Shadows of War by Larry Bond Page B

put the truck in gear and set off in the direction the others had taken. Sergeant Wu waved the other truck after him.
    â€œIdiot peasants,” said Sergeant Wu. “They’ve never driven. But they’re the ones chosen to drive the trucks.”
    â€œWhich requires more skill, Sergeant? Combat, or driving a truck?” asked Jing Yo.
    â€œCombat, of course.”
    Jing Yo nodded. “And which is more difficult—fighting an enemy, or delivering supplies?”
    â€œI can’t fight without bullets. But I get your point.”
    Sergeant Wu reached into his pocket for his cigarettes. He shook the pack, then handed it toward Jing Yo. It was the first time he had ever offered one.
    â€œCigarette, Lieutenant?”
    â€œNo thank you.”
    Wu lit up, then took a long drag from the cigarette. He released a cloud of smoke when he exhaled.

    â€œBrave of you, running over to grab Ai Gua out,” said the sergeant. “Considering the way the trucks are rigged with explosives.”
    â€œHe is my soldier. He should expect nothing less.”
    Sergeant Wu smiled, amused, though Jing Yo did not quite understand why. It was his duty, as an officer, to look out for his men the way a father would watch his sons.
    He hadn’t thought of his duty at the moment, just understood it the same way his legs understood how to walk.
    â€œWhat was that thing you did with your foot?” asked the sergeant. “On the windshield.”
    â€œThe kick? So we could rig it properly? The windshield won’t matter—it will be blown up in a few hours.”
    â€œYou’re all right, Lieutenant. You’re tougher than I thought. And not as stuck-up.”
    Jing Yo walked over to the side of the road, examining the gouges in the earth. They would not mean anything to anyone, he decided, and could safely be left.
    â€œUh-oh,” said Wu, reading the signal from the lookout. A minute later, Private Po came running up the road.
    â€œTruck coming,” he hissed. “Old pickup.”
    â€œWe’ll stop it,” said Jing Yo. “We want them alive.”
    Jing Yo checked his uniform, then reached to his belt to undo the snap holding his pistol in its holster. Wu, rifle in hand, stood two meters away. Po trotted to the side of the road, taking up a position where he could cover the truck.
    Headlights appeared in the distance. Jing Yo put up his hand.
    The truck began to slow almost immediately. When he was sure it was going to stop, Jing Yo stepped to the side of the road and waited. The driver was a man of about fifty, thin, a wreath of white hair around his head. He reminded Jing Yo of the monks who had taught him as a young boy.
    â€œWhere are you going?” Jing Yo demanded in Vietnamese as the man rolled down his window.
    â€œWhat is the army doing here?”
    â€œWe are on official business,” said Jing Yo. “Let me see your identification.”
    The man frowned, then reached into his pocket. Sergeant Wu, meanwhile, appeared on the other side of the cab.
    The man handed out an ID card folded around some papers. Jing Yo
opened the card and unfolded the papers, looking at them first. Two were on official letterhead; a third was handwritten.
    While the lieutenant had spent several months refining his spoken Vietnamese, his reading ability lagged, and he wasn’t sure precisely what the letters said. The man appeared to be a resident of Bo Sai, a village ten kilometers to the south.
    Jing Yo knew it well: it was one of the checkpoints for tomorrow night’s advance by the main force.
    â€œWhy are you going north?” Jing Yo asked, folding the papers.
    â€œAs the doctor’s letter says. My great-aunt—”
    â€œI’m not interested in aunts, or in sob stories,” said Jing Yo sharply. “There is a curfew here. You are not to be driving.”
    â€œA curfew?”
    â€œDo you know that you are driving in the direction of China? Our