Free Guns Up! by Johnnie Clark Page A

C-ration can. The gooks use ’em for booby traps.”
    “This parable was about a potter who made pots fordifferent purposes. Well, the potter is God, of course. This one pot is a spittoon or something, and he doesn’t think it’s fair because this other pot is holding the king’s gold, or something. Now, I probably got the story all screwed up, but the gist of it is, what right does the pot have to cry about being a spittoon to the potter? The potter can do anything he wants to. It’s his clay. Then he told me that some people blame God for every bad thing that happens, and when good things happen, they call it luck.”
    I thought about Doyle’s rendition of Jesus’ parable for the next hour as we inched closer to the threatening mountains. It didn’t sound very scriptural, but it made sense.
    I felt closer to my chunky A-gunner, but still strangely alone. I remembered the writing in the front of my Bible. I put the stock of the machine gun on my left shoulder and held one bipod leg with my left hand so I was free to pull the Bible out of my shirt pocket with my right. I read it over and over as we humped along. Soon I started feeling pretty good again, or at least I stopped feeling so sorry for myself.
    Dusk came upon us before I was ready. The gloaming hour turned the hot blue-white sky into striking shades of red, pink, and blue. The danger that nightfall brought usually overshadowed the glorious sunsets, but it was impossible not to notice.
    We stopped along a small trail. The lieutenant moved from man to man among the kneeling column, pointing to positions for the night ambush. By the time he reached us, Corporal Swift Eagle loomed beside him.
    “Lieutenant,” Swift Eagle said quietly.
    “Yeah, Chief.” They both knelt down on one knee to talk.
    “It might be a good idea to set in here until it gets black and then move about twenty-five meters.”
    “Why, did you see anything?”
    “No, sir.”
    The careless splash of a shot of tobacco signaled the presence of the gunny. He knelt down beside the lieutenant.
    “The chief thinks we should set in and then move again. What do you think?”
    The gunny shot another stream of tobacco juice to the ground. “It’s the chief’s fourth tour. He’s got time in grade over both of us.” The gunny drew his syllables out like a Southern farmer.
    “They’ve probably been watching us all day.” The lieutenant seemed to be talking to himself. “And we have made contact already. You might be right, Chief. Better to be safe. We’ll set in here until I give the word in about twenty minutes, then we’ll move twenty-five meters east. Does that sound right to you?”
    “Sounds good to me, sir,” Gunny replied.
    “Yes, sir,” Swift Eagle said.
    I liked knowing what was going on for a change. I’d listen to that big Indian anytime he chose to speak.
    Ten minutes later the sunset color show disappeared. Our position, now engulfed by darkness, felt dangerous. A sense of urgency swept over me. Then we moved, rather clumsily at first. The clinking of a mess kit carried through the still, humid night. Someone to my right stumbled over a rock with all the delicacy of a drunken bull. The hollow clump of a helmet striking the rock-hard earth identified another Marine Corps klutz. Doyle’s breathing got louder with each noise until at last we reached the new position on slightly lower ground, where our only cover was a gradation of small natural trenches, the kind caused by rainwater runoff. Yesterday’s mortar attack had made me thankful for any indentation in the earth I could find.
    By 2200 hours most of the perimeter was asleep and it was my turn to turn in. My eyelids felt like they were being weighed down by sandbags. I tapped Doyle on the shoulder. He didn’t budge. I tapped him again.
    “Your watch,” I whispered and pointed at my wrist. He sat up, looking groggy. I shook him again. He nodded and motioned me to stop with his hand. I went down and seemed to just