Free Fields of Fire by James Webb Page A

ThunkBoom. ThunkBoom. The blooper balls exploded flatly and the firing grew less intense.
    The mortars that began in the treeline landed, walking their way quickly through the middle of the perimeter. Someone at the command post just up the hill from Snake screamed. Two people. Maybe more. When the mortars stopped Cat Man's people put more rounds on the paddy dike.
    The plane arrived. It was a Basketball. Figures, thought Snake ironically. Just what we need with Baby Cakes out there. The droning monster dropped out huge flares that lit the perimeter like a stadium. Then Basketball shifted its orbit and a flight of Phantom jets streaked into the far treeline, dropping bombs and napalm.
    The big machine gun in the treeline turned onto the Phantom. Huge balls of tracers reached toward the jets as they approached the treeline. Snake laughed to himself, almost enjoying the thought of a “wing-wipe” being shot at. Shoot at them awhile, you gook bastards. And I hope you run outa ammo.
    More screams from the command post. Maybe three. Snake saw him move then, a hesitation in a fighting hole who thought once, twice, about it, then bolted across the scarred hill in a half-lope toward the command post. A torrent of tracers flew from the dike and they nailed him in the middle of a stride. He fell forward, landing on the back of his head and one shoulder, crumpling like a dropped deer. Snake shook his head knowledgeably. Who'd you think you were, Superman?
    It's Marston, Snake noted. Only a new dude would do that. Not even here long enough to be named yet. Marston rolled once in the deadly bright of Basketball and looked bleakly to Snake, imploring him. Finally he grunted painfully.
    “Snake. Snake.”
    Snake peered at Marston, sizing up his wound. Marston was just up the hill from him, twenty feet away. “Where you hit, Marston?”
    Marston held the middle of his flak jacket. “In here. Ohhh shit it hurts.”
    Snake looked for Doc. Doc was gone, over with Pierson's squad. He crawled out of his hole then, and scooted up to Marston. Powder of the hill poured through his fingers as he pushed it. More rounds now, all around them: they were lighted targets. B-40 rocket boomed. Another.
    “Marston, you're an ass.”
    “CP's all fucked up, man. Can't you hear 'em?”
    “Fat lot of help you are. Now you're gonna get my ass blown away.”
    Marston was hit in the lung. He gurgled. “I'm sorry, Snake.”
    Snake was still five feet away. He stopped crawling and listened expertly to Marston's gurgles. “Roll onto the side that hurts.”
    Marston tried, and screamed. “Ohhhh! Jesus ChristMy God!”
    Snake crawled back toward his hole. In the far tree-line a new series of artillery rounds succeeded the departed Phantom jets. Marston called to him as he moved down the hill. “Don't leave me up here, Snake!” Marston tried to crawl and screamed again. Snake reached his fighting hole, grabbed a poncho, and crawled back to Marston. Marston was whimpering.
    “Marston, you're a goddamned girl. Shut up. You did this to yourself.” Snake laid the poncho out beside Marston, then grabbed his legs and flipped him lifeguard-style onto the poncho. Marston screamed. More AK bullets sprayed the hill.
    “Shut up or I'll leave you here.”
    “It hurts.”
    “It's s'posed to hurt.”
    Snake dragged Marston down the hill. Marston screamed each time Snake jerked the poncho. Snake reached his hole again and called for Doc. No Doc. He screamed again. Still no Doc. He despaired of Doc and pulled the lone battle dressing off his own helmet, hating Marston for leaving his up the hill. He reached in and felt the hole. Marston screamed as if in torture when Snake's fingers slid along the slick wet inside of it.
    The hole gurgled like a stopped-up drain. Snake put the inside of the plastic battle-dressing cover over the hole, and pulled the dressing supertight over that. Marston had given over to weak groans, too exhausted to scream any longer.
    “Now. Lay on