Free Guns Up! by Johnnie Clark

chopper landed, a chunky little man with glasses jumped out as Sam and Striker loaded Red for the last chopper ride.
    The chunky guy said something to the lieutenant. Then the two of them came over to me.
    “John, this is PFC Doyle. He’s boot. He’s 0331, so he’ll be your assistant gunner. Teach him what he has to know as fast as you can.” The lieutenant turned and walked away before I could speak. I knew my mouth was hanging open as I stared at PFC Doyle in disbelief. “Teach him what he has to know” kept echoing through my stunned brain. I didn’t know any more than he did, Ithought. My God, if ever there was the blind leading the blind!
    “Hi!” Doyle stuck out his hand. I shook it, and a nervous but friendly smile pushed up his fat cheeks. He sure didn’t look much like a Marine. I’d never seen anyone come out of boot camp with that much baby fat. Had to be a Hollywood Marine, I thought.
    “Your MOS is 0331?” I asked.
    “Yep, that’s me.” He pushed his glasses back on his pug nose and they promptly slid back down. I tried to remember some of the things Red told me to do.
    “Well, the most important thing you have to remember is this: When you hear ‘Guns up!’ make sure you’re on my tail no matter what.”
    “Okay.” He hesitated. “What happened to that guy they put on the chopper?” he blurted quickly, his eyes open wide with curiosity.
    “I’ll tell you later. Take those dog tags off and put ’em in your boot laces. You know how to feed the gun and clear a jam, right?”
    “Yep. Can do.”
    “Don’t forget the Halazone in your water and the malaria pills. And don’t forget salt tabs. Got it?”
    “Yeah. I’m scared.” Doyle looked at me like I was supposed to tell him what came next.
    “I know. Don’t worry about it. Just make sure you react the way an A-gunner should. You’ll get killed a lot quicker by panicking. Where are you from?”
    “Denver, Colorado. See?” He pointed to his camouflage helmet cover where he had printed COORS in large black letters. I knew it. Camp Pendleton.
    “Saddle up!” Swift Eagle shouted.
    “Well, here we go, Doyle.”
    The umbilical cord got severed in a harsh, uncaring way as far as I was concerned. Just yesterday morning I felt close to God. My life was probably saved by myBible, and I knew in my heart that only fools believed in luck and accidents. Now I was marching into the bush feeling betrayed, bitter, and all alone. Chan had left me. Now Red. The big red Viking was gone. I tried praying for help but couldn’t.
    Four hours later we plodded up a rocky gray bump in the green terrain and set up a loose perimeter. Word came around to chow down. I felt too low to eat but decided to try. I missed Chan more than ever. He could always tell me where to read in the Bible, that one specific place that would answer my problem, whatever it might be. I needed that a lot more than I needed this disgusting can of congealed ham and lima beans I was gagging down. Doyle gulped down the last bite of his second can of C-rations.
    “Doyle, do you know the Bible?” I asked.
    “Just a little. Why?” He pulled another can out of his pack.
    “The body they were putting on the chopper was my friend.” Suddenly a lump the size of an egg developed in my throat. I turned away to keep Doyle from seeing his leader cry like a baby.
    “Yeah. I sort of figured that out. He had ‘Guns up!’ printed on his helmet just like you do.”
    I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked at the grayish haze clinging to the steep mountains to the west.
    “Sometimes I feel like God’s dumpin’ on me,” I mumbled.
    “Well,” Doyle said. “I don’t know the Scriptures very well, but I have an uncle who’s a minister. He once told me this parable that Jesus said, I think. I don’t know exactly how it goes …”
    “Saddle up!” Swift Eagle shouted. The men started putting their packs on.
    “Finish your story,” I said. “But make sure you bury that