Cover which was being cut up.
The Doc was hunkered down, shots hitting all around him. He ignored them. He kept his eyes straight ahead on Jacobs.
Jacobs covered ground fast, despite the ache in his legs, despite the uneven ground, despite the darkness, despite the hail of bullets. He shut his eyes briefly as the glare from an RPG explosion lit the night.
He dove over the temple wall as bullets shattered it.
Once he had recovered from the impact of the jump, he grabbed the handset from Buttons’s back and radioed command.
Buttons didn’t look back. He kept his eyes trained down the sights of his rifle, firing.
The artillery began to fall. The enemy line was bombarded.
Trees exploded.
Bodies exploded.
Bunkers exploded.
Jacobs heard a whistle being blown. The arms fire began to die down.
The sound of the jungle started to push its way back into the emerging silence.
The rain started to fall again.
The water ran down Jacobs’s face. He wiped it away and saw blood on his hands. He watched it wash onto the ground, into the mud.
“Jacobs.” Stephens stood by their position now. Jacobs hadn’t even seen him walk to them. “They’ve retreated. We should start searching the surrounding area for survivors.”
“Okay, Sergeant. Get on it.”
“Yes, sir.” Stephens nodded at Jacobs. “You did good.”
“Thank you.”
“Diaz, you’re with me. Doc, Teacher needs you. He’s been hit.”
• • • • •
Stephens and Diaz walked into the destroyed section of the jungle, the section the enemy had once occupied before the bombardment had forced their retreat.
Stephens pointed to the right flank and Diaz set off in that direction. “Diaz, stop carrying that weapon low. I don’t care how fast you think you are,” ordered Stephens.
Diaz did as told but didn’t look at the sergeant.
Stephens heard the thunder.
He looked to the sky, held his rifle to his shoulder and laughed.
Teacher rounded a tree, his arm in a sling.
“Sarge.”
“What are you doing, Teacher? Get back to the Doc.”
“You seen something in a tree?” he asked.
Stephens lowered his gun. “No, I heard some thunder.”
“Thunder?”
“Don’t tell the other men this, but I’ve always hated thunder, ever since visiting my grandfather on the reservation as a young child. My grandfather told me stories of the thunderbirds.”
“Thunderbirds?”
Stephens looked to see if Diaz was out of earshot. Between them lay many dead NVA, their bodies in various types of gruesomeness. “The artillery made short work of them,” said Stephens.
“So did the platoon,” said Teacher.
“We’re the ultimate rat termination team.”
“How many did you plug?”
“I don’t know. Do you?” asked Stephens.
“Sure do. I keep count of all the dinks I drop.”
“I remember when I started in the war, I counted the number of men I’d murdered. Now I have no idea. I’ve lost count,” said Stephens.
Stephens stepped over a few of the bodies and Teacher followed.
Stephens poked at the dead with the barrel of his rifle, or gave them a kick. No movement came from them, bar what transferred from him. With some prods he could smell burnt flesh, with some kicks he could hear a sticky liquid squelch.
He heard the thunder again. This time he was not startled. He kept his composure. “No lightning,” he said.
The rain beat down hard. Blood flowed around his and Teacher’s boots.
“Jacobs did good on ambush tonight. He handled himself and fought like a full-fledged member of the platoon. He even led with skill,” said Stephens.
“Yeah, I’m kinda shocked though,” said Teacher.
“The change has started.” Stephens smiled. “He must be in the cocoon stage now. By the end of our next firefight, there is a chance; he’ll be in the beautiful, brutal, bloodied, butterfly stage. It’s sure to happen any day soon. I coulda sworn Jacobs woulda bought it quickly though. Shot as soon as guns started to bark at each other.
The Doc was hunkered down, shots hitting all around him. He ignored them. He kept his eyes straight ahead on Jacobs.
Jacobs covered ground fast, despite the ache in his legs, despite the uneven ground, despite the darkness, despite the hail of bullets. He shut his eyes briefly as the glare from an RPG explosion lit the night.
He dove over the temple wall as bullets shattered it.
Once he had recovered from the impact of the jump, he grabbed the handset from Buttons’s back and radioed command.
Buttons didn’t look back. He kept his eyes trained down the sights of his rifle, firing.
The artillery began to fall. The enemy line was bombarded.
Trees exploded.
Bodies exploded.
Bunkers exploded.
Jacobs heard a whistle being blown. The arms fire began to die down.
The sound of the jungle started to push its way back into the emerging silence.
The rain started to fall again.
The water ran down Jacobs’s face. He wiped it away and saw blood on his hands. He watched it wash onto the ground, into the mud.
“Jacobs.” Stephens stood by their position now. Jacobs hadn’t even seen him walk to them. “They’ve retreated. We should start searching the surrounding area for survivors.”
“Okay, Sergeant. Get on it.”
“Yes, sir.” Stephens nodded at Jacobs. “You did good.”
“Thank you.”
“Diaz, you’re with me. Doc, Teacher needs you. He’s been hit.”
• • • • •
Stephens and Diaz walked into the destroyed section of the jungle, the section the enemy had once occupied before the bombardment had forced their retreat.
Stephens pointed to the right flank and Diaz set off in that direction. “Diaz, stop carrying that weapon low. I don’t care how fast you think you are,” ordered Stephens.
Diaz did as told but didn’t look at the sergeant.
Stephens heard the thunder.
He looked to the sky, held his rifle to his shoulder and laughed.
Teacher rounded a tree, his arm in a sling.
“Sarge.”
“What are you doing, Teacher? Get back to the Doc.”
“You seen something in a tree?” he asked.
Stephens lowered his gun. “No, I heard some thunder.”
“Thunder?”
“Don’t tell the other men this, but I’ve always hated thunder, ever since visiting my grandfather on the reservation as a young child. My grandfather told me stories of the thunderbirds.”
“Thunderbirds?”
Stephens looked to see if Diaz was out of earshot. Between them lay many dead NVA, their bodies in various types of gruesomeness. “The artillery made short work of them,” said Stephens.
“So did the platoon,” said Teacher.
“We’re the ultimate rat termination team.”
“How many did you plug?”
“I don’t know. Do you?” asked Stephens.
“Sure do. I keep count of all the dinks I drop.”
“I remember when I started in the war, I counted the number of men I’d murdered. Now I have no idea. I’ve lost count,” said Stephens.
Stephens stepped over a few of the bodies and Teacher followed.
Stephens poked at the dead with the barrel of his rifle, or gave them a kick. No movement came from them, bar what transferred from him. With some prods he could smell burnt flesh, with some kicks he could hear a sticky liquid squelch.
He heard the thunder again. This time he was not startled. He kept his composure. “No lightning,” he said.
The rain beat down hard. Blood flowed around his and Teacher’s boots.
“Jacobs did good on ambush tonight. He handled himself and fought like a full-fledged member of the platoon. He even led with skill,” said Stephens.
“Yeah, I’m kinda shocked though,” said Teacher.
“The change has started.” Stephens smiled. “He must be in the cocoon stage now. By the end of our next firefight, there is a chance; he’ll be in the beautiful, brutal, bloodied, butterfly stage. It’s sure to happen any day soon. I coulda sworn Jacobs woulda bought it quickly though. Shot as soon as guns started to bark at each other.
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