Free Free-Fire Zone by Chris Lynch

your stupid corporal ear to the breeze and listen. We wiped them out. We knocked them into Cambodia and beyond. We did what we were assigned to do, and now our job is to get back. We are lucky to be in one piece, coming home with everybody we brought out with us —”
    Gillespie clears his throat loudly as our ally, Lt. Bien, silently turns and walks back to the M-113.
    â€œâ€” and who knows what we are going to engage on the way back? Now, our success today is all well and good, but the very clear directive from all the way up top at this point is we are not taking any more casualties . As commanding officer, my number-one priority right now is to get the men under my command back safe, and no matter how cocky you all feel about yourselves right now that is precisely what I intend to do. Now, soldiers, pack up your gear and get yourselves back to that vehicle directly. That is an order.”
    Lt. Jupp himself starts making a line for the vehicle like he’s racing somebody, which isn’t the case at all because nobody’s moved. He’s gone about twenty paces when he senses this is the case. He stops short and, without turning toward us, barks his command again.
    â€œI said , that’s an order, men.”
    I don’t disobey orders. That’s a fact, and that fact isn’t going to change as long as I’m a member of the USMC.
    But we’re supposed to go down and follow up. I know this. Everybody knows this.
    We’re all looking at the corporals now.
    The corporals look at each other.
    Cherry shakes his head in disbelief. McClean shrugs. They start heading in the direction of the ride home.
    â€œNo!” Gillespie shouts.
    â€œYou are sailing very close to the wind, Gillespie,” Jupp calls, about to step into the vehicle.
    â€œJust let it go,” Cherry says. “It’s not worth it.”
    Despite two firefights, this might be the tensest moment of the day. So far.
    We’re all headed to the M-113 now, when suddenly our ARVN man hops down and stands nose-to-nose with Lt. Jupp. Jupp freezes, but we all continue to move closer. It’s a cozy huddle when Lt. Bien speaks.
    â€œWe go down there,” he says to Jupp, gesturing in the direction of the bombardment.
    We all wait. It’s very much like a school yard fight waiting to happen.
    But there isn’t another word. It’s an amazingly tense minute.
    We all mount up and move out without another word said.
    It is extra bumpy as we hurtle down through the rugged terrain to the site. Bien could well be doing it on purpose, the way he’s hunched over the controls and growling lowly in Vietnamese. Lt. Jupp, no question, is a wounded soldier right now, not interacting or even making eye contact with anyone. We know who’s in charge for the time being and I would guess mostly everybody on board is pleased about that state of affairs.
    When we reach our destination and the back opens up again, we all make our way down the ramp, moving slowly but with purpose. We’re traveling mostly light: M-16s, Claymore anti-personnel mines, and grenades all around.
    Except for our commander. He’s assigned himself an M-60 machine gun, with two bandoliers of ammunition crisscrossing his torso. Almost like he’s expecting a different war from the rest of us.
    We march in a careful formation into a village that looks just like a lot of villages we’ve seen in the past, only it’s even smaller than most. Six basic-looking huts, four of which are in some state of burned out. Smoke rises all around us, bits of flame not worth putting out.
    And there are bodies. In similarly varied states of charred. I count sixteen, all men, either outside on the ground or straddling doors and windows. Sixteen torsos, that is, with limbs distributed randomly all over the place. Very much an Old West–style shootout aftermath scene, but here in the even older East. We hold our formation and proceed toward the