Free Fields of Fire by James Webb Page B

it till Doc gets here.”
    “Ohhh. It hurts too much.”
    “Don't give me any of your shit, Marston. You wanna die? Lay on it.” He looked spitefully at Marston, then grinned encouragingly. “You tough, Marston? Hold on to it, then. You gonna be O.K.”
    The Basketball flares twinkled and died, one by one, like huge candles spending their wicks. It became quiet but for sniper rounds. In the far distance, maybe a mile away, a speaker droned. Some gook promising Australia vacations to anyone who surrendered. Something like that. No one listened. The company's 60-millimeter mortar section fired a perfunctory mission in the speaker's direction, nine or ten casually aimed rounds, as if to acknowledge its absurdity. No effect. Speaker continued. Sounds funny, thought Snake. Stupid gooks.
    Baby Cakes. He was a shadow to the front of them, silhouetted by a low illumination flare from another part of the perimeter. He carried Vitelli over his shoulder, butt up in the air. The near paddy dike opened up again, quite suddenly, and Baby Cakes fell hard to the ground.
    Snake's whole squad returned fire anxiously. Baby Cakes struggled up, still carrying Vitelli, and pointed his M-16 absently at the near dike, shooting a few rounds with one arm. He called to the lines.
    “Marine coming in!”
    Snake stared admiringly at the muscled figure that labored into the lines. You crazy bastard, Baby Cakes. With balls like that, how can you walk?
    Baby Cakes dumped Vitelli next to Cat Man's hole. “Doc! Doc!” He turned to Snake, shouting frantically. “Goddamn it, where's Doc?”
    Doc Rabbit trundled over, done with Pierson's squad for the moment. Rabbit was having a busy night. He was almost out of battle dressings.
    He squatted over Vitelli. Vitelli was unconscious. He had a shrapnel hole clear through his chest, up high where the arteries were, and about five pieces in his face and head. Doc wiped his forehead and spoke somberly. “Nothing I can do, except call him an Emergency. Can't shoot him up with morphine, not when he's already out. Might kill him.”
    Baby Cakes was on his knees, looking pleadingly at Rabbit. “Doc. Doc. Do something, man!”
    Snake noticed the blood welling up around Baby Cakes’ neck. “You hit, Baby Cakes?”
    “Got me just a minute ago.”
    Rabbit stripped off the flak jacket. There was a gouge out of Baby Cakes’ upper back, a deep trough where the bullet dug. Priority medevac, mused Snake, categorizing. Rabbit laid Baby Cakes down on his stomach and shot him up. Baby Cakes continued to resist.
    “Don't worry 'bout me, Doc. Help Vitelli, man.”
    Snake crawled over to Baby Cakes when Rabbit was finished. “Where's Homicide and Bagger? They O.K.?”
    Baby Cakes grinned as if he were remembering a joke. The morphine was hitting him good. “Ah, they're O.K. Homicide has a ding up the side of his head. They caught about five grenades out there before Phony cooled that crater. But Bagger's O.K. Don't let him bullshit you.”
    “Where are they?”
    Baby Cakes smiled again. Feeling no pain, Snake noted. “Oh. Yeah. They're in an old fighting hole somebody dug out there by the near dike. Radio's torn to shit. That's how Bagger came out O.K. He was wearing the radio.”
    “But they're O.K.?”
    “Huh? Oh. Yeah. They said tell you they'll be in at first light.” Baby Cakes drifted smilingly into the land of Nod. “Yeah. They're laying chilly out there. Wouldn't come back with me. Skating mothers …”
    QUIET again. In the distance the loudspeaker droned occasionally. No one listened. Spooky had at last arrived and he circled, pouring down a steady stream of tracers at anything that dared to shoot or move, like a distant fire hose spraying narrow wavy streams of iridescent red water. Spooky's angry gatling guns had a way of calming things. Snake sat down at the edge of his fighting hole, his feet inside it, and took a long swig from his canteen. He scratched a new mosquito bite, then another. He swore and