Andre dropped them one at a time. Slowly. Aim. Squeeze. Crack! He concentrated on his breathing as he lined up his targets. Crack! The rifle pounded against his shoulder. The rounds it unleashed struck home. Slow ’n steady, he told himself as the double-stack in his magazine dwindled toward empty.
But he wasn’t able to keep it slow. Despite the devastating fire from three sides the number of Chinese grew. Andre fired, and fired, and fired. His attempt to count ammo gave way to surprise as the trigger froze.
Andre dropped the empty magazine and slapped a new one home. He forced himself to concentrate as the woods remained alive with…
Spitting sounds like a striking serpent flew by Andre’s face. The attackers were dodging and weaving. He raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired. His finger pulled as fast as it could. The return fire grew thicker still. Once again he was surprised when the trigger wouldn’t pull.
‘Shit!’ Andre cursed. He was down to his last magazine. Eleven rounds! the alarm sounded in his head. Shit! Shit-shit-shit-shit!
He again raised his M-16. He was reluctant to fire despite the multitude of targets. Only the straight-on approach of three running soldiers — each spewing great volumes of fire — convinced Andre to part with a few precious rounds. Each shot felled a man. When another attacker leapt from the ground unexpectedly, however, Andre hurried and missed his fourth shot. He killed the charging man with his fifth. Chinese wove through the trees ahead. They were framed by bursts large and small.
Five rounds left! Andre thought in near-panic.
It was frustrating not to fire at easy targets. But it was also kind of a relief. If he didn’t fire the Chinese couldn’t see him. If they didn’t see him they wouldn’t shoot back. Andre was safe at least in relative terms. But it also bred a sense of detachment. The view of an observer instead of a participant.
The guy on Andre’s left pasted his M-16 flat to his cheek. Spent cartridges were methodically ejected. The same sight greeted Andre’s check to his right.
Only Andre lay there useless and inactive. And at the critical moment of a pivotal fight for his life. He thought about rushing forward and grabbing an AK. He’d never do such a thing, but he felt compelled to consider the suicidal act. He craned his neck to see if any squadmates had been hit. He could render aid if someone was wounded, or scavenge ammo if the guy was dead.
But everyone appeared engaged in the fight Everyone, that is, but him.
He remembered his two hand grenades. Of course! he thought with relief. He pulled the two grenades from his webbing. Swallowing hard he grimaced and pulled the first ring. He had to twist the bent pin to get it out. Holding the handle firmly pressed in his right hand, he rehearsed the throwing motions in his head. When he was ready, he rose up onto his right knee, jutted his left boot to the front and raised the grenade to his chin. Pointing his left hand toward the Chinese he hurled. The three-pound frag spun in a tight spiral like a football. He distinctly heard the handle clang off.
He dropped to press his face flat to the ground. The short fuse burned down the center of the grenade.
There was a hard thump through the ground, then a boom and a flash. The air all around Andre was alive with streaking rounds. They’d seen him rise up and toss the grenade. After a short while of lying low, the fire died down. He grabbed the second grenade and repeated the process.
When he raised up he saw two enemy soldiers. They darted in a crouch from tree to tree not fifteen meters away from where Andre lay. Andre slung the grenade straight at the two men. The smoking trail spiraled through air until sparks flew.
The grenade rebounded back off a tree.
He was sitting up. His skin was clammy and cold.
‘You hear me now?’ someone was asking.
He smelled strong fumes and felt a sting in his nostrils. He slammed his head back into the tree behind him.
Pain shot through Andre’s skull. He leaned over to the side and vomited.
‘Jesus Christ!’ the man said in disgust and stood up. He tossed the stick of smelling salts to the ground beside Andre. Andre was exhausted. He lay on his side. His head on the ground. His head felt like it was split open at the nose. He was sweating profusely. He couldn’t find the strength to do the simplest of things. He took no interest in anything.
A small penlight lit his face then quickly shut off.
‘Is he sick?’ Andre heard his platoon leader ask.
‘No, sir. I don’t think so. Mild concussion, maybe.’
The lieutenant squatted beside Andre. ‘You okay, Private Faulk?’
‘Yessir,’ Andre mumbled weakly.
The platoon leader rose. His boots were next to Andre’s head.
‘What’s the count?’
‘Two dead — both in third squad. Five wounded — two bad.’
‘Fuck!’ the lieutenant replied quietly. Andre listened with his eyes closed. His head hurt so bad he couldn’t open them. The radio crackled. The platoon leader answered. A map rattled in the air above Andre. When the LT signed off, he said, ‘We’re headin’ back, Sarg’ Davis.’ Andre knew they must mean to the rear. Away from the savage fighting. Just a few hundred meters back where you could sleep. Andre opened his eyes. He couldn’t see the men’s faces. Just two sets of dirty white trousers.
‘We need some time, sir!’ the platoon sergeant whispered. ‘We got some people that’s shook up!’
‘I know that, Goddammit! What the hell’m I s’posed to do? Tell the CO no? We’re movin’ out. The whole comp’ny. Get ’em up.’ The lieutenant took off in anger. With a rustle of fabric the platoon sergeant reached down. Andre felt a firm grip on his upper arm. ‘Let’s go, Faulk.’ He pulled. Andre at first was confused. He then found himself sliding up the tree. With a yank that almost separated his shoulder, he was on his feet. ‘Let’s get you back to yer squad.’
‘But…’
But what?’ the man snapped.
Andre licked his dry lips. ‘I don’t have any ammo.’
The platoon sergeant was older. Maybe twenty-six. ‘We’ll get you an AK. We got stacks and stacks of ’em.’
The joint chiefs all wore their uniforms. Gordon Davis had on slacks and a shirt with an open collar. Maps stood on easels amid two fireplaces and dark wood paneling. ‘We’re having some real problems with civilian unrest in Jixian and Nancha,’ General Dekker reported. He indicated two Chinese cities on the map just south of the border. ‘Civil order has broken down completely.’
‘Has there been bloodshed?’ Gordon asked.
‘Yes, sir. But not shed by us. People have been ransacking local Communist Party and security ministry offices. We haven’t disarmed the constabulary forces, and there have been numerous shootings. So far, we’ve avoided direct engagement. But the situation is deteriorating.’
Gordon felt a rush of anxiety. ‘How about the military situation?’
Dekker glanced at the other chiefs before answering. The disorder must be a serious concern, Gordon thought. ‘The Chinese are making contact with our flanks. No hard jabs. They’re just probing till we stiffen. Since they don’t have any aerial reconnaissance to speak of, they’re probably trying to determine where we are and in what strength. The best way to do that is to press and see if you bump into anything hard.’