The Village by Bing West Page B

chilling game, the two shadows moved, fast and away. Riley responded while the two Viet Cong were still getting to their knees in preparation for their sprint to the rear. He jumped to his feet, jerked the pin and flung the grenade with the body motion of a javelin thrower. The Viet Cong were running at a diagonal to the Marines and Riley’s excited throw carried the grenade right over the heads of the runners. O’Rourke let loose a long burst of tracers at the fleeing figures, and in three seconds it was over, with nothing to shoot at except blackness and the fading sound of fast feet.
    â€œDamn,” O’Rourke said. “I wanted them.”
    And with that he was off, weaving like the halfback he once had been, rifle held high, moving forward at a driving run to close behind the Viet Cong and cut them down. Sullivan up and moving. Then Riley. O’Rourke out fifty yards, seventy-five, one hundred. Down flat at a dike, rifle on bipods in front of him. Searching, listening, straining.
    Nothing. Nothing but the hoarseness of his own breath and the pounding strides of the others coming up behind him. Sullivan flopped down, followed by Riley. All listened for a moment before admitting that the Viet Cong were gone.
    â€œI think I hit one,” Riley said.
    â€œYou mean you might have brushed one with that fast-ball of yours,” O’Rourke replied. “The idea was to blow them up, not set a world’s record for the longest grenade throw.”
    â€œSorry, I got a little excited.”
    â€œNo big thing. This ambush was compromised long before we got here. The VC were playing with us. We’re just going to have to think these things through more. It’s going to take more planning. Let’s head back in.”
    When they returned to the fort, the Marine sentry yelled to Sullivan, “Battalion wants the report, ASAP, Sarge.”
    O’Rourke, distinctly out of spirits, said, “Let me have that damn thing. Horse Three, Horse Three, this is Charlie Five. Saw two VC, threw one grenade and fired sixty rounds. No friendly casualties. No enemy casualties. Over.”
    The radio sputtered.
    â€œHorse Three, I told you what I saw. You can do what you want with it. Over.”
    The radio sputtered again.
    â€œAye-aye, sir. Out.”
    Garcia spoke up. “What did battalion want, Lieutenant?”
    â€œThey’re claiming one VC probably killed and one wounded,” O’Rourke replied. “The operations officer said no Marine can fire sixty shots at an enemy and miss.”

9
    By August the twelve Marines had engaged in seventy firefights and their dress reflected the experience they had gained. Brannon and several others bought camouflage uniforms sewn skin-tight so when they walked down a black trail their passage would not be betrayed by the swish-swish of pants’ legs rubbing together. Sueter took to wearing black-and-green-striped shorts and a green T-shirt, paying in mosquito bites for his silent passage. Lummis favored Levi’s and sneakers. Although no American could match Luong, who went barefoot whenever he had point, the Marines were improving. From the start, the Marines could shoot better than the Viet Cong. Long hours on the ranges of boot camp under the tutelage of stern drill instructors had seen to that. And after hundreds of patrols in the village the Marines were learning to move as well as the Viet Cong. The wish to keep on living was seeing to that.
    Staying alive was a matter of minimizing one’s own mistakes while capitalizing upon those of the opponent. Plus a little bit of luck and much common sense. Like the night O’Rourke tried to force the Viet Cong into error. He had a simple plan.
    â€œSullivan,” he said, “I’ll go out first by the main trail and set in near the market. You give me a fifteen-minute head start, then take the back trail up to the dunes. With both entrances to Binh Yen Noi covered, we stand a