Free Sharpshooter by Chris Lynch

Grenades!”
    And, as if it has all been perfectly coordinated for Kuns and me to be arriving in-country and making our mark on it at the same exact time, we both let off our big mother grenades simultaneously, listen to them whistle across the sky, and watch them land in the same spot.
    Bu-boo-oom!
    There is an instant decrease in incoming fire, but not enough to feel safe. A round tears right through the side of the fiberglass boat, goes right between me and Kuns, and exits the other side. I can feel the rush as it passes.
    I can feel that rush, and every other rush. I am pumping enough adrenaline to power the whole Benewah all by myself.
    â€œMore! Again!” Parrish screams, and I begin to wonder if he is actually the man in charge here. Then I look over to where Lt. Systrom is knuckled down, set up like a sniper as best he can over the lip of the boat. He is coiled, frozen, not firing — not breathing as far as I can tell.
    The Navy boy piloting the boat begins a wide sweep away from the shore, which tears the lieutenant right out of his trance.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” he shouts.
    â€œAvoiding fire, what does it look like?”
    â€œNo, no, no!” Systrom screams. He points to the shore. “Your job is to get us in there so that we can do our jobs. We are Army, mister, not Navy, so you just get us onto land to do our jobs — then you can run wherever you like.”
    The Nav begins a swing back, and Lt. Systrom keeps pointing.
    â€œ Into the fire?” our pilot calls dubiously.
    â€œ Straight into it,” our commander commands.
    We go in, as all-guns-a-blazin’ as it is possible to get, straight into the enemy fire, which is now clearly coming at us from two nests up the hillside. I aim a grenade at one nest. Kuns follows up, and the explosions sound to me like the “1812 Overture” the Boston Pops plays outside on the Charles River every July Fourth. We are all crouching, squatting, ducking as we try to fight the invisible when, finally, Systrom joins in.
    Craaack.
    His gun sounds nothing like anybody else’s. It is subtle, crisp, sure. It is the gunshot equivalent of an Olympic diver hitting the water without a ripple.
    The return fire is now reduced to almost nothing.
    Looks like our head shot off their head.
    We hit the bank going a little bit too hard, and everybody tumbles around for a few seconds. Then we compose, focus, and hop out of the boat one at a time and all out.
    The Navy guy scoots off quick and says he will come back when we radio him and not before.
    Lt. Systrom squats down under a short palm tree. He coolly goes over his map with Cpls. Parrish and Lightfoot while the rest of us continue to pound the remaining nest that only now is lights-out.
    â€œHere is what we know,” Systrom says. “Last night’s recon indicates action here and here and here along this trail. That means you’re probably gonna find drums.”
    The “drums” are the fifty-five-gallon metal oil drums that the enemy fills with arms and ammunition for the insurgents, then seals and buries in the bush. They are a big problem for us.
    Systrom continues. “I’ll take Kuns with me and find a perch right around here, high enough to oversee your whole area. Stay within these parameters and try to cover the whole length of the trail by dusk. Right?”
    â€œRight,” I say, all chirpy even though nobody asked me directly. I have never been as buzzy as I feel right now. This trail ahead of us is the very definition of the scary unknown. It is a mad, insane, helter-skelter thrill, and I feel at this moment like I want to run up that trail and personally flush out every sneaky Vietcong murderer, pull him out of his hole like a rabbit. I feel like these guys are holding me back.
    At this moment it occurs to me that it is easy to be brave.
    â€œAre you listening?” Cpl. Lightfoot says, nose to nose with me right now.
    â€œSorry,