“Be out of this camp by morning,” Hale finally said, speaking slowly and clearly, emphasizing each word. “Don’t come back without confirmation. You can raise me on your walkie-talkie.”
“Goddamn, Major,” Light said, “batteries go dead in a week. Heavy too. Threw the last one away.”
“I want to log in bodies! I want to see them on this pad!” Hale yelled.
“They’ll be here,” Light said.
“They better. Jackson, take him to the ammo bunker. Then pick up his mail at the TOC. Get him a walkie-talkie. Stay with him. See he leaves before sunrise. If he’s still here, you’re going out with him. Give me the radio.”
Hale walked off, puffs of red dust stirred by his boots, the radio slung over one shoulder. Soon the major would be in the TOC, protected by ten layers of packed sandbags from anything but a direct hit by a rocket.
Jackson began to gasp for air. Ever since childhood fear had produced this choking feeling, causing him to suck in great gulps of air. “Fish on the bank! Fish on the bank!” his friends at home in Alabama always chanted when they saw him do it.
“Calm down, young trooper,” Light said. “You got good duty here.”
But Jackson could not calm down. His eyes filled with tears at the strain of trying to breathe. With Light in camp the firebase was sure to take heavy incoming, and men were sure to die, those near Light in the most danger. That was why the men had mutinied at Firebase Mary Lou.
“I want to sleep,” Light said. “Where’s the bunker?”
Jackson did not reply. Then he felt Light’s hand on his arm.
“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” Light said. “Show me where I sleep.”
Jackson began to breathe easier.
“Over there,” said Jackson, pointing to the mound of sandbags.
Jackson left Light at the ammo bunker and went to the TOC, returning with two cots, a walkie-talkie, and Light’s letter. Light helped him take the cots down into the bunker. Stacked to the ceiling were cases of ammo and frags. There were also mortar shells, the willie peter stored upright to prevent the white phosphorous from settling to one side and causing the shell to pinwheel when it was fired. Once, CS riot-gas shells had been stored in the bunker, and the shells had leaked. Jackson’s eyes watered slightly from the faint trace of gas that was left.
“I’d be thankful if you’d read me my letter,” Light said, as they were unfolding the cots.
“I—” Jackson began.
Then it was happening again, the words refusing to come out. Jackson could hear nothing but the sound of air rushing into his lungs. He nodded his head.
“Just like the army,” Light said, smiling for the first time since Jackson had met him. “Give a radio to a man who’s too scared to talk.”
“I’m not scared,” Jackson said.
“Don’t worry, you won’t die today,” Light continued. “Won’t die tomorrow. You’re safe with me.”
“You don’t know that,” Jackson said.
“I know it like I know a man I put this scope on is gonna die,” Light replied, tapping the poncho. “Now read me my letter.”
Jackson read, “Dear Son, Brother Panky is so kind as to type this letter. He is praying for your safe return. Your mother’s heart is better. He is praying for her too.
“The fishing has been good. I caught two hundred pounds of cats yesterday. Lost a new hoop net. Stolen, I think.
“Your mother says to tell you Ellen’s new baby is fine. She is coming to see us soon.
“Your mother hopes you will make this the last year. Come home safe. Keep the Sabbath when you can. Brother Panky is praying for you. Your Daddy.”
Light sat down on the cot and smiled at Jackson.
“Thanks, I’m going to sleep. You can write me a letter when I wake up,” Light said.
Jackson went up and sat on the top step of the bunker. Light had said he would be safe, but he still would not have been surprised if the incoming had started falling.
Yet no attack came, and by late afternoon he had begun to believe Light’s words. Quietly he went down the steps and in the semidarkness found Light asleep on a cot, the poncho-wrapped rifle by his side. The sniper smelled like the jungle, a scent of decaying leaves and damp earth. Jackson carefully walked close to Light and, crouching by the cot, touched the edge of Light’s sweater. He wanted to touch Tom Light’s arm or one of his bare legs but was afraid Light would awake.
“How do you do it?” Jackson whispered. “You could tell me. I could learn.”
Jackson felt an impulse to shake Light awake and speak directly to the sniper but was stopped by his fear of the man. Light knew how to stay alive. It was not luck. Tom Light had long ago left luck far behind and attained a state beyond any fear of death. From where Light stood, the struggle to escape the net of the war must have seemed futile and without purpose.
As Jackson carefully stood up and left the bunker, he thought of going home. The commercial jet would lift off from Bien Hoa Airbase, and he would settle back against the soft seat, and as the cheers of the returning men died out, he would concentrate on watching a stewardess sashay down the aisle.
CHAPTER
2
Jackson saw a group of soldiers walking across the compound toward the bunker, most of them from the mortar squad. Leander, the squad leader, walked in front while the others hung back. This was the mutiny Hale had been so worried about.
“Alabama, tell Light to come out,” Leander said.
Jackson took several deep breaths and said, “He’s asleep.”
The men laughed. Leander took off his green NVA pith helmet with the single bullet hole above the left ear and wiped the sweat from his face, the red dust looking white against his black skin.
“Must be something wrong with the air,” Leander said. “Calm down, Alabama, ’fore you choke to death.”
Leander’s audience laughed again. Jackson expected that from Leander who liked to run his mouth. More soldiers began to gather. Where was Hale?
“Tell that motherfucker Light to get up here. Or maybe we oughta drop a frag in there,” Leander said.
Jackson started down the steps, but stopped when he saw Light come out of the bunker with his rifle. Light climbed the steps slowly, yawning as he went, blinking at the glare. Then he stood to face Leander and the men, standing there like a man might stand waiting for a bus in a large city, relaxed, indifferent to what was going on around him.
“We know you’re bad,” Leander said. “But you can’t fight us all. We want you gone before you bring down the shit on us. Go back where you come from.”
Light cradled the rifle in his arms and said nothing.
“You leave now,” Leander continued.
The crowd murmured behind him.
“Get the fuck out of here!” a soldier yelled.
Two soldiers came out of the crowd. One was very thin and the other stocky with red hair and freckles. The thin soldier pretended his M-16 was a guitar. He fingered imaginary frets on the barrel with one hand while the other hand jumped about over the magazine and receiver.
The thin soldier sang, “Purple haze all around/Don’t know if I’m coming up or down.”
Everyone laughed, even Light and Leander.
“Fucking R&R’ll blow Light away,” someone yelled.
They were Reynolds & Raymond, speed freaks. Leander had named them R&R. Raymond talked nonstop, but no one had ever heard Reynolds speak except to sing Jimi Hendrix lyrics. Perhaps his silence was his way of mourning the guitarist’s death. They had been attached to the mortar squad until Leander discovered they were always up on speed and refused to have them. Now they wandered about the firebase looking for something to steal so they could trade with the chopper crew chiefs for speed. The disappearance of C-rations, money, even a bore sight for the four-deuce mortars had been blamed on Reynolds & Raymond. Hale tolerated them because they were good fighters, fearless and crazy in battle.