If Donny’d had the grease gun he might have gotten all twelve in a single burst. But probably not; that was very tricky shooting. If he had a Claymore set up, he might have gotten them too. But he didn’t. He had nothing but his M14.
He watched them go and they pounded along with grace, economy and authority. They disappeared into the fog.
I have my orders, he thought.
My job is the air, he thought.
Then he thought, Fuck it! and got up to take them from behind.
They came as he thought they would, good, trained men, willing to take casualties, a platoon strength unit fanning through the high grass. Bob could make them out in the mist, dark shapes filing through the weaving fronds; he thought of a deer he’d once seen in a foggy cornfield back in Arkansas, and Old Sam Vincent, who’d tried to be a father to him after his own had passed, telling him to fight the buck fever, to be calm, to be cool.
He heard Sam now.
“Be cool, boy. Don’t rush it. You rush it, it’s over and you can’t never get it back.”
And so he was calm, he was death, he was the kind hunter who shot for clean kills and no blood trails, who was a part of nature himself.
But he wasn’t.
He was war, at its cruelest.
He had never had this feeling before. It scared him, but it excited him also.
I am war, he thought. I take them all. I make their mothers cry. I have no mercy. I am war.
It was an odd thought, just fluttering through a mind far gone into battle intensity, but it could not be denied.
The platoon leader will be to the left, not in the lead, he’ll be talking to his men, holding them together.
He hunted for a talking man and when he found him, he shot him through the mouth and ceased his talking forever.
I am war, he thought.
He shifted quickly to the man who’d run to the fallen officer and almost took him, but instead held a second, and waited for another to join him, grab him, take command, and turn himself to issue orders. Senior NCO.
I am war.
He took the NCO.
The men looked at each other, dead targets in his eyes, and in a moment of utter panic did exactly the right thing.
They charged at him.
He couldn’t possibly take them all or even half of them; he couldn’t escape or evade. There was only one thing to do.
He stood, war-crazed, face green-black with paint, eyes bulged in rage, and screamed, “Come on you fuckers, I want to fight some more! Come on and fight me!”
They saw him standing atop the rise, and almost en masse pivoted toward him. They froze, confronting him, a mad scarecrow with a dangerous rifle atop a hill of grass, unafraid of them. For some insane reason, they did not think to fire.
The moment lingered, all craziness loose in the air, a moment of exquisite insanity.
Then they ran at him.
He dropped and slithered the one way they would not expect.
Right at them.
He slithered ahead desperately, snaking through the grass, until they began to fire.
They paused a few feet from him, fired their weapons from the hip as if in some terrified human ceremony aimed at slaying the devil. The rounds scorched out, ripping the stalks above his head to land somewhere behind. It was a ritual of destruction. They fired and fired, reloading new mags, sending their bullets out to kill him, literally obliterating the crest of the hill.
He crawled ahead, until he could see feet and spent brass landing in heaps.
The firing stopped.
He heard in Vietnamese the shouts:
“Brothers, the American is dead. Go find his body, comrades.”
“You go find his body.”
“He is dead, I tell you. No man could live through that. If he were alive, he would be firing at us even now.”
“Fine, go and cut his head off and bring it to us.”
“Father Ho wants me to stay here. Somebody must direct.”
“I’ll stay, brother. Allow me to give you the privilege of examining the body.”
“You fools, we’ll all go. Reload, make ready, shoot at anything that moves. Kill the American demon.”
“Kill the demon, my brothers!”
He watched as the feet began to move toward him.
Get small, he told himself. Be very, very small!
He went into a fetal position, willing himself into a stillness so total it was almost a replication of genuine animal death. It was a gift he had, the hunter’s gift, to make his body of the earth, not upon it. He worried only about the smell of his sweat, rich with American fats, that could alert the wisest of them.
Feet came so close.
He saw canvas boots, and a pair of shower clogs.
They won this fucking war in shower clogs!
The two pairs of feet sloughed through the grass, each vivid in the perfection of its detail. The man in shower clogs had small, dirty, tough feet. The clogs were probably just an afterthought; he could fight barefoot in snow or on gravel. The other’s boots were holey, torn, taped together, a hobo’s comic footwear, something Red Skelton’s Clem Kadiddlehopper might wear. But then the boots marched on, passing by, and Bob scooted ahead, slithering through the grass until he came to a fold in the earth. He rose, checked around, and saw nothing in the mist, and then raced off to the right, down the fold, toward the column, which had probably resumed its movement toward Arizona.
Then he crashed into the soldier.
NVA.
The two looked at each other for one stupid moment, Bob and this obvious straggler, the idiot who’d wandered away. The man’s mouth opened as if to scream even as he fumbled to bring his AK to bear, but Bob launched at him in an animal spring of pure evil brutality, smashing him in the mouth with his skull, and driving downward on him, pinning the assault rifle to his chest under his own dense weight. He got his left hand about the man’s throat, crushing it, applying the full pinning weight of his body while at the same time reaching for his Randall knife.
The man squirmed and bucked spastically, his own hands beating at Bob’s neck and head. Then one hand dipped, also for a knife, presumably, but Bob rolled slightly to the left and drew his knee up and drove it into the man’s testicles with all the force he could muster. He heard the intake of breath as the concussion folded his enemy.
Then he had the knife, and no impulse halted him. He drove it forward into the belly, turned it sideways so the cutting edge sliced into entrails, and drew it to the left. The man spasmed, fighting the pain, his hand flying to Bob’s wrist, gagging sounds leaking from a constricted throat. Bob yanked the knife out and stabbed upward, feeling the blade sink into throat. He fought for leverage over the dying soldier, got himself upright and astride the heaving chest and drove the blade two or three more times into the torso, the man arching with each stroke.
He sat back. He looked about, saw the Remington a few feet away. He wiped the Randall blade on his camouflaged trousers, and slipped it back into the upside-down sheath on his chest. He checked quickly: two pistols, a canteen. He picked up the Remington but had no time to look for his hat, which had fallen off in the struggle. A lick of salty blood ran down from the point on his crown where he’d head-butted the North Vietnamese, and it arrived at the corner of his mouth, shocking him. He turned, looked at the man.
Why had it been so easy? Why was the man so weak?
The answer was obvious: the soldier was about fourteen. He’d never shaved in his life. In death, his face was dirty, but essentially undisturbed. His eyes were open and bright but blank. His teeth were white. He had acne.
Bob looked at the bloody package that had been a boy. A feeling of revulsion came over him. He bent, retched up a few gobs of undigested C-rat, gathered his breath, wiped the blood off his hands, and turned back to the path that lay ahead of him, which led to the column.