Then Jackson wondered where Light was and wished that he was with him, sleeping out in the jungle wrapped in a poncho against the cool night air of the mountains, safe from the incoming, safe from the NVA because the enemy feared Light like death itself. At the end of his tour he would go home and in a few weeks images of the firebase and mountains and Hale and even Light would fade away to be lost forever, for he would carry home no pictures of them.
CHAPTER
6
Jackson had just set the radio on Tom Light’s frequency when Light’s voice, the words spoken in a whisper, came out of the handset. Jackson was sitting on the TOC’s overhead cover and had attached the whip to the radio because he had feared that Light might have wandered far over into Laos and out of range.
“I’ve been killing, but they’re too proud to give up their dead. Nothing to show the major yet,” Light said.
There was a long pause before Light spoke again.
“Some nights I don’t want to look in the scope. See strange stuff. Know what I mean?”
Static crackled out of the handset.
Gasping for breath, Jackson pressed the transmission bar but could say nothing, thinking of what he had seen in the scope that first night.
“Goddamn you, talk,” Light said.
“Come in,” Jackson said.
“I can’t come in,” Light said. “I can’t never come in. Can’t go home.”
“What about me? You promised.”
“You’re going home. I gave my word. Meet me tomorrow night at the rock.”
“I’ve never been out there. I don’t know how.”
“It’ll be just like walking down the street in Saigon. I won’t let nothing happen to you.”
And Jackson believed Light’s promise, thinking that he was safer out in the bush with Light than in the TOC. At that moment, Jackson thought, an NVA soldier might be humping the rocket or mortar shell down the Ho Chi Minh Trail that was meant for him.
In the morning Jackson went to see Hale who was down in the TOC working at his map tripod.
“Sir, I’d like to go out on a listening post tonight,” Jackson said, taking several deep breaths to try to calm himself.
“Why’s that?” Hale said. “I need you here.”
“I want to know—” Jackson began, realizing that Hale was probably wondering how he could talk and gasp for air at the same time. “I want to know what it’s like out there.”
Hale laughed and said, “Stick close to me. Don’t want my RTO wandering around in the bush.” Then he patted Jackson on the shoulder. “I’m going to run this operation from down here. I’ve been out there. This is my third goddamn tour. Go out and the dinks’ll blow you away.”
“I want to go out,” Jackson said.
“You’re staying with me. I go out, then you go. Not until.” Then Hale continued, “Go plot those patrol positions for tonight.”
Stay close to Hale and get fucked, Jackson thought as he went to the map. I want to stay close to Tom Light. I’m going out if I have to crawl through the fucking wire.
That night, his face painted with camouflage and carrying Light’s letters inside his fatigue jacket, Jackson walked out the front gate on wobbly legs, concentrating on taking slow, even breaths. No one at the gate had questioned him. He carried the radio so he could call the TOC when he started back in and tell them he was coming. Light had promised nothing about protecting him from friendly fire.
He had considered what would happen if Hale discovered he had disobeyed orders. The major had just gone to sleep when he left, and Jackson hoped to find Light, write his letter, and return before Hale woke up. But if the NVA mounted a probe or a mortar attack, Hale would discover he was gone. Yet Leander was always insubordinate to Hale, and done enough to receive a court martial from another commander.
Hale won’t do a fucking thing, Jackson thought. Talk, that’s all he’ll do. Won’t fuck with me because he’ll be fucking with Light.
Breathing hard, Jackson began walking along the edge of the outermost circle of wire, hoping that someone on the perimeter would not open up on him. He tried to remember the ambush and listening post positions he had helped plot in grease pencil on the big map in the TOC. If he walked over one of them, they would kill him.
What about H&I fire, asshole? he thought. Harassment and Interdiction fire would be fired all night at random locations out in the bush.
Then the fear took hold of him so strongly that his legs failed him, and he had to sit down for a few minutes and take slow, deep breaths to calm himself.
Tom Light’ll keep me from getting blown away, he thought over and over.
He walked on, carrying his M-16 on his hip with the safety off and his finger on the trigger, thinking that he did not want to be captured, remembering all the stories he had heard about what happened to American prisoners.
“Don’t get captured,” a cadre during basic training had told him. “They’ll cut your ears and nose off and show ’em to you while you’re still alive. Use you for bayonet practice. They’re not human.”
Off to his right he saw the tall, dark shape of the tower as he walked through the scrub that covered the stretch of cleared ground toward the dark mass of forest. Sounds came out of it: buzzes and clicks and whistles made by the night animals.
Every time he stumbled over a vine or listened to a dry stick crack beneath his boots, he expected to see muzzle flashes from the enemy’s weapons. And every bush and every small tree and every clump of grass looked like an enemy soldier crouched and ready to fire. But worst of all, after he stared at the dark shapes for a few seconds, they began to move. All around him the night was walking.
As he entered the trees it was much darker, and he felt safer. He crawled into a bamboo thicket and lay on the soft mat of leaves. Mosquitoes buzzed around his head and began to settle on his face despite the insect repellent he had rubbed on himself.
Jackson turned on the radio and pressed the transmission bar on the handset.
“Tom Light, Tom Light,” he spoke in a whisper.
There was no reply, only static.
Just as he started to call again, he thought he saw something move in front of him. No bush this time. The M-16 lay on the leaves by his right knee.
Jackson began to choke for air, feeling so weak that he doubted if there would be strength in his arms to lift the rifle.
Whatever it was had stopped, a dark shape through the trees only a few meters away that looked to him like a crouching NVA. He looked to one side of it like he had been trained to do to see if it would go away, but it remained there, a black spot in the darkness.
Goddamn you, Tom Light, where are you? Jackson thought.
It moved again, and Jackson reached for the rifle. Then it ran, the brush crackling, and as he brought up the rifle he realized that it was one of those tiny deer, hardly bigger than a rabbit, that inhabited the forest. Every morning they came up to feed on the grass inside the wire. He sat down on the leaves shaking, soaked in sweat.
“Tom Light, Tom Light,” Jackson whispered in the handset.
White noise was his reply.
Where was the rock? Jackson thought.
From the tower, getting to the rock looked easy, the outcropping a prominent feature of the ridge. Now he was uncertain how to find the rock, and the gunners at Desolation Row had begun to fire H&I fire, the rounds impacting perhaps a hundred meters away.
Suddenly Jackson felt the hand on his shoulder, and he wanted to reach for his rifle but could not. He was too scared to scream or even move. As he sucked in his breath to try to yell, a hand was placed over his mouth, and he felt hot breath on his ear.
“It’s Tom,” a voice said. “Hush up.”