That shithead must think he's a boy scout or something!"

Sain's face immediately takes on a look of appreciation as he smiles, pats Hardin on the shoulder and says, "Take the 1st Squad." He points to a dense growth of vines about 100 yards from the village and adds, "If they're out there, that's where they are. Give me a few minutes, and I'll move up a few M60s to support you."

No one in the squad utters a word, but as it moves down the road ever so cautiously, each man's thoughts are written all over his face - a vivid portraiture of dread. The squad creeps forward and stops in front of the section of tall grass. Hardin signals for the M79 grenadier, who imparts all the confidence of a frightened kitten running to his mother's side as, almost tiptoeing, he prudently makes is way up the road.

Randall reaches forward with his rifle barrel and separates the grass. He flinches when he sees several rows of punji sticks scowling at him like teeth of a growing dog. There's a slight quiver in his voice as he says, "Lieutenant," and points to the cleverly concealed booby trap.

Hardin nods an obliging acknowledgement and everyone instantly knows the squad is squarely in the center of an ambush site that is likely to erupt at any moment. Yet more unrest stirs within the squad. More facts and figures flow through Randall's mind - no doubt the same troublesome details Hardin is considering. Some VC units have the RPD light machine gun, which has a maximum effective range of 800 meters, but more likely, the smaller unit that must be ahead has the AK47, which has an effective range of only 300 meters. If they have mortars, they would have already fired them at the approaching column and not waited for the larger target to disperse.

Hardin is carefully estimating the range between the squad and the likely target of the grenade launcher, which has a maximum effective range of 400 meters. In a few moments, he points out the target, and the "bloop gun" is launching a series of grenades with surprising accuracy into the 2 groups of trees and vines about 375 meters ahead. Almost immediately, there is the cracking reports of AK47s. Everyone clutches the ground, but the enemy rounds don't seem to be striking anywhere close the them. The grenadier makes a few adjustments of the sight of is weapon and begins another series of launches, this time striking directly in the center of the target.

Hardin turns towards the grenadier and acknowledges his obvious proficiency with his weapon, but his eyes fall on the remainder of the battalion some distance behind and is beginning to scatter off the road and running straight through the field covered with mines. He pitiable screams at the top of his voice, "Oh no!" just as mines explode and men fall.

Several men are blown off their feet and come tumbling down, laying face down on the earth. Others are rolling over and over, clutching their legs.

Hardin dispiritedly looks back at the enemy positions, slams his rifle to the ground and murmurs, "God dammit, we've done exactly what they wanted! I thought Sain would warn the rest of the battalion!"

Not another enemy shot is fired. Not a single VC is even seen.

The squad walks back down the road where Captain Sain has that same look of dejection on his face as he pathetically looks at Hardin and says, "I forgot that damn radio didn't work. We sent someone to warn them, but it was too late."

Everyone's eyes are set on the casualties. A few of them haven't moved since the platoon started back down the road, while others' bodies are trembling as they utter indistinguishable phrases, obviously quickly falling into shock. Randall has never become accustomed to the sight of exposed flesh and bone, and that same sickening feeling is in his stomach. He finally turns his head away but cannot escape he pitiful cries of the wounded.

Sain is standing there at the edge of the field, looking at them. Slowly, he turns and starts walking up the road towards a Jeep that is leisurely moving towards the company. It stops, and Sain salutes the rather young lieutenant colonel, who doesn't even return the salute, immediately assumes an authoritarian posture and sarcastically asks, "What happened here, captain?"

Sain never seems especially rattled when he is in the face of the enemy but now, he is as unsure of himself as Randall has ever seen. He hesitates a moment before saying, "We saw the field was mined and....and sent out a squad on up ahead. We tried to radio a warning to the battalion, but our radio was out, so we sent someone to stop them, but he....."

"What do you mean you sent a squad out!?" the senior officer snaps. "We've got all this firepower and you're still sending out men like they're fighting in the trenches?" He leans forward and takes on a very ridiculing tone. "You'd better get with it, captain. This damn war, or whatever you want to call it, is being fought based on body count. It's the 20th Century, you know!" He instructs the driver to turn around, stops beside Sain and says, "By the way, that little episode you pulled the other day in taking those men across the border didn't go unnoticed at battalion. What in the hell sort of body count did you think we could achieve with 1 platoon against all they had out there?"

Sain hesitates a minute, and it appears anger is boiling inside him. Quickly, Daniels walks up beside him and touches him on the arm, shaking his head. Finally, Sain says, "A South Vietnamese unit was cut off. We were monitoring their radio frequency, but none of them could speak English, so we had to locate them before we could call in an air strike."

The lieutenant Colonel sits there, expecting him to say something else.

Sain has followed Daniel's unspoken advice, has regained some composure and adds, "They already had everything committed."

"What did you do?"

Sain's temper seizes him, and he pointedly says, "We watched them being torn apart and just came back! What the fuck you think we could do?"

The 2 men silently look at one another for a moment before the lieutenant colonel says, "Report to me when you get back to the compound," and drives away. 

George begins snickering, "I believe our little soldier boy has about shot his wad."

Randall looks at Sain, standing there in the road, and remembers some of those older men back at the investment firm and how he had always thought they should just step aside and concede to the more progressive employees such as himself. Now, he regrets he had never stopped to realize their careers had once been at the same stage as his own, but the world they had known had simply waned away, relegating them into the unsure appointment of only watching everything pass them by. He wants so much to go to the old captain's side and tell him he did the right thing in leading the platoon across the border, but he can't bring himself to do it. Instead, he turns to George and snaps, "Shut your fucking mouth!"

The company sits there at the side of the road, staring at the body bags out in the field. Clashing emotions range through Randall's mind. One moment, he feels sorry for the South Vietnamese unit, denied the fire support it so desperately needed before it was destroyed by the much superior enemy force. He feels a burning contempt for those damn people like that lieutenant colonel, down dressing Sain for not submitting to the bookkeeper's concept of letting every field decision be governed by the likely resultant body count. He remembers hearing all those television news reports before he was drafted. All the numbers never reached his feelings. Statistics make a much more enduring impression on pragmatic minds and seem to have become the goal of the war rather than destruction of the enemy by traditional military tactics that do not recognize boundaries or allow sanctums for the enemy. He still feels something of an identity with Lieutenant Daniels, but from a much different standpoint from that first week when both of them came into the company. Instead of being fully guided by their educations, both of them have been influenced more by those they would have considered ignorant in the worlds from which they came - people like Sain, Dorsey and Bryant. It seems so inequitable for someone like Sain, with the best of intentions, to be on the verge of having his world come down around him.

There's a slight limp in Sain's stride as he walks through the company and motions it back on the road. His face shows the same fatigue as all the other men, but there's something else there Randall can clearly read - it's resent, loss of confidence, and more likely, an uncertainty as to if he should be shepherded by what his long experience has taught him or what this war has become and is inflicting on him and every soldier that remains in this shithole.

The company seems gliding over the earth. No one's feet are moving more than in inch off the ground as they all move ever so slowly back towards Khe Shan. Randall doesn't know the name of the village up ahead with no more than 30 or so of those decrepit little buildings and a few filthy pigs and children ambling through its narrow paths. 

Sain halts the company, raises battalion on the radio and receives instructions to keep moving. 

"Why the fuck have we been on the point all this time?" George mumbles.

Someone in the squad offers, "It's that damn Sain. People at battalion think he's still fighting World War II. That stupid bastard's made cannon fodder out of all of us."

Randall impulsively wants to speak but remains silent, still feeling he must remain anonymous. He is more and more confused by all those strange thoughts and emotions colliding within him and steering him towards where - resent, hate or could it even be a greater insight as to what the world really is?

Sain sends the 3rd Squad out ahead of the company. It cautiously moves through the field approaching the village, and each man can still see the vivid images of those men back there up the road, lying with whole sections of their legs blown away. 

Everyone knows there is a strong North Vietnamese force somewhere behind them across the border, and as the squad assumes the skirmish formation, they're all jerky and apprehensive. Each step they take towards the village causes their faces to become more drawn with the punishing tension and realization it has virtually no military value. The inhabitants are struck with a quite different fear, but one which is no less punishing as the women frantically begin to gather their children and run into the shabby huts. 

Randall whispers to himself, "The fucking VC is there," and at that precise moment, rifle fire breaks out from the corner of the village. 

The man on the right flank of the advance is struck in the throat. The rounds tear all the way through his body, spraying a heavy mist of blood behind him. He drops his weapon, his feet collapse and both hands clutch his neck, as he falls to the ground.  The squad leader is confused, as the others quickly break formation and run for a slight depression to the left. He doesn't know what to do and looks back out onto the road for Sain who is already in radio contact with battalion. 

The company huddles there at the roadside with all eyes on the man who was hit. He lays there alone in the filed on a slight incline. His hands are crossed below the massive wound in his neck, and the entire front of his uniform is soaked in blood. His face has lost its color and is a ghostly white, accented by the dead, brown grass encircling his head. 

Sain jerks the transmitter away from his mouth and hands it back to the radio man. He moves up to Hardin's side and disgustedly says, "They said we just moved out of the free fire zone, and we can't call in fire support on the village." The 2 men kneel down beside one another and remain quiet for a few moments before Sain adds, "They seem to think it's the same group of VC that hit us down the road and they'll just keep falling back into the jungle until we reach the pickup area." He carefully surveys the terrain around the village, begins to thoughtfully shake his head, turns to Hardin and says, "Take the rest of your platoon along the edge of that tree line to the right. My guess is they've got firing patterns covering all the flat ground on this side of the village." He points to 2 dense groups of trees about 100 yards to the right of the village and says, "Look how the grass has been cut down in front of those areas. There's more of them there than battalion thinks. I know it."

Randall looks at the ground Sain has just mentioned and sees several conspicuous gaps in the grass in front of the groups of trees, suggesting fields of fire have been assigned for automatic weapons, anticipating the company will make its approach to the village just as battalion seems to have suggested. Surging through his body is a completely different fear than he felt on his first mission. Anytime one does not know what to expect, fear is natural, but on those first missions, it was blended with a certain amount of curious excitement. That has long been replaced by overbearing cynicism and dread that is much like a disabling affliction, making it difficult to keep up with the platoon as it sprints across the field towards the edge of the jungle. The stranded squad quickly falls in behind them, and Randall can only glance at the dead man as they all pass him by. He wonders how long he had remaining on his tour of duty and expects rifle fire to break out from the village at any moment from the assumed enemy positions, but all is silent.

The platoon drops down about 10 yards inside the tree cover and Hardin is immediately on the radio with Sain. As soon as he completes his transmission, the men come to his side, intently listening as he conveys the scheme of maneuver he and Sain have just so hastily conceived. The stifling fear and dread tightens its grip on Randall as he listens to the lieutenant say, "The captain doesn't think what's up ahead is what hit us up the road. The Weapons Platoon is setting up out of range of what the VC is likely to have. We're going to move in closer in file formation and spot for them when they start firing. Sergeant Dorsey and I will be at the head of the file. Stay well spread out and follow in our steps. Watch for booby traps."

The men uneasily stare at each other, again glance back at the dead soldier and then down into the dense jungle. No one utters a word, but words are unnecessary. Their trepidation is written all over them as the platoon ever so cautiously feels its way through the jungle parallel to the presumptive ambush site. The glittering sunlight dances across the canopy of dense jungle foliage, and the dim rays of light gleam down onto the jungle floor, which is moist and emits little sound. There is only the men's labored breathing. Compared to the career Randall had planned, it's all so mystic and dreamlike.

Suddenly, Hardin halts the advance and begins attentively staring into a clearing to the right of the file. The weeds along the ground are matted down as though quite a large number of men were recently there and ration containers are scattered about. Oddly, something of a relief comes over Randall, because the regular North Vietnamese Army is too well-trained to leave such conspicuous tokens of its presence. Whatever is up ahead surely must be poorly-trained VC irregulars.

Something is moving in the brush about 40 yards to the right. No one else sees it. Randall clutches his rifle, but doesn't know if he should fire, call out to the lieutenant or what. His whole body is frozen until he sees a small, green object sailing through the air straight for the platoon. He instinctively shouts at the top of his voice, "Grenade!" as he lunges forward and quite by accident, begins rolling down a slight bank. The platoon scatters seconds before the grenade explodes. He desperately claws at the ground, and before he can stop himself, tumbles directly into the brush from which the grenade was thrown. A bloodcurdling panic possesses him, and he's frantically crawling to recover his rifle, lying 10 yards behind. There's a rustling in the undergrowth. He begins to whimper as he seizes his weapon, begins a frenzied roll to his right and barely catches the images of 2 small men in those familiar pajamas-style, black outfits running at top speed towards a small path at the bottom of the bank.

He sits there on the ground, again not knowing what to do until they stop, turn and look directly at him. Every muscle in his body is trembling and that same child-like whimper is involuntarily clamoring from his mouth as his quivering hand squeezes the trigger on his M16. The recoil jolts him backwards, he begins crying as the weapon leaps from side to side, and he struggles to keep it pointed in the general direction of the 2 VC who are raising their weapons to their shoulders and pointing them at him.

Almost simultaneously, several blood splotches appear on their bare chests, exposed by their loose-fitting garments. They fall backwards and begin slowly sliding down the bank, coming to a stop below. Their eyes remain open and are staring straight at Randall who is sitting there in a daze with his body still trembling. For a fleeting moment, his every awareness eludes him, and his only cognizance is the ringing in his ears from the 30 round magazine he has just emptied into the mangled and lifeless human flesh below.

Gradually, sights and sounds seep back into his consciousness. There is a covey of raspy-sounding birds behind. He can hear the platoon beginning to reassemble. With his hands still trembling, he places another magazine in his weapon and yet another item form his training surges into his mind as his eyes remain riveted on the 2 men he has just killed. Casually, he removes the magazine from his rifle and pushes the top 2 rounds out, remembering the day in basic training when the training company was told the M16 has a tendency to jam with a fully-loaded magazine.

Slowly, he turns back towards the bank, fully expecting to see wounded men, but there is Hardin crouched behind him. The lieutenant looks at him for a moment with an esteeming smile before reaching out with both hands and lifting him to his feet, gently whispering into his ear, "Good job, soldier."

Instantly, Randall remembers that day months ago when Sain had said the same thing to Hardin. His body desists its trembling and the most gratifying sensation streams down his arms, which are dripping with sweat, and onto his feet, which are icy cold.

Hardin glances at the dead VC below but immediately seems captivated by the almost non-observable trail. His head moves from side to side as he studies the trail, which extends into the jungle as far as they can see. Presently, he looks up at the platoon that is already re-assembled in the file formation. The 2 men make their way back to the platoon and again, Hardin is on the radio with Sain. The conversation lasts some few minutes. The men in the platoon whisper words that cannot be heard. Randall looks back out onto the road but can't see the rest of the company or battalion and then, forward into the village which now appears deserted. All factions in the unfortunate dilemma are waiting for the others to commit themselves. Everything is so quiet. There is no sound of helicopters, no distant artillery or gunfire and not a sound from the road. 

That same dreamlike sensation clouds Randall's semi-conscious mind. He can see the picture of Loren in Blanche's living room and remembers the loving smile that would come to her face when she would speak of him as a child. Tears would glisten in her eyes when she would remember her brother, Charles, sitting there on the sofa in that same room during the Depression, leaning forward with both hands resting on top of his walking cane. He recalls all those things she told him about Jamie Williamson who had endured years in a Japanese prison camp but could not bear the rejection of a woman he had cared for since they were both in grammar school. He can't recall the name of that man who once lived only a few doors away and who, by all accounts, was not good for much of anything, but for some reason he never explained to anyone, ended up becoming a priest. Randall would see Robert Mathis and his wife sitting on their porch almost every evening and would sometimes think how pointless their lives must be, because they seemed so hopelessly void of any incentive. Robert Mathis never appreciated the value of friendship until the only 2 true friends he ever had were dead. None of that ever meant anything to Randall and was only the rambling of an old woman the world had chosen to pass - or more correctly, someone who had let the world pass her by. Now, he rarely thinks of his own incentive or all those marketing ideas that were once so important to him. All that has been replaced by what he had once dismissed as only a tired old lady's pointless efforts to cling to the past, but at this moment, it's almost as though Blanche and all those men from the past are speaking to him, and he hopes so much that some day, someone will remember him just as Blanche has remembered all the others along Euclid Avenue.

Hardin turns to the platoon and almost apologetically says, "I need 3 volunteers. We've got to get closer to the village and see what they've got."

Bryant immediately steps forward, and to Randall's utter amazement, George raises his hand. Hardin's face initially reflects the same surprise. The 2 men's eyes meet for a moment, and Hardin acknowledges something he clearly didn't expect with an appreciative nod. No one else moves or utters a word, as Hardin uneasily scans through the platoon. An edgy tension is heavy in the air as men's heads turn to avoid eye contact with the lieutenant.

Randall is staring down at the ground when Hardin turns to Haines and Bryant and says, "I guess it's just us."

Tempestuous emotions are at conflict within him, but Randall timidly raises his hand, and in a barely auditable voice, says, "Lieutenant, I'll go."

The 3 of them stand there in front of the platoon. Bryant, something of a misfit for what reason, no one knows. Randall has always thought that he chose to become a career soldier, because he didn't have the drive to find his way in life any further than Robert Mathis. Now, he's not sure. George Haines, always so fortunate in the past to have a loving family, but soon after arriving in Vietnam, his shielded disposition from such a background was quickly consumed by bitterness and resent when he found himself in a world so different from what he had known. Now, perhaps he is desperately reaching out to recover his self-respect and not remain a consenting part of the reality he has found so unsettling. Sometimes, when one strives to regain a part of himself, lost for whatever reason, he doesn't have the luxury to select the method and must accept what he can attain.

Randall is uncertain as to how all this has effected him. When he gets back to the States and his career, will what he has learned about human nature escape him, and will his only motivation be his own success, as it had been before? Will he look on this experience as one that justifies what life might well have made of him or will he remember the good he has seen in those like Garnett Sain, whose confidence and encouragement was all Lieutenant Hardin had needed to find his true self?

Hardin kneels beside Dorsey and says, "Give us about 20 minutes and start laying down intermittent rifle and M79 fire along the front of that area to the right of the village. If we can keep their attention on you, we should be able to get in close enough to direct mortar fire."

Randall and the others watch the platoon as it moves out along the tree line before Hardin turns to them and says, "We're gonna go back to the bottom of that bank and follow the path. My guess is it isn't booby-trapped, and it'll lead us directly to where they are."

George drops his field pack, straps on the AN/PRC-25, and the 4 of them begin descending into the dark and threatening shadows of the jungle. Feeling their down the bank, they pass the 2 VC Randall has just killed and move onto the path where they assume a single file, remaining about 5 yards apart and prudently probe in the direction the VC was last seen. That same throbbing fear is in Randall's throat, but there is also a certain level of motivating  anticipation, no doubt prompted by the confidence he has developed in Sain and Hardin. The fern-like leaves brush against his face, and the air seems cooler and cooler, the deeper they move into the jungle shadows.

Hardin stops and signals everyone to kneel. All along the path ahead are empty ammunition boxes bearing some oriental marking. Just then, the platoon begins firing and they all flinch, jerking away from the sounds of the rifle fire. They all look at one another an manage a brief snicker. George looks at Randall with that expression he has not shown since almost his first day in Vietnam, and Randall knows exactly what he is feeling. Some of that idealism is finding its way into their senses and perhaps this may well be the day each of them has made some resolution about his own life as, so long ago, many of those men along Euclid Avenue must have made under similar circumstances.

The platoon is firing rifle bursts about 20 seconds in length, followed by several M79 grenade launches. During each period of fire, the 4 men walk briskly along the jungle path; and each time the firing stops, Hardin pauses, listens and continues creeping forward, ever so slowly. The lieutenant stops, turns to the others and holds his finger to his lips. The platoon continues to launch grenades, which are striking some distance to the left. Oriental voices are up ahead, and the group continues down the path towards them. The outlines of the huts in the village become visible about 75 yards in front. Hardin stops again and points to what looks like a rifle squad of VC, running from the village into a rice paddy directly behind it, but loses sight of them as they move into the heavy foliage. 

As they make their way to higher ground, vines cling to Randall's neck, and with each heartbeat, his sun-parched skin slashes his raw nerves with stabbing pain. They're approaching the top of the bank and can see the village as well as the rice paddy surrounding it. The platoon continues to lay down fire, and judging from the sound of the M79 explosions, the 4 men are some 200 yards behind the enemy positions. 

They all drop and begin crawling the last few yards to the top of the bank. Hardin begins scanning the area with his binoculars and immediately whispers, "Son of a bitch! Sain was right. They've got RPD machine gun positions and Type 63 mortars everywhere!"

Randall edges forward and looks down the primitive dirt road that goes through and circles around behind the village. At one end of the rice paddy and at the edge of the jungle, the VC has dug out at least a dozen mortar emplacements in the soft earth, well camouflaged and completely out of sight from the road where the battalion is approaching. 

Randall, George and Bryant stare at one another and then at Hardin whose face is seized with a statement of urgency. He pulls a small map from his fatigue pocket and hurriedly begins orienting it to the terrain. He starts to whisper to himself, reminding Randall of a small child at play, imagining himself in some sort of critical situation, but now, he no longer views someone who is trying to do his best, regardless of the circumstances, as a symptom of foolishness and ignorance but recognizes such an effort for what it most surely is - the purest form of virtue.

Without being told, George crawls to Hardin's side and lays the radio between them. All the while, Hardin is mumbling to himself, "Those contour lines here....That must be where we are now." He turns to map sideways, and for a few moments his eyes frantically alternate between the crumbled map and the enemy positions. A reassuring smile comes over him as he begins rapidly nodding his head and murmuring, "Where the contour lines are widely spaced here, that's got to be the rice paddy." He glances towards the back of the village, runs his finger across the map, quickly turns to George and seizes the radio, waiting for the platoon to fire the next volley to conceal his voice. All communications formality is dispelled as be begins speaking with Sain, using an idiom not to be found in any fire support manual. "Captain, you know those places we marked on our maps? They've got machine gun and mortar positions all along where we marked 1 and 3 on a lateral line about 100 yards in each place."

Randall's fear is momentarily displaced with a degree of amusement. During the entire transmission, neither of the 2 officers  mentions a map coordinate or a target list, yet each of them seems to possess a consummate understanding of what the other is saying. 

Looking down on the VC positions, Randall notices a sudden fevered activity. He turns to Bryant and asks, "What in the hell are those fuckers doing down there?"

"I think they're monitoring our radio frequency," he responds with little emotion. "They must have North Vietnamese advisors who speak English. Look at the squint-eyed son of a bitches running for them holes in the ground."

With Hardin's unconventional firing instructions, the first firing pattern of 3 mortar rounds begin exploding fairly close to both the machine gun and mortar emplacements, and Hardin is immediately transmitting firing corrections with gratifying excitement. "Point 1, short 75, left 50. Point 3, on line, short 40."

Apparently, Sain and Hardin had estimated the distances from the position of the company to several points they had plotted on their maps at some time before the 2 groups separated; and in less than 2 minutes, 3 additional rounds fall squarely on the target. An expression of elation comes over Hardin, and he jubilantly raises the transmitter and says, "Fire for effect!"

The 4 men have a panoramic view of the full chaos that erupts among the enemy. Mortar rounds are raining down with explicit accuracy on both the RPD positions and mortar emplacements. The VC leaders are madly running about, trying to regain control of their units, but some of the gunners and mortarmen have abandoned their positions and are running deeper into the jungle. Other seemed dazed by the development Sain and Hardin have made them the victims of their own ambush site and are laying flat on the ground with their heads buried under their arms. Machine gunners are running across the rice paddy with their weapons flopping up and down across their shoulders with every panic-stricken step they take. Fifteen or 20 bodies lay throughout the mortar emplacements, and on this occasion, the VC is not observing its ritual of removing their bodies from the battle field.

Dorsey is on the radio with Hardin, requesting instructions, but the lieutenant says, "Hold your position. Let the bastards go. It ain't worth it." He waits until he is sure the enemy has completely abandoned the would-be ambush site, and once again, all is quiet. Women and children are beginning to stir in the village. The lieutenant is looking at the enemy bodies strewn around the village and with an unusual sarcasm, says, "Damn. Now they've got me doing it. I'm counting bodies." He exhales, shakes his head, looks up at Bryant and says, "Let's get back and leave the counting to the thinkers."

The 4 men ease down the bank and out onto the jungle path, but suddenly, Hardin stops dead in his tracks, releases the safety on his weapon and says, "We can't be sure how far this path goes. It's got to lead some damn where. That might not have been all the gooks back there in the village. Sain told me he thought there was a large force somewhere in this area. Remember those ration containers we saw up there? Stay about 10 yards apart and keep alert."

Randall tries to access his feeling as they begin moving back towards the platoon. It could even be depicted as fulfilling. Certainly, it is so completely different from how he felt in seeing the scores of South Vietnamese casualties being evacuated from across the Laotian border. Perhaps it's more a sensation of vengeance, because he feels no sorrow at all for the fallen enemy and only wishes more of them had been killed. Still, there are those torturous thoughts that would vindicate near any action taken against the enemy. How many thousands upon thousands of American have been killed in this war no one was willing to win? How many of their loved ones will mourn them for the rest of their lives, tragically without the gratitude extended the fallen from the past. How many wounded Americans have had their meaningful lives confiscated, and all for what? This damn war is no closer to ending that the first day it started. His feeling of vengeance is short-lived and quickly superceded by resent and possibly even a well-directed hate for the very visible but decided minority of unwashed, drug-stained freaks whose protests have contributed to everything he now finds so detestable. 

Ab