Harold would then doze until he heard, ‘All clear!’ Then he’d sleep some more until the squad leader kicked him. The hoarse man could barely croak out another word. He just shoved and kicked and hissed through teeth bared in unrelenting anger. With the help of his squadmates, Harold would then climb to his feet and shoulder the M-60. They would march on across the sloping landscape toward the next Chinese position. Footslogging up hills and down hills and back up — all the while in the total darkness of heavy forests. The farther they went the stiffer the resistance. The more frequent the ambushes. The more numerous the defenders.
The men in Harold’s squad had given up debating how fucked their duty was. Whether they’d rather hump their asses through the hills rolling up flanks, or march down the nice flat road into the teeth of the ambush. They’d grown too tired even to bitch. After nine hours of unrelenting combat, their minds were a total blank. Their glassy eyes sunk deep in their sockets. They’d given up caring about anything.
Harold walked straight into a tree. His helmet and face smashed into its trunk. He was stunned, but it woke him up. He jogged a few steps to catch up with the skirmish line. His entire skeleton now ached. Feet and knees and back and shoulders. He shook all over — not just in his legs — as if palsied. And the quaking came not from muscular fatigue. It came from complete, full-body exhaustion.
‘I can’t go any further,’ he mumbled — hoping someone would hear. But the shadowy figures on either side were insensate. They were zombies stumbling toward enemy guns.
This is insane! Harold raged silently. They’d been blundering forward for hours. No idea what lay ahead. Served up like human fodder. They just walked straight into the shit! Worst of all, however, was how quickly Harold’s anger faded. How resigned he’d become to death. How little he cared so long as the marching ended soon — one way or the other.
There was a challenge from up ahead shouted in Chinese. Harold sank to his knees and flopped onto his belly. Searing pain shot through his hip as guns on both sides opened fire. He’d either been shot or he’d landed on his ammo pouch. Harold couldn’t find the strength to release the heavy pack. He lay crushed under its weight, sighting down the machine-gun and grinding his teeth as the pain in his hip subsided. The gun rocked back against his shoulder repeatedly. The last round on the belt flicked through the chamber.
Harold cursed and reached for a new belt. He wasn’t angry that he had to reload. Or that he had a hundred-and-ten-pound pack on top of him. Or that bullets buzzed through the night past his face. Or that grenades went off in bunches all around. Instead, Harold cursed the bastards who drove them on. The unrelenting, merciless orders to advance. Once, when their legs had tired, they’d unintentionally angled their march downhill toward the road they were supposed to be screening. Some son-of-a-bitch first sergeant had then marched up the hill and shouted, ‘You’re all yellow, unfit cowards!’ at them. Fucker! Harold thought — incensed. He cursed his squad leader for the firm kicks with his boot. Cursed his platoon sergeant for all the shouts of ‘Up!’ Cursed the pathetic apologies of the pussy who’d commanded the platoon before he was killed in an ambush. Harold cursed everyone right up to General Clark. He would’ve shot the man — general or not — had he seen the fucker execute anyone in front of him.
He slapped the M-60’s cover down. The big gun was so hot he could feel it on his face. He shoved the bolt forward and lowered his cheek to the stock. Then he resumed his pounding of the sparkling muzzles. It was like blowing out trick candles at a kid’s birthday party. You’d puff real hard with your 60, and the flickering lights disappeared. But as soon as you moved on to a new target, the muzzle would flash on again. It pissed Harold off so much he’d swing the gun back. He’d fire a long burst. Ten or fifteen rounds aimed at a single point of light.
It almost always fell permanently dark.
The moment the ‘Cease fire!’ came, Harold laid his head down. He closed his eyes and felt a deep sleep coming. He let the narcotic need seize him. He drifted off in a matter of seconds. ‘Let’s go!’ came the command Harold hated most. He set his teeth and clenched his fist — ready to strike out if the bastard kicked him again. But the squad leader moved on down the hill and kicked the next guy instead.
Grunting and growling to shut out the pain, Harold rose to his feet with the pack on his back. The one thing he couldn’t do by himself, however, was lift the heavy weapon at his feet. He looked around at the milling men to ask for help.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked a chipper man Harold didn’t recognize.
‘I can’t lift the f-f fuckin’ gun!’ Stempel cursed, then wiped the string of spittle from his chin. The guy picked it up and helped sling it over his shoulder. Even in the darkness Harold could see the guy’s smiling face. ‘What’s your fuckin’ problem?’ Harold lashed out.
‘Me? I don’t have any problems, man! Not a problem in the world!’ The guy was as happy as he could be. He slapped Harold’s pack and then trotted off toward the Chinese.
‘Hey!’ Harold called out, thinking the man had gotten turned ’ around in the dark. He ignored Harold’s call and rushed into the unknown that lay beyond their skirmish line. Other men appeared out of the same dark woods. One approached Harold — grinning with eyes bright with tears. He wrapped his arms around Harold’s neck.
It was then that Harold realized what had happened. It all came home to him in a rush. Not just the fact they had finally reached the valley. That they had rescued their trapped comrades and won the battle. But as the sobbing man squeezed Harold’s neck tight, he realized what they had been fighting for all along.
The guy drew back. ‘Ma-a-an am I glad to see yer ass! I never thought I’d make it, buddy! You know, I thought I was a dead man, right up till a few minutes ago! They sent us here, then back to the southern line, then back here!’ He was laughing. ‘We were spread so thin we wouldn’t even have slowed the next Chinese push down, man!’
More smelly, grimy men crowded Harold. Some jostled him good-naturedly. Others shook hands or high-fived. They had made it! They were alive! They were saved!
‘Let’s go, Charlie Compan-y-y-y!’ came the booming voice of the company’s first sergeant.
For a moment Harold wondered, Go where? But they formed up and marched through slopes filled with dead Chinese. They passed through still more ecstatic defenders but didn’t stop. Every step they took, the sound of the fighting grew louder and louder. The trees overhead were clipped repeatedly by streaking bullets. Everywhere lay the signs of heavy fighting. Bloody bandages, hurriedly opened crates, smoking craters.
The sounds of fighting forced the men lower to the ground. Harold couldn’t believe they were headed right from the march into heavy battle. He wasn’t sleepy now. He could hardly feel his aching muscles. Like the cavalry but without horses they’d made it in time. Only at the end of the road lay more Chinese.
‘Drop yer packs!’ came the command. They moved forward with only their weapons. The storm of bullets grew thick. When they reached the forward-most defensive line, they filled the gaps and opened fire. The massed weapons of the defenders and the reinforcements slaughtered the attacking Chinese. Even as the killing continued, Harold’s neighbor crawled out of his hole. He shouted something that was drowned out by Harold’s machine-gun. ‘What?’ Harold asked the man.