Free Going After Cacciato by Tim O’Brien Page B

hand.
    “Bang, like that. Dark as … but, jeez, I swear to God I heard it … what’s wrong? What’s wrong here? I did, I heard it.”
    “I know, man.”
    “All the way. I swear.”
    Behind them, the radio made a static sound, then a voice demanded grid coordinates. “Say again, no dustoff till we get those coordinates. No grid, no chopper. Is that a good read?”
    “Jesus!” Oscar screamed. He was on his hands and knees. The earth kept shaking.
    The lieutenant still worked with a pencil, using his map andcompass and code book to work up the coded coordinates. He worked calmly and without hurry.
    Beside him, Frenchie’s helmet and boots and socks were arranged neatly on a square of rock. Frenchie was always neat. Bernie Lynn’s gear lay in a heap where he’d dropped it.
    “Going home,” Doc said. “It’s the truth. Nurses and booze and all that good shit. Home, man. Feel better now … Somebody get the juice … Sure, man, I bet you feel better already.” Doc removed the compress and applied another. The wound was wet. It was a tunnel wound, just below the throat and slanting steeply into the chest, the way men were always shot in tunnels, and it was hard to believe Bernie was talking, but he said, “… real loud, like
bang …
” and he coughed and shook his head, clearing it, “just like that,
bang!
”
    “Stick him,” Doc said.
    “Not me, man. You’re the fucking medic.”
    “Somebody—”
    The earth was shaking again. To the south and southwest and west, the First and Second Squads were still blowing bunkers. The explosions made Bernie blink.
    “Not me,” Stink Harris said. “I don’t stick nobody with that shit.”
    “For God’s sake, somebody do it.”
    “Not me.”
    The radio whined. “One-Niner, you want them ships, by God, you get me some coordinates. We can’t—”
    “Give it to him,” Oscar Johnson said. He’d lost his sunglasses. He looked hard at Sidney Martin. “Forget the codes, just give it to him.”
    “One minute.”
    “Give it!”
    The lieutenant bent over his code book.
    “Indigo One-Niner, this is Orphan Six—”
    “Forget that code shit!” Oscar screamed. “Give the grids. Just
give
it!”
    “One second.”
    “Indigo—”
    The earth shook again. Two black clouds rose over the far hedges.
    “Look,” Stink whispered. “I ain’t doing it. That’s all, I just won’t.”
    “Oh, if that—”
    “I ain’t.”
    “Somebody do it,” Doc said. “I don’t give a shit who, just do it now.”
    Rudy took the needle, and Stink held the plasma and cord, and Rudy shoved the needle into Bernie’s arm. Stink kept his eyes closed. He hated blood. Doc pressed the compress against Bernie’s throat.
    Behind them, Lieutenant Sidney Martin was on the radio again, calling in the coded coordinates. He gave each number precisely, pausing, very calm.
    The needle slipped. Clear fluid spilled over Bernie’s arm. A muddy puddle formed at the mouth of the tunnel. Quickly Doc exchanged places and reinserted the needle.
    “Repeat,” said Sidney Martin, “one KIA, one urgent WIA, both US types. Repeat, urgent. Grid—” And again he read off the coded coordinates.
    Now Ben Nystrom was crying. He squatted at the lieutenant’s feet, his hands holding the radio, crying.
    The earth trembled again, rocking the heavy fluid in Stink’s bottle. Almost immediately, like an echo, another explosion went off to the southwest.
    “Affirm, LZ secure … Wait on ETA. Stand by.”
    The second explosion jarred the needle loose. Bernie sat up.
    “Hold it, for—”
    “Jesus! Get the guy down, can you do
that
? Can you just hold him down?”
    “It slipped, man.” Stink opened his eyes to find the bottle. “He keeps moving, what can I do?”
    “The needle—”
    “For Christ sake.
Hold
it.”
    Rudy held the needle in while Doc ran to his pouch and found the tape. The morning was still bright. Filmy clouds scudded below the sun, making shadows in the clearing. Bernie lay