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Fiction. © Copyright 1999, Jim Loy
Lt. Anderson stepped carefully through the vegetation. He looked where he stepped. He looked into the jungle that surrounded him. And he listened. Ahead, he saw PFC Weathers, who was walking point. There were other men behind him, all good men. He heard a bird calling in the distance. Then the hair on his neck seemed to stand on end. Something was wrong. He stopped in his tracks. The other men stopped. Had he heard something? He didn't know. Something was wrong. PFC Weathers looked back, and he shrugged his shoulders.
Then, all hell broke loose.
Lt. Anderson felt a strange detachment from the battle raging around him. He felt the ground shake. He heard bullets buzzing. He heard explosions. Bullets struck trees. There were shouts. There was a lot of noise. Lt. Anderson could hear AK-47s. He didn't know where they were. He heard M-16s. Apparently, his men were returning fire. He crawled to PFC Weathers. He was alive, and lying on his back. He looked scared. There was a hole that looked like a wound, in the chest portion of his flak jacket. Lt. Anderson felt inside the flak jacket. He had to shout to be heard over the noise of the fire fight. He shouted, "The bullet didn't go through the flak jacket. Are you hit anywhere else?"
Weathers shook his head. They crawled rapidly to the other men. These men were firing into the jungle, in two directions. Then all hell broke loose again, Cobra gun ships. Somebody had radioed for support. Lt. Anderson and his men retreated (calmly, considering the circumstances) to a clearing where Hueys were landing. He found that PVT Marsh was dead, and PFC Wills had been hit in the hand. This would be Wills' third Purple Heart; three AK-47 bullets had struck Will's in various parts of his body in recent months, and he still showed little sign of injury. Anderson shook his head. He loaded Weathers onto a chopper. Then he led his men back into the jungle.
They came upon several dead NVA soldiers, and pieces of NVA soldiers, and scattered tree limbs. They had been blasted by rockets from the gun ships. On a log sat a man who seemed out of place. "Don't shoot, I'm an American." He was not armed.
Lt. Anderson asked, "Who the hell are you? What the hell you doing here?" He kept his rifle pointed at this "American." Lt. Anderson's men examined the bodies, and they searched for more bodies and clues in the vicinity.
"Bill Twain, Cleveland, Ohio, journalist." He held up a notebook and a pencil.
"A journalist? You were with these Gooks?" He motioned to one of the NVA bodies.
"Yeah... That's my assignment."
"Your assignment was to find out what it's like to be a traitor, I suppose?"
"Hey! I'm a loyal American. I just go where the news is."
"You didn't feel like warning us about that ambush, did you?"
"I don't get involved. I just report the news. I'm just a reporter. Besides, I promised them that I wouldn't interfere. They wouldn't have let me cover this story if I hadn't promised."
"One of my men was killed in that ambush. Two or three were wounded."
"I'm sorry about that. But it wasn't my fault."
You're lucky I don't shoot you."
"You wouldn't dare. Witnesses."
"A smart man does not say 'You wouldn't dare' to a man with a rifle. Those witnesses just might take turns shooting you." He shook his head in disgust. He said to his men, "Let's move out." To Bill Twain, he added, "We're following your former comrades."
Lt. Anderson whispered, "Could you be a little more quiet? Your NVA friends are nearby."
Bill Twain, journalist, said (a little too loud), "They aren't my friends. They're..." He didn't finish, as Lt. Anderson pulled him down by his neck, and held a knife to his throat.
"Shut up, or you're a dead man. You were quiet when you were with them."
PFC Parker whispered, "He's going to get us all killed, Sir."
Lt. Anderson whispered, "Yeah." He thought for a while. Then he said to his men, "Spread out. Set up an ambush. Maybe we can get them to come rescue their journalist." He continued to hold his knife to Bill Twain's throat. He whispered, "I'll let you make all the noise you want in a minute." He put his knife away, and switched off the safety of his M-16. He waited a few more seconds as he looked around, and then fired a bullet through Bill Twain's foot. Then he disappeared into the bushes.
Bill Twain yelped, "Jesus!" He followed this with incoherent yelps, screams and grunts, as he rolled around in the grass. He was swearing again when he noticed that he was no longer alone. An NVA soldier was crouching, and aiming his AK-47 right at the journalist. There were two other wary NVA's, a little farther away, covering him. Bill Twain saw that he was about to be shot by the NVA soldier, when a blast of automatic weapon fire began. The three NVA's fell dead. There were other NVA being attacked nearby. The fire fight lasted less than a minute.
During the fight, a bullet left an AK-47, and flew all the way through Bill Twain's chest. He died without even knowing that he had been shot.
Lt. Anderson scattered the pages of Bill Twain's notebooks.
Author's note: This story is meant to be thought provoking. I do not advocate violence. I actually do not agree with the Lieutenant's actions. But, I can empathize. I would be upset in his situation. But, I don't think I would shoot the journalist in the foot, or use him as bait in the trap that led to his death. Can you empathize with the Lieutenant?