minute Allen thumbed his safety back on; somebody probably heard a wild pig, or a rat.
Still, there was a sensation as of the jungle holding its breath, and it made him edgy. On the stroke of midnight, Mouse, who had an extraordinary sense of time even if he never wore a watch, stirred in his sleeping trench, paused to take a piss, and shambled over to the fighting hole the squad had dug for itself. Hearing every sound the big man made, from the rustle of the poncho liner to the last spatter of drops hitting the ground, Allen nearly laughed aloud. When Mouse climbed down beside him, Allen put his head close to his squad-mateâs and whispered, âI was getting all freaked out at the bad vibes, nearly talked myself into sending up flares to check for VC in the wires before I realized itâs only because the damn rain has stopped.â
âKnow what you mean. I kept wakinâ myself up with my breathinâ.â
âWell, everything seems okay. Alpha Squad sent up a flare a while ago, but nothing there.â
âMaybe Charlieâs spooked with the rain stoppinâ, gone home to wash his socks. Sleep good, man.â
Allen went back to his hole behind the sandbags. Before he lay down, however, he studied the darkness again: There were people out there, he could feel them. Still, there was nothing he could do sitting here. Might as well sleep.
It began an hour later with a scream, a sound of distilled mortal terror that jerked every man upright, hair on end and gun in hand, a sound that seemed to last a lot longer in the memory than the two or three seconds before the grenade exploded. A man in Alpha Squad had been peaceably in his hole, either dozing or staring out into the night, when a grenade dropped out of nowhere and he had felt Death rolling around between his boots. That explosion was followed rapidly by three more, then
Move move MOVE!
and a mounting wall of noise, bursts and firing and yelps of pain. Allen caught a snatch of Flores shouting into his radio and braced himself for the resulting artillery, but for what came, there could be no bracing. Two of the shells came to earth twenty feet from the perimeter, the concussion slamming into any person still above ground. There were four men in the fighting hole Allenâs squad had dug for two, a press of elbows and gun butts, and the sides of the hole half collapsed into them with the incoming shell. All four crouched over each otherâs knees and shoulders, hands gripping their helmets. Allen, squeezed in against Mouse, had a crazy image of what a passing bird would see: four round rocks jammed together in a hole. Then the third shell landed, nearly on top of the first; for several long seconds, he couldnât think, couldnât even breathe.
Did he imagine a high, panicky voice screaming instructions to correct the distant guns? He must have imagined it, he couldnât have heard anything in the cacophony of explosions, screaming men, and gunfire that followed. Flares and smoke filled the air, flashes of launched grenades shot more or less blindly into the dark, the flares throwing dancing shadows from the trees, shadows that hid the enemy. Both sides flung death at each other across the cleared ground; inside the perimeter, men died.
Years later, when Allen happened to step into a discotheque with its pounding music and pulsing strobes, he was instantly snatched back to that night in the jungle. The flash of shells and sweep of tracers, the weird harsh light of the flares, the heat and confusion and the noise of all-out battle overwhelmed the senses, leaving a man with no choices but to curl up in a fetal position, or rise to his feet and hurl mad defiance out at the terrifying dark with all the breath in his lungs and all the ammunition in his possession.
One of their radios was still working, or perhaps the distant artillery had found its error. The next rounds hit lower ground; one thin scream, indistinct words over and
Still, there was a sensation as of the jungle holding its breath, and it made him edgy. On the stroke of midnight, Mouse, who had an extraordinary sense of time even if he never wore a watch, stirred in his sleeping trench, paused to take a piss, and shambled over to the fighting hole the squad had dug for itself. Hearing every sound the big man made, from the rustle of the poncho liner to the last spatter of drops hitting the ground, Allen nearly laughed aloud. When Mouse climbed down beside him, Allen put his head close to his squad-mateâs and whispered, âI was getting all freaked out at the bad vibes, nearly talked myself into sending up flares to check for VC in the wires before I realized itâs only because the damn rain has stopped.â
âKnow what you mean. I kept wakinâ myself up with my breathinâ.â
âWell, everything seems okay. Alpha Squad sent up a flare a while ago, but nothing there.â
âMaybe Charlieâs spooked with the rain stoppinâ, gone home to wash his socks. Sleep good, man.â
Allen went back to his hole behind the sandbags. Before he lay down, however, he studied the darkness again: There were people out there, he could feel them. Still, there was nothing he could do sitting here. Might as well sleep.
It began an hour later with a scream, a sound of distilled mortal terror that jerked every man upright, hair on end and gun in hand, a sound that seemed to last a lot longer in the memory than the two or three seconds before the grenade exploded. A man in Alpha Squad had been peaceably in his hole, either dozing or staring out into the night, when a grenade dropped out of nowhere and he had felt Death rolling around between his boots. That explosion was followed rapidly by three more, then
Move move MOVE!
and a mounting wall of noise, bursts and firing and yelps of pain. Allen caught a snatch of Flores shouting into his radio and braced himself for the resulting artillery, but for what came, there could be no bracing. Two of the shells came to earth twenty feet from the perimeter, the concussion slamming into any person still above ground. There were four men in the fighting hole Allenâs squad had dug for two, a press of elbows and gun butts, and the sides of the hole half collapsed into them with the incoming shell. All four crouched over each otherâs knees and shoulders, hands gripping their helmets. Allen, squeezed in against Mouse, had a crazy image of what a passing bird would see: four round rocks jammed together in a hole. Then the third shell landed, nearly on top of the first; for several long seconds, he couldnât think, couldnât even breathe.
Did he imagine a high, panicky voice screaming instructions to correct the distant guns? He must have imagined it, he couldnât have heard anything in the cacophony of explosions, screaming men, and gunfire that followed. Flares and smoke filled the air, flashes of launched grenades shot more or less blindly into the dark, the flares throwing dancing shadows from the trees, shadows that hid the enemy. Both sides flung death at each other across the cleared ground; inside the perimeter, men died.
Years later, when Allen happened to step into a discotheque with its pounding music and pulsing strobes, he was instantly snatched back to that night in the jungle. The flash of shells and sweep of tracers, the weird harsh light of the flares, the heat and confusion and the noise of all-out battle overwhelmed the senses, leaving a man with no choices but to curl up in a fetal position, or rise to his feet and hurl mad defiance out at the terrifying dark with all the breath in his lungs and all the ammunition in his possession.
One of their radios was still working, or perhaps the distant artillery had found its error. The next rounds hit lower ground; one thin scream, indistinct words over and
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