Martin Limon - Slicky Boys

I hefted the M14 in my hands. He had bullets, I didn’t. But at least I had the bayonet.

“Go ahead,” Shipton taunted. “I’ll even give you a chance. The same one I gave Whitcomb.”

Some chance. To die with a knife in the gut or a bullet through the head. I braced the rifle butt against my hip. Pain roared from my wrist.

“Too bad you’re hurt,” he said. “Makes it less challenging.”

“I’ll kick your ass anyway.”

His eyes widened. “Is that what you said to Miss Ku?”

What the hell was he talking about? Why did he think I killed Miss Ku? But if he didn’t kill her, who did? No time to think about that now. Only time to find a way to stay alive. I had to get under his skin somehow. Force him to make a mistake.

“You really cared for her, eh?” I said. “The way you cared for the admiral’s daughter?”

His face didn’t flinch.

“Not an admiral,” Shipton said. “Not yet, but she was an officer’s daughter, all right. I thought maybe she wouldn’t be like those bitches in Vietnam, just using GI’s while they’re still fucking their old boyfriends. But I was wrong.”

“They’re not all like that, Shipton. Only the ones who hook up with you.”

Keeping his eyes on me, he stepped in a slow semicircle, checking all the pathways leading into our private coliseum of death. Not a sound. No one. Only the distant hollers of men battling the fire. Shipton looked back at me.

“What’s the spirit of the bayonet fighter?” he asked.

It wasn’t a question I was expecting. I knew the answer. Everyone who’d been through basic training knew the answer.

When I was silent, however, he raised his rifle. “What’s the spirit of the bayonet fighter?”

I stared into the black hole of the bore. “To kill,” I answered.

That seemed to satisfy him. “And what are the two types of bayonet fighters?”

The rifle was still pointed at my head. I had no choice but to go along with his sick fantasy. “The quick and the dead,” I answered.

“That’s right.” He lowered the rifle. “The quick and the dead, Dreamer. Now, let’s see what type you are.”

Hope rushed through my body like an electric shock. Maybe he was crazy enough not to shoot me. At least, I’d have a chance. I gripped the rifle butt tighter, ignoring the pain in my right arm.

Keeping his eyes on me, he popped the magazine out of his M14 and ejected the round from the chamber. Run, I thought. Before I could make a move, he shuffled forward in the snow, holding the bayonet pointed straight at my eyes. He jabbed.

I backed up, but the tip of the blade caught my forearm. Blood started to trickle.

“You’re an oaf, Sueno,” he said. “I thought all you Mexes could knife-fight.”

That’s why he was after me. Why he followed me into the CID building at night and why he wrote “Dreamer” in blood on the wall of the Nurse’s hooch. Not just because I had been assigned to his case, but because I’m Mexican. He was from the south of Texas. His prejudices were probably inbred.

“Go fuck yourself, Shipton,” I said.

I backed up faster now. He followed. We circled each other, bayonets pointed.

He moved like a cat, smooth, agile-as if he’d been born to bayonet fighting. Throw him off stride, I thought. Make him angry. Do something.

“Mexicans are too tough for you, Shipton. Did they know how weak you really are? Is that what you’ve been trying to hide from all your life?”

He didn’t respond, but the features of his scarred face hardened into stone. With a yell that curdled my chilled blood, he hopped forward, jabbing the bayonet at my solar plexus. I moved to my side, not backward as he expected me to, and thrust out with a jab of my own.

I missed him completely. He parried easily, then swung the butt of his rifle around in an arc toward my head. I saw it coming and dodged. The wooden stock slammed into my shoulder, knocking me backward.

Even though my socks were soaking wet, somehow I kept my footing, but he was on me now-jabbing, thrusting, parrying. It seemed as if he had three blades on the tip of his rifle. It was all I could do to stay on my feet and keep moving away. The bayonet slashed into my wrist, into my forearm, and every time I tried to make a counterthrust, my damaged right arm failed me. Even if I’d found an opening in his awesome assault, I wouldn’t have been able to take advantage of it.

He came at me remorselessly, slashing with the bayonet, not plunging it forward for the kill, but slicing along my wrists and my arms as I tried to fend off the blows. Blood splattered in the snow. He bounced back, smiling.

“Trickier than Whitcomb,” he said softly. “But still not worth a damn.”

He closed in and slashed again. I grabbed at his bayonet with my fingers but the sharp blade bit into bone and slid free. He swiped at my arms and, with the blood flowing and my flesh shredding, he cut into my shoulder, then backed off. I leaned against a wall, gore gushing down my side and leg.

“You better think of something quick,” he suggested. “Pretty soon you won’t be able to lift your arms.”

As he came at me again, I stepped away from the wall and backed off, protecting myself as best I could. He jabbed and sliced at will. Sweat blinded me. Loss of blood was making me dizzy.

He was playing with me now, taking his time to kill, enjoying himself. Cutting me on the hands and arms as he’d cut the Nurse, and Whitcomb before her.

His piercing green eyes watched me, knowing every move I made before I made it. As if he were searching into my soul. Searching for terror.

Something rattled and crashed.

Shipton hesitated. It was a mistake.

Sometimes when you’re terrified, there’s also a sense of rage. A rage you’re hardly aware of at the time. How could he do this to me? How could he do it to the Nurse?

I leapt forward, ramming my bayonet toward his throat with every ounce of strength I had. His eyes widened as he saw the cruel blade closing in but somehow-miraculously-he swiveled his head. By a quarter of an inch, the bayonet slashed past his skull.

I charged forward blindly, completely off balance, consumed by rage. Shipton sidestepped and poleaxed me with the butt of his rifle as I passed. I crashed to the snow. Shipton pointed his bayonet down at me for the kill but something rumbled, growing louder, and he looked up.

Coal struck his cheek, opening a small blossom of blood. An old wooden cart was building up speed, rolling down the narrow pathway toward us. Atop a black pile of soot perched the cross-legged Ernie. Screaming. Chucking chunks of black rock.

The cart careened across the frozen snow of the courtyard and slammed into Shipton. He went down. Ernie leapt out of the cart, screaming and pummeling him with his bare fists.

I kicked in the powdery snow, searching for the bayonet.

Knuckles cracked on bone. Ernie was down. Shipton was up. Where the hell was the bayonet?

Shipton had his back to me, scrabbling for his weapon. He was standing now, trying with frigid fingers to jam the magazine of live ammunition into its slot.

My rifle! Where was my goddamned rifle?

Ernie scrambled to his feet, yelling. With a metallic snap, Shipton’s magazine clicked into place. He pointed the M14 at us.

Thunder rained down. I looked up.

Down each pathway more coal carts rolled. Hooded men behind them, crouched and shoving. The carts burst out of the mouths of the narrow lanes and clattered across the courtyard, all heading straight for Shipton.

He swiveled the Ml4 wildly. A round exploded-but the carts didn’t stop.

Like a herd of enraged musk ox, the carts slammed into Shipton. He crumpled. The rifle flew into the air.

With his head down like a bull, Ernie charged. Screaming, he grabbed Shipton’s rifle, slipped in the slush, and crashed to the deck.