The last of the helicopters was now gone. The white bowl was a carnival of noise. Booming explosions rattled Andre’s insides and scraped at his nerves. But there were no soldiers to be seen anywhere. And no bullets reached out for him there. It was almost peaceful.
Andre struggled to his feet and headed for the violence.
Chapter Nineteen
Andre ran bent over at the waist. He reached the edge of the lake and knelt behind a tree. He flicked the M-16’s selector to ‘Burst’ — three rounds fired per squeeze of the trigger. He then began his ascent of the slope. The pack was heavy. The snow deep. His thighs burned. He gave up trying to weave through the trees. He just tried to make it to the crest of the ridge.
A hiss cut through the branches high above. Andre looked up and got snow in his eyes. Stray bullets from over the hill. He wiped the snow away with his gloves. They felt like sandpaper across his face.
Half way up he heard voices. English! He turned on a dime and headed toward the source. He smashed through a low branch laden with snow.
The night exploded in flame.
Andre collapsed in the snow. Bullets flew by like the tail of a whip. They pounded into the pack on his back. His eyes were jammed shut. He waited for death to strike home.
The storm ended. The magazine was empty.
Andre raised his head and screamed, ‘American so-о-oldier!’ He dropped back into the snow. His heart pounded. He waited for the killing fire.
‘Come out so I can see you!’ came a shout… close by.
Andre gathered his strength, stood up slowly, and waited.
The man lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘We’re over here!’
Andre joined two men lying at the base of a tree. One clutched a still-smoking rifle. The other clutched his hands to his bloody stomach.
‘Jesus, man!’ the armed man said. ‘I almost shot yer ass!’
‘Fuckin’ A!’ Andre snapped. ‘Jee-sus!’ He felt like vomiting. ‘You don’t come runnin’ up on somebody like that! Christ!’ A half-dozen explosions burst over the hill. ‘Where’s 2nd Squad?’ Andre asked.
‘Which 2nd Squad?’
‘First Platoon.’
‘Which First Platoon?’ the guy asked. ‘What fuckin’ company are you in?’ The man clearly had no idea where Andre’s company was. ‘Fuck it, man. It don’t matter. The fightin’s up there.’ He pointed toward the crest. The treetops along the ridge lit up over and over again with flashes. A continuous roar punctuated by huge blasts from the artillery shells.
Andre looked back at the two men. ‘What’re you doin’?’ he asked — still pissed ‘I’m fuckin’ wounded, man!’ He pointed down at his calf. It was wrapped in a small bandage. ‘Plus, I can’t leave the lieutenant.’
An officer — wounded! ‘Is he gonna be okay?* Andre asked.
‘How the hell should I know?’ the guy spat out. It sounded like the reply to an accusation. ‘I tried to find a medic, okay? I ain’t seen one!’ The man lowered his voice. ‘He’s gutshot.’
‘He needs help,’ Andre said.
‘I know he needs help! Didn’t I tell you I looked for a medic? Didn’t I already say that?’
Andre wanted nothing to do with the shithead. ‘If I see a medic,’ he mumbled, I’ll send him back.’
‘Here!’ the guy said. He handed Andre a canvas sack. ‘They sent me back for these grenades.’
Andre slung the bag over his shoulder. His legs felt like jelly when he rose. He barely made it to the top of the ridge. The sound was much louder. He dropped to a crawl and peered over the top. He saw everything, and nothing. Muzzles spat flame in a saddle between two hills. Artillery burst every few seconds — lighting the area. Andre saw contours in the land. Trees and gaps that could be ponds or streams. But he couldn’t tell which weapons were whose.
He needed to be with other soldiers, even if it meant fighting. He was terrified he’d be left there — lost and alone. He girded himself and rose. He almost fell several times. Each step down the hill was a controlled slide. His boots had to sink to brake his rapid descent
By the time the ground flattened out, Andre was physically spent. He sank to the ground and sucked in gulps of dry air. His lungs ached. His legs were on fire. He lifted his head long enough to realize that he was inside the battle now. The ‘crack’ of each rifle and the ‘booms’ of machine-guns seemed to echo like car horns in a tunnel. The canopy of evergreens formed a ceiling to a world filled with noise and danger and death.
Andre rose and pressed on — ever closer to the thunderous battles. He was stooped so low that he stood barely half his height. He kept his M-16 at the ready — his safety was off. They could be anywhere.
An unnatural chill crawled from his stomach up his arms and across his chest. It felt like the onset of the flu, but it was fear. Palpable, tangible fear. It was taking control of his body. Its progress was measured in body parts seized by the quiver.
Andre almost made the same mistake twice. During a momentary lull in the fighting, he heard the raspy static of a radio. He headed for the sound, but caught himself and dropped to the snow. He listened as bits and pieces of a garbled answer came back over a radio. It was in English.
Andre drew a deep breath and shouted, ‘American soldier! American soldier!’
‘Where?’ he heard.
‘Over here! Don’t shoot, okay?’
‘Okay! Keep it slow!’
Andre rose in slow motion and walked forward slowly. A bullet smacked into the trunk. Andre winced and ducked. He practically stepped on the man. He immediately dropped into the snow beside him. He was physically and emotionally exhausted.
‘Private First Class Faulk,’ Andre said — reporting for duty.
‘Dundrey, PFC! Glad to see ya.’
‘Where’s 2nd Squad, First Platoon, Charlie Company?’ Andre asked.
The guy laughed. ‘How the fuck should I know? This is Alpha Company, Third Platoon. You’d best check in with the LT. He’s up there.’
The man pointed into the furnace of muzzle blasts and hand grenades. When the radio-telephone operator answered a call over the radio, Andre began to crawl forward. The RTO grabbed Andre’s leg. ‘Roger that, India Tango. Out.’ He looked up at Andre. ‘Tell the LT there’s a flight of fighter-bombers comin’ in any time now. The forward air controller says heads down, pass it along.’
Andre nodded, then headed on. Now he had a job — a mission. He had a purpose in this otherwise insane and seemingly suicidal advance toward the front.
The noise of guns and hand grenades in the valley and artillery shells bursting on the opposite ridge was deafening. Andre’s ears rang. Every so often the air-splitting sound of bullets pressed him face down in the snow. He didn’t notice the stinging cold now. He was too obsessed by the flash bulbs of muzzle blasts that popped from the darkness ahead.
It occurred to him for the first time that he could shoot back. He even paused and took aim at where he’d last seen a muzzle flash. But something held him back. Maybe it wasn’t a Chinese soldier. Maybe it was an American. He crawled on.
‘Hey!’ somebody yelled from behind him. ‘Where the hell you goin’?’
‘What?’