“Fix bayonets,” Zachary said calmly into the company radio.
Some did, most already had.
The two lines of soldiers merged, one indistinguishable from the other. Zachary saw Slick’s eyes grow wide with fear as he fumbled with his bayonet.
Too late. A small Japanese soldier drove the butt of his weapon into Slick’s helmet, knocking him back. Zachary took his pistol and fired it almost point-blank at the man’s face, leaving a mangled mass in its path, like a plate of spaghetti.
Zachary stuffed the pistol in his belt and lifted his M4, firing it at the many targets. The scene reminded him of a Civil War painting he’d seen at Gettysburg, the Union and Confederate lines locked together in combat, brother against brother.
These were no brothers, though. He knew about brothers. The thought sent a hot, violent rage surging through his body.
He stood, let out a low, guttural moan, then screamed wildly and waded into the fray, flailing his weapon back and forth, stabbing some with the bayonet, shooting others who were far enough away. Small Japanese men, clad in dark olive uniforms, mouths contorted, were screaming words foreign to Zachary. As he parried bayonet thrusts, he had a sense that he was one of seven — a man named Stanard who had fought so valiantly in a little battle near the Blue Ridge called New Market nearly 140 years ago. Stanard and his six VMI classmates had died as cadets, battling the Union invasion of their beloved Virginia countryside, and the Blue Ridge folks had named a small town after him.
He felt close to Stanard as a knife pierced his left shoulder from behind. He turned and saw the blackened face of a Japanese officer as the knife made a cracking sound cutting through his clavicle.
Zachary pulled the pistol from his holster with his right hand, dropping the empty M4, and bored a hole through his attacker’s neck, bright red blood spraying in all directions.
He pulled the knife from his shoulder in time to thrust it into another enemy soldier coming at him with a bayonet. The forward momentum of the small man knocked Zachary onto his back as he slid fifteen feet through the mud, coming to rest at the feet of two men fighting.
He saw Kurtz wildly swinging his rifle, crushing a man’s temple. Zachary stood and wheeled around as he pointed his pistol in Slick’s face, pulling the trigger, but moving the barrel to the side just in time.
Slick grabbed the commander and pulled him from the mêlée.
The sound of gunfire and screaming men filled the air. It was a horrible noise, the decibels of death, rising into the fresh, cool morning.
“Sir, Captain McAllister’s coming up the hill now. He just called on the radio!” Slick said, not sure why he thought it was important for the commander to know. More than anything, he wanted to protect the man he had grown to know and respect. They had developed a bond, a bond that vanished as soon as Zachary watched the bullet strike Slick in the gut, just beneath the outer tactical vest, causing blood to pump like a stuck water fountain.
“Medic!” Zachary screamed, realizing he would get no help. He pulled Slick’s first-aid dressing, ripped open his uniform, and placed it on the wound, but blood was everywhere.
“Kill those bastards, sir,” Slick said as he died, his hand holding the black handset that had practically become an appendage.
Bastards!
The circle of death, once again, tightened its noose around Zachary.
A bullet struck him in the back of his right shoulder, balancing the throbbing pain from the knife wound and knocking him onto the ground. He stared skyward, his mind fuzzy, and would have sworn he saw buzzards circling the sky.
Big black birds, hovering, and turning, arching high and low, their beaks closed tight, waiting for the kill. Some moving fast, others just circling, while even more just hovered above the trees and began to fire at the Japanese tanks.
Suddenly, AH-64 Apache helicopters and Air Force A-10s began swooping along the strung-out column and pumping 30mm depleted uranium sabot bullets into the backs of the enemy infantry climbing the ridge in order to complete the destruction of B Company.
Then he saw McAllister’s men rise from the stream that bordered Fort Magsaysay and converge on the left-flank infantry battalion that had by then dismounted. Only three hundred meters away, he saw McAllister leading the charge with an M4, bayonet fixed, his head turned, screaming something over his shoulder, and pulling his arm forward with his palm open. He saw his lips form the words, “Follow me,” as his troops came screaming from the riverbed and tangled with the Japanese infantry.
The Apaches and A-10s raked the Japanese column with relative impunity, concerned only with ensuring that they didn’t shoot any of the American soldiers.
Zachary watched an A-10 swing low, spit its 30mm, and take a direct hit from a missile, knocking it sideways and forcing the airplane to tumble end over end through the enemy infantry.
At least he took a bunch with him.
Flaming tanks and infantry fighting vehicles burned a brilliant orange, emitting a black smoke that rose to the heavens — perhaps dusty souls escaping the dying.
Zachary stood and joined his company, still locked in hand-to-hand combat. He had lost his weapons and used his helmet to hold at bay a charging Japanese soldier, crushing the Kevlar into the man’s face. His attacker flipped backward in the mud, the man’s weapon firing errantly into the sky. Curiously, Zachary noticed that the downed man was no soldier; his attacker looked more like a civilian. Perhaps he was Japanese intelligence?
Zachary pulled his K-Bar from its sheath and drove it into the man’s neck until he felt it penetrate into the mud below. It hung on the civilian’s trachea as he pulled it out, forcing him to grab the neck and yank hard to retrieve his knife. The jagged edge of the knife caught Zachary’s hand on the way out, cutting deep into the bone of his thumb.
He felt the crushing impact of wood on his mouth as he caught a glimpse of an enemy pant leg move toward him. Teeth bounced loose into his throat, almost choking him.
He grabbed the man’s thrusting weapon, slicing open his hands on the bayonet, but somehow gripping the muddy stock tightly before the pointed object could enter his body. It didn’t matter, the infantryman pulled back on the weapon, leering at him from above, but Zachary held on firmly and rose as the man pulled the trigger.
Frozen in time, he saw the weapon emit a bright muzzle flash, and felt something hot burn its way through his abdomen. Another muzzle flash and he fell backward, reaching out with his knife, trying to stab at the foot of his attacker.
He could barely sense the feel of the wet, cold steel against the back of his head.
There was no time to remember the flashing images of Amanda or Matt or Riley or Karen or Slick or Rock or Teller or Father or Mother.
He heard a shot … and saw the quail drop and looked at his brother, Matt, and smiled. They both watched their dog Ranger bounce through the high weeds and cattails along the stream in search of the fallen game. They followed, bare-chested and laughing in the cool mountain air, each looking at the other, Matt’s crooked smile prominent. Thorny vines scraped at their tattered dungarees as they reached a high rock outcropping, which rose sixty feet above a deep pool in the South River. Turning their heads slowly, they looked back at the towering Blue Ridge, waved at each other, and leapt over the brink.
Chapter 98
The hot sun boiled onto Mike Kurtz’s face as he lifted his head and saw shimmering waves of heat rising above the soggy ground like charmed cobras.
Through the ripples in the air, he noticed hundreds of bodies lying motionless, some wearing Army combat uniforms, many others clad in dark olive uniforms. Armored vehicles still burned brightly, the heat intensified by the searing sun.