instantaneous BKs, if they were lucky. If they weren’t lucky, they would be dead.
Ambushes were often set up in graveyards because they were above the water table. That way, you didn’t have to lie in the wet all night as the water from nearby swamps or rice paddies rose with the tides. So there they were, sitting over bones, waiting for a fight. While it was still light, the men pretended to set up for the night. When darkness fell, they moved about one hundred yards away, to trick the V.C.
Rick was standing up when machine-gun fire broke the silence. He hit the dirt, then lifted his head and saw most of the guys laughing at him. A couple of other new guys had also hit the dirt. Then an old-timer told him, “That was an M-16.” And as Rick replayed the sound in his head, he realized it was an M-16, meaning it was shot by a friendly. Charlie used AK-47s. The sergeant in basic training had shot one off for the guys, so Rick knew the difference. He felt like an idiot. Well, at least some of the other guys had done the same thing.
After they moved camp, Rick lay still in the darkness, listening for the other guys but not hearing them. These guys were pros.
Rick had done his work for the day and didn’t have to take a watch. The world seemed peaceful, the breeze almost cool. This was war? He let himself drift off, Cracker pressed up against his legs. They weren’t allowed to sleep on their ponchos that night because ponchos made a rustling noise and also reflected light. So he kept his poncho rolled up in his rucksack. Some guys didn’t even bother to bring their ponchos. Cracker stood up and pulled lightly on her leash. Rick knew she wanted it off, but he felt too new to all this to take the chance.
Except for one almost-cool breeze Rick felt, the temperature didn’t seem to drop at all during the night. But the clouds began to clear and the stars shone through. He slept well.
When morning came, the sky was completely clear for the first time since he got to Vietnam. Far in the distant plains Rick could see a huge, green cone with remnants of red cloud hovering at the tip. Above it the sky was blue. It was a lone mountain, rising above the plains and rice paddies. He’d heard of it: Nui Ba Den—Black Virgin Mountain—named for a woman whose fiancé had died.
Uppy took off his boots and peeled away long strips of skin off his feet.
“Aw, man, can’t you do that in private?”
Uppy laughed. “Immersion foot. Wait’ll you get it. It’s from wearing damp boots all the time.”
“I ain’t getting no immersion foot,” Rick said.
“How you gonna stop it?”
“Willpower,” Rick said. Both men laughed. Rick could tell that Uppy was laughing with him. Uppy nodded toward a new guy who was taking out five pairs of neatly rolled socks, several pairs of boxers, and an extra shirt from his overloaded bag. The new guy picked out different clothes to put on, then stopped to swat wildly at some mosquitoes—Rick had already noticed that old-timers just waved them away or even ignored them. And he already knew that he’d rather stink and be filthy than carry extra clothes on his back. And then Rick knew he wasn’t a new guy anymore.
Cracker stood up and shook herself off. She could hear the choppers in the distance. In a moment she saw everybody else getting up too.
Rick picked up his bag and waited. The ambush was a bust. No snipers, no V.C., no nothing. He’d heard that was usually the way it went. You set up an ambush or humped the bushes for hours, or even for days, and nothing happened. Then, every so often, you made contact. Some guys had been in country almost a year and had made contact only a handful of times. Other guys had had the bad luck to make contact a dozen times in three months. Rick wasn’t sure now whether he wanted to make contact or not. So far Vietnam just seemed like some kind of bizarro alternate universe where the leaves were as big as a man and where you never saw the enemy.
He
Ambushes were often set up in graveyards because they were above the water table. That way, you didn’t have to lie in the wet all night as the water from nearby swamps or rice paddies rose with the tides. So there they were, sitting over bones, waiting for a fight. While it was still light, the men pretended to set up for the night. When darkness fell, they moved about one hundred yards away, to trick the V.C.
Rick was standing up when machine-gun fire broke the silence. He hit the dirt, then lifted his head and saw most of the guys laughing at him. A couple of other new guys had also hit the dirt. Then an old-timer told him, “That was an M-16.” And as Rick replayed the sound in his head, he realized it was an M-16, meaning it was shot by a friendly. Charlie used AK-47s. The sergeant in basic training had shot one off for the guys, so Rick knew the difference. He felt like an idiot. Well, at least some of the other guys had done the same thing.
After they moved camp, Rick lay still in the darkness, listening for the other guys but not hearing them. These guys were pros.
Rick had done his work for the day and didn’t have to take a watch. The world seemed peaceful, the breeze almost cool. This was war? He let himself drift off, Cracker pressed up against his legs. They weren’t allowed to sleep on their ponchos that night because ponchos made a rustling noise and also reflected light. So he kept his poncho rolled up in his rucksack. Some guys didn’t even bother to bring their ponchos. Cracker stood up and pulled lightly on her leash. Rick knew she wanted it off, but he felt too new to all this to take the chance.
Except for one almost-cool breeze Rick felt, the temperature didn’t seem to drop at all during the night. But the clouds began to clear and the stars shone through. He slept well.
When morning came, the sky was completely clear for the first time since he got to Vietnam. Far in the distant plains Rick could see a huge, green cone with remnants of red cloud hovering at the tip. Above it the sky was blue. It was a lone mountain, rising above the plains and rice paddies. He’d heard of it: Nui Ba Den—Black Virgin Mountain—named for a woman whose fiancé had died.
Uppy took off his boots and peeled away long strips of skin off his feet.
“Aw, man, can’t you do that in private?”
Uppy laughed. “Immersion foot. Wait’ll you get it. It’s from wearing damp boots all the time.”
“I ain’t getting no immersion foot,” Rick said.
“How you gonna stop it?”
“Willpower,” Rick said. Both men laughed. Rick could tell that Uppy was laughing with him. Uppy nodded toward a new guy who was taking out five pairs of neatly rolled socks, several pairs of boxers, and an extra shirt from his overloaded bag. The new guy picked out different clothes to put on, then stopped to swat wildly at some mosquitoes—Rick had already noticed that old-timers just waved them away or even ignored them. And he already knew that he’d rather stink and be filthy than carry extra clothes on his back. And then Rick knew he wasn’t a new guy anymore.
Cracker stood up and shook herself off. She could hear the choppers in the distance. In a moment she saw everybody else getting up too.
Rick picked up his bag and waited. The ambush was a bust. No snipers, no V.C., no nothing. He’d heard that was usually the way it went. You set up an ambush or humped the bushes for hours, or even for days, and nothing happened. Then, every so often, you made contact. Some guys had been in country almost a year and had made contact only a handful of times. Other guys had had the bad luck to make contact a dozen times in three months. Rick wasn’t sure now whether he wanted to make contact or not. So far Vietnam just seemed like some kind of bizarro alternate universe where the leaves were as big as a man and where you never saw the enemy.
He
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