The Village by Bing West Page A

the shadow of the far bank.
    Alone among the patrollers, O’Rourke had no concern with the river traffic. Worried about their rear, he had crawled forward to the river’s edge, slowly pulled his body over the bank, twisted around and, half-lying and half-standing, set the bipods of his automatic rifle facing back across the paddy in the direction from which the patrol had come. Despite himself, twice he dozed off for a few seconds, lying in the soft, yielding mud with his head resting on his crossed arms. Each time he awoke in fear, imagining that a Viet Cong was standing just above him, about to shoot.
    The second time he came awake, he peered at the shrubs along the trail with ferocious concentration, trying to squeeze the sleep from his brain. The harder he stared, the more he was certain two of the clumps were moving, yet so slowly that it was like watching the minute hand on a watch. So he fixed in his mind the location of the two objects, closed his eyes and held absolutely still for half a minute. When he reopened his eyes, the dark shadows were not where he had fixed them to be.
    He looked around and saw none of the other patrollers. He had told no one he was shifting to stake out their rear, and now watching the slow stalk of the enemy, he felt more aggravated than afraid. The enemy was still over fifty yards from the patrol line, but if he fired, his tracers would pass by the unsuspecting Marines and they might fire back at him.
    Riley solved his dilemma. Alerted by instinct, he had turned his attention from the river to look back over his shoulder. His eyes had immediately picked out the infiltrators and he glanced around to see if the other patrollers had spotted them. He could see only PFC Guadalupe Garcia, a shy, soft-spoken young Marine who was immensely popular with the Vietnamese. Riley crawled over to him.
    â€œLupe,” he whispered, “they’re behind us.”
    â€œI thought I saw something move back there about a half-hour ago,” Garcia whispered in reply.
    Both men rolled onto their backs and looked past their feet toward the paddy and the bush-bordered main trail.
    â€œSee them?” Riley whispered. To him the prone figures were easily distinguishable from the other shadows.
    Garcia squinted and strained for several seconds before responding by holding up two fingers next to Riley’s cheek.
    â€œYeh,” Riley whispered.
    â€œBetter tell Sullivan.”
    â€œSullivan hell. I’m going for O’Rourke. You watch those two and don’t move.”
    As silent as a crab on sand, Riley scurried between the bushes along the bank to the spot where O’Rourke was supposed to be lying. It was empty. This made Riley stop crawling and cast his eyes about frantically for a few seconds until he saw O’Rourke’s head and rifle. He crawled on his stomach up the embankment until his face was only inches from O’Rourke’s.
    â€œThey’re out there,” he hissed, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
    By way of reply, O’Rourke only smiled and held up a grenade. By now the other patrollers were crawling in toward the lieutenant, having seen Riley slip by. The activity among the patrollers alerted the two infiltrators, who froze among the shrubs. Blending with the dark shadows, they waited for the moment of danger to pass.
    â€œLet me throw the grenade,” Riley whispered.
    â€œNo,” O’Rourke whispered. “Let them get closer.”
    â€œAw, come on. I spotted them. Let me throw.”
    â€œAll right. But let them move in first, so we don’t miss.”
    Riley put down his rifle and picked up the grenade, holding it in his right hand and hooking his left forefinger through the pull loop. O’Rourke squirmed to snuggle his stock into his shoulder and placed his cheek along the wood of the receiver. They waited. Several minutes eased by.
    Then, either having decided they had been detected or thinking better of their