Free War Year by Joe Haldeman Page B

flank, center file, left flank. I couldn’t see the flanks very often, though, for all the jungle. Sometimes it was so thick—big trees, little trees, vines and underbrush—that the only guy I could see was Willy, walking in front of me. I hoped some body knew where we were going.
    After a week or so it got to be routine. We’d walk all day and dig in a couple of hours before dark. The bunkers we dug each night weren’t as fancy as the ones we had at the original patrol base—but we didn’t have chain saws to cut overhead; a good man with a dull ax (they were all dull) takes ten minutes to cut down a small tree.
    Then Thursday or Friday, I’m not sure which, the routine was over, all of a sudden.
    The captain decided we’d stop on the side of a little hill that afternoon. The top of the hill was bald except for a half-dozen trees; we could cut them down for overhead and make an LZ at the same time.
    Prof and Willy started digging the hole and I took the ax outside the perimeter, up the hill to cut down one of those little trees. I figured that one would give us just about enough overhead.
    I took one whack and the forest below exploded in gunfire. I hit the dirt and crawled over to my rifle—I had propped it under another tree—jacked a round into the chamber and looked for something to shoot at. Couldn’t see anything.
    The shooting kept up, in short spurts, but it sounded like it was all on the other side of the company. At any rate, I couldn’t see anything. I decided to crawl back down the hill.
    The perimeter was about fifty feet away—think I set a new speed record for the low-crawl. All the men had dropped where they were working. They looked a little silly, trying to hide in holes no more than two inches deep.
    Willy and Prof were in their little hole, Willy lying flat on his stomach, Prof on his back, smoking a cigarette and running a cleaning rod through his M-16.
    â€œWhat’s happening?” I flopped into the hole next to him.
    â€œCap’n sent out a couple of patrols, down the hill. One of ’em ran into some trouble. Don’t know how many, yet.” Another rattle of machine-gun fire, and Willy and I scrunched down into the dirt.
    â€œRelax. They’re still pretty far away. Probably don’t know where we are, either.”
    The radioman came crawling over. “X-ray?”
    â€œThat’s us,” Prof said.
    â€œWhich of you was up on that hill?”
    Oh, shit. “That was me.”
    â€œCome on, the captain wants to talk to you.” We crawled to the captain, hiding behind some trees about ten feet away, talking on a radio.
    â€œThis the guy?”
    â€œYessir.”
    â€œX-ray, how many trees were up there?”
    â€œSix or seven, sir.”
    â€œYou’ve got to get them all down, right now. We’ve got at least two wounded, one dead—going to need a dustoff as soon as they can get back.” I guessed that by “dustoff” he meant “Medevac.”
    â€œFind Sergeant Davis and have him detail you six men with axes. Run up there, chop ’em down, and run back. Better get a squad for security, too.”
    I went back to Prof. “Where’s Sergeant Davis?”
    â€œLeft flank—guess he’s out that way somewhere. Why?”
    I told him what the captain said. “Well, Horowitz and I’ll go, right?” Willy nodded. “Guess we need about ten more, with the security. Let’s go.”
    Sergeant Davis was on the line closest to the shooting. “Can’t give you no squad, man, I don’t care what the captain said. If Charlie’s comin’ through, he’s comin’ through right here—I need every man I can get.”
    â€œLook, Sarge,” Prof said. “They’ve already called for a Medevac”—which was a lie—“and those wounded men might die if we don’t get ’em right