Free The Vietnam Reader by Stewart O’Nan

didn’t dare kill him again).
    He moved past the canal and into the dense brush, found what looked like a good position, and fired off a clip to the left, right in front of him, most of the clip to his right, and finally, for the benefit of his instructors, for Fort Benning, the last one into a tree nest. Nothing happened and he reloaded and moved forward. Then there were two little pings, still in front of him, though sounding, perhaps it was his imagination, further away. But the enemy was there, and so, encouraged,he began to move forward again, his senses telling him that the sniper was slightly to his right. He was alone, he had kept the others back at the canal bank; they would be no help here, for they would surely follow right behind him and he would be in more trouble for the noise they would make and for being accidentally shot from behind, that great danger of single-file patrolling; yet going like this, he sensed terribly how alone he was—he was in their jungle, they could see him, know of him, they could see things he couldn’t see, there might be more of them. He moved forward a few yards, going slowly both by choice and necessity in the heavy brush. If there had been a clock on the ground, where he left the canal and entered the jungle, it would have been six o’clock, and he was now moving slowly toward one o’clock. He kept moving, firing steadily now. From time to time he reversed his field of fire. Suddenly there was a ping, landing near him, the sound closer, but coming from the left, from about eleven o’clock. The shot sounded closer, and more excited and frightened now, he moved quickly in that direction, feeling the brush scratch his arms and his face (he couldn’t use his hands to protect his face, they were on his weapon); now he squeezed off another clip, two quick ones, three quick ones, the last three spaced out, a musical scale really.
    There was no answer and he pressed forward, the jungle still around both of them. Then he was answered again, the mating call, two little pings, the VC’s weapon had a lower pitch than his, and the sound—and this made him angry—was coming from the right, near one o’clock, where he had just been. He cursed under his breath, and moved quickly to his right, realizing even as he pushed ahead that he was doing a foolish thing, that he was violating all the rules he had been taught, that he was offering an American officer to a trap that he might be taken prisoner; at Benning they had warned against that, don’t be captured, there was too much psychological advantage the VC could take, showing him around in the villages.
    Still he pressed on, angry, frustrated. He thought the VC was mocking him, playing a game with him; you didn’t do that in war, war was not a game, you didn’t screw around, play jokes with rifles. He fired off another clip toward one o’clock and moved there. Then there wasa ping from the left, back at ten o’clock. He moved a little to his left, but he didn’t fire. A few minutes passed while the Vietcong finally grasped his message, that Anderson for the time being was not going to fire. Finally there was a ping, from eight o’clock this time; the sniper was behind him. But he couldn’t fire in that direction or he might hit one of his own men. He waited and waited and then charged toward six o’clock, ready to fire at point-blank range. But nothing happened.
    Suddenly there was a ping ping from eleven o’clock. He turned and fired angrily, shouting: “Come out, you sonofabitch, come on, come on out. Fight. Come on, I’m waiting, I’m here.”
    He waited but nothing happened. Did he hear a giggle? He made the same challenge in Vietnamese, but it sounded foolish to him. No giggle this time. There were no more shots. He checked his watch. He had been gone ten minutes. He waited two minutes more, and nothing happened. Still angry, he went back to the canal bank, and collected the other Viets.
    “Sometimes,” said one of