Free Free-Fire Zone by Chris Lynch Page B

run up and try and pull me out.
    â€œAhhhhh!” The pain is a hundred times worse when they tug on me. The trapdoors themselves are actually more torture, covered in similar long spikes that close in and clamp on to my leg when I am coming up out of the thing. Like a bear trap of knives. “No, no no, no, stop!”
    Squid drops me like I am made of hornets, backs away flapping his hands helplessly. Cherry and Marquettetake over, working first to try and wedge the two doors apart.
    The pain is making me insane. I try and look at my leg but my vision keeps getting all watery, and my hollering is so intense that it looks like the whole world is quaking instead of just me.
    â€œLieutenant?” somebody shouts. Then another somebody, then all of them. The guys from the other hut are here now, too, and I see everybody, pretty much, except Jupp.
    I finally see Jupp’s face, peering over the top of the crowd, looking about a million miles away. Then, I see him yanked right out of the picture as Lt. Bien shoves his way to the front, crouches down over me, and puts both arms down into the trap up to his elbows — just before I pass out, still screaming.

T here are two letters waiting for me when I come around in the hospital. One is from Ivan, which I save for later like you do with the best part of your supper, and the other is from Morris. Not that Morris is like broccoli or anything, it’s just, well, there’s only one Ivan.
    Hey Rudi Man,
    I guess this is overdue, huh? I had two letters from you before I even got one back to you. Sorry about that but, jeez, who’d have ever thought you would turn out to be the big writer of the group, right? Anyway, the good part is, I got my wish and I’m a radioman now, so I’m going to be calling you once I get the hang of tracking you guys down. One of the perks of my job, you see, is being able to make phone calls just like we were back home and I needed to ask you a math question or something. (That’s a joke, Rudi, pay attention.)
    The war has been ok for me so far. As much as wars can be ok. I’m not dead, which is a plus. At least I don’t think I am. When I was on the USS Boston, we got hit — by our own guys! And I think I survived that, although I may be dead and just don’t recognize dead yet.
    I am in the Brown Water Navy now, pal. Which might very well be what death looks and feels and smells like. We are in the thick of things all the time, shooting it out with the VC all up and down the Mekong. I am on a Zippo. You know, like the cigarette lighters? We’ve got napalm flamethrowers mounted on this thing. It’s crazy what all different kinds of killing gear we have on this one boat. And for defense? It’s mostly caging and sandbags. We get shot at all the time.
    I had a pal, pal. He was on both the Boston and the Zippo with me. Not a pal like you guys, nobody will ever be that. But a pal, still. He got killed. My God, Rudi, when a pal gets killed …
    We don’t ever want that to happen. That’s the big thing. Never.
    But enough about me, let’s talk about me.
    Just kidding. How about you? I have to say there was quite a leap between the first letter you sent me and the second. Really, really great that you fit so well in the Marines. I was happy — and shocked — to hear how well that was going. Because, to be honest … ah, well you know. We all secretlypeed ourselves, on your behalf, when you got drafted. It’s good that you’re so good at following orders. It’s good that you found an organization that can appreciate your particular talents.
    That second letter, Rudi man, I have to say was an eye opener. Confirmed killer now. Wow. I mean it. Wow. Me, I don’t know. I mean, sure, I shoot, they insist I do more than sit on the phone all day since that’s not likely to advance the cause much, so I do shoot at people on a pretty regular basis. But I don’t know