That night the battalion went on laager in the field by the river. Reynolds and Raymond slept near Jackson in the center of the circle the battalion had made. Hale’s orders were always the same. No digging. No talking or moving about.
When Jackson came off his watch, the rain had almost stopped, only a fine mist falling. There had been no probes of the perimeter or mortar attacks. Jackson heard Reynolds & Raymond whispering beneath a poncho. He crawled over to tell them to shut up.
“Not so loud. Keep your goddamn mouth shut. I hear you again, and I’ll kick your fucking worthless ass,” Jackson whispered, his face almost touching Raymond’s. Short-timer began to chatter but Raymond shut him up.
“Short-timer wants some more speed,” Raymond said. “But we got to conserve what we got.”
Reynolds began to finger imaginary strings again.
Jackson grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.
“I told you once to stop that, asshole,” Jackson said.
Raymond said, “Leave him alone. I’ll take care of him.”
“Keep him away from me,” Jackson said. “I don’t want him to fuck up and get me blown away.”
“You know what the money man did with his footlocker?” Raymond asked.
“Sent it to Saigon,” Jackson said.
“Money man’d keep his money close,” Raymond said.
“Shut the fuck up. What would you do with his money out here if you had it.”
“He wouldn’t have it then. We’d have it. Me and my buddy.”
“Did you see Light out there?”
“No, and don’t want to either. When you see Light, it means you’re dead.”
At the mention of Light’s name Reynolds began to play his M-16.
“Stay quiet or we’ll all be dead,” Jackson said. “Keep him still.”
Jackson returned to his radio and pulled the poncho over his head. He shivered in his wet fatigues which had already begun to rot, the cloth feeling slimy against his skin. The white fungus had spread to his legs and arms. It itched, and he tried to keep from scratching. Every night giant centipedes, five or six inches long, crawled into the poncho with him. They had a painful sting, and Jackson feared them more than leeches.
The rain began again, sounding like buckets full of pebbles were being poured on his poncho. He lay in an inch of water but was happy that at least part of his body was going to stay dry. Jackson looked forward to lying down in that cold water to sleep.
Before he went to sleep, he set the radio on Light’s frequency. But after calling over and over and receiving no response he gave up. Light might be miles away, headed toward his abandoned city.
“Tom Light, Tom Light,” Jackson whispered into the handset but received no reply.
He turned the radio off to save the batteries.
Get your shit together, Jackson thought to himself. Maybe Tom Light will save your ass. But if he doesn’t you’ll have to take care of yourself. Watch out for booby traps. Don’t get wounded. Take deep breaths, slow now. Stay cool.
Jackson rested his head on his folded arms to keep out of the water and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER
21
Hale, Jackson, and a squad leader crouched in the grass by the river. The squad leader had a coil of white nylon rope slung over one shoulder. As they studied the river, the squad leader rubbed mud on the rope.
“Fucking rope,” the squad leader said. “Everything in the army is green: tents, socks, jeeps. Why not OD rope?”
“Ask for a volunteer,” Hale said.
The squad leader crawled off through the grass.
Jackson watched the river slide by, the surface littered with leaves and branches. He could barely make out the far bank through the rain and clouds.
The squad leader returned and said, “Nobody wants to go.”
“Pick one,” Hale said. “Do it quick.”
“I’ll go,” Jackson said.
Hale said, “The dinks may be waiting on the other side.”
“I want to do it,” Jackson said.
Tom Light trying to keep you from getting wasted, Jackson thought. Why are you making it hard on him? Why can’t you wait for the Holiday Inn? Plenty of chances then to risk your neck.
“Give him the rope,” Hale said.
Jackson took off his clothes. The rain felt cold on his skin, the drops stinging when they hit. They gave him a .38 in a shoulder holster. He tied the rope around his waist and waded into the river. The water felt good, warmer than the rain. The water reminded him of the sea at Vung Tau.
“Don’t try to fight the current,” the squad leader said. “Swim straight across. Least they won’t be able to see you in this shit. Not unless they’re waiting on the bank.”
As Jackson swam out of the bank eddy and into the current, he wondered what drowning in the river would feel like. If dinks were on the far bank, they would wait until he reached it before they killed him. His reward for carrying the rope across would be that Hale would expect him to swim the next river. Jackson was afraid but breathing easy as the current caught him.
Just like swimming the river at home, Jackson thought.
But as they paid out more of the rope, it bellied out, causing a powerful drag.
Stay cool. Keep swimming, he thought.
The current carried him fifty yards downstream before he reached the bank. Now the weight of the rope was dragging him back into the water. Jackson dug his feet into the mud and pulled to clear the rope which resisted for a few moments and came free. He tied it around a tree.
Then for the first time he was really scared. He gasped for breath as he took out the pistol and drained the water from the barrel and cylinder. While he lay face down in the grass, the point squad came over carrying just their rifles and ammunition. They went up the bank and established a perimeter so the rest of the battalion could cross safely.
Labouf joined him on the bank.
“You crazy fucker,” Labouf said. “Don’t you know not to volunteer.”
“This white shit growing on me was itching. I needed a bath,” Jackson said.
Labouf laughed and said, “You are a stupid dickhead.”
“I did it,” Jackson muttered to himself. “I really fucking did it.”
Once the battalion was formed up again, they moved out slowly through the grass, taller than their heads and with sharp edges on the leaves that gave Jackson cuts on his hands.
Jackson heard the incoming at the same time someone yelled, “Mortars!”
He dropped to the ground, the ruck sliding forward and hitting him in the back of the head. More explosions followed and dirt fell on him. He flattened himself out, holding his hands over his head.
“Run, goddamn you!” he heard Hale shouting. “They got us bracketed. Run!”
Jackson did not think he would be able to get up and run, but when a shell landed close by, the shrapnel whistling through the grass and cutting down sections of it on top of him, he jumped to his feet and ran with the rest of the battalion.
The battalion ended up scattered in the tree line at one end of the field. Some had run the wrong way and gotten caught in an ambush. Jackson heard the machine guns and the men screaming for help. Finally squads and platoons formed up again. Jackson found Labouf sitting with his back to a tree.
Labouf grinned and said, “Hale just keeps fucking up.”
Jackson located Hale who was talking with a medic. They stood over a wounded soldier, a member of the mortar squad.
We were lucky, Jackson thought. They could have killed us all.
“Call in a dust off,” the medic pleaded. “This man don’t have to die.”
“They’ll never be able to fly in this shit,” Hale said. “Nothing but clouds and rain.”
“We can talk him in,” the medic said. “Those pilots are good. They’ll do it.”