James Crumley - One to Count Cadence

What could I answer? Me with my trembling fingers knocking on the hard wood stock and me with a fine quiver in my guts and the blood in my ears like thunder…

"Shit. Shoot the bastards."

No one cheered, but they listened quietly as I did all that Hollywood crap about firing on my signal and short bursts, and made a Jimmy Cagney joke about not shooting any AP dirty rats by mistake. I didn't get any laughs either. A snort from Quinn, a few nervous shuffles, a slap or two at bugs, a muffled cough or prayer, then everyone was quiet, watching the racing lights.

I waited until the line was what seemed close enough, and slid my rifle over the wall. Then I wondered how Pete had climbed the ladder with two weapons, then I worried about not mentioning setting battle sights at three hundred yards. The lights of the first jeep were fuzzy in my peep sight, and I waited, and then I screamed.

The crash of my shot seemed like an explosion in my hands, loud, too loud, and the recoil knocked me back like an unexpected blow. The whole complexion of the night changed. The walled roof, secure and safe as it had seemed earlier, became a naked, frightened place, as if some unnamed part of me had been launched into the distant battle, leaping across the border between a safe here and an unbelievably dangerous there. It wasn't like I thought it would be. It wasn't easy to shoot at men, or a grinding noise and light which betrays where men are. I had never thought that it would be otherwise – but it was so frightening, as if I had to cross that time and space and stand stupid and scared and shooting at myself. I was numb, but all the nerves of my body were on fire, fire.

The others must have felt the shock too. Novotny and Quinn had fired only one or two rounds, Collins a couple more, and Cagle had split the night with a clip-long burst which had jammed his carbine. But Morning fired steadily, rocking with the recoil, then back into firing position, his rhythm broken only by the ping of his clip as the last round ejected and the click and snap as he loaded another.

I whipped back to the jeeps, sorry they must be gone, and found they had barely moved. I fired again, and again, and the more times I pulled the trigger, the easier it was, the more numb my nerves became. Quickly the rifle was as light as a wand and magically waved, cleanly leading the first jeep, the recoil gone, and I knew, knew, knew I was hitting the jeep, and fired again. Then we were firing and screaming and laughing and lost.

The beams of many vehicles now splashed everywhere, up and down and around, swinging and bouncing over the grass as if hundreds of hunting giants were running with flashlights. But some jeeps had stopped, and burned like jubilant bonfires. As the Huks passed the gravel road which led to Ops, the first jeep skidded and the second hit it, turning it over in the road, and it rode its passengers for awhile. The third clipped the left rear of the second, trying to swing around it, so both stalled in opposite ditches near where the first burned. The remaining three whipped off the road in a tight, dusty circle, then came back going in the other direction. They caught an AP three-quarter which was following with its lights out, and knocked it off the road. Other vehicles behind it scattered like frightened quail, flying faster the further away they got from the hunters.

One down, two stopped, three away, and our side stood up to cheer, to shout and fire off-hand at the cluster of wrecked jeeps. We had drawn only a casual answering fire: once or twice a bass string had been plucked over our heads but who knew where it had been aimed, or even come from. The Huks were busy with the Air Police who now had eight or ten jeeps and three-quarters and two small armored riot cars, but they still had a moment for my bunch. Just a moment, but they hit the front of the building with six.50 caliber rounds. The building rocked as the slugs snipped through the cinder blocks as if they were gingerbread. A brick chip or a ricochet kicked Quinn's M-l out of his hands, but nothing else was hit on the roof. Quinn cursed and crawled after the weapon. There was noticeably less cheering and absolutely no standing any more. A grunt and gurgle came from the other side of Novotny, followed by Cagle's surprised voice, "I didn't know I was scared. I didn't know."

Fewer bursts seared away from the two fallen jeeps, then they stopped completely after the two riot cars fired tear gas grenades with their cannon. Gradually all the firing stopped as three men ran out of the gas cloud. Two had their hands in their faces, but one held a rifle. Single rounds and short, concise bursts rattled again until the one with the rifle and one without did flip-flop dances across the road into the ditches. Morning still rocked and fired until he finished the clip. The ping, as his last round ejected, seemed too small a punctuation to end so much noise.

But of course the night was not over yet. A grinding crash came from the fence behind us. I ran to the back wall. A jeep had hit the corner of the fence and now sat with its right rear wheel hanging three feet up in the wire like a little dog cocking its leg to pee.

"Who is it?" I shouted down.

"Why don't ya'll turn your goddamn lights on?" a tired voice drawled.

"Didn't want any you dumb-ass airmen shooting us," Cagle sneered.

"Doesn't matter," I said. "It's all over now."

"She-it," the voice said from behind the tilted headlights, "She-it." Two APs climbed out the driver's side, then walked toward the road. "Fuckin' ground-pounders hidin' in the dark like a bunch a fuckin' niggers."

"Might jes be a might careful callin' a man that when he got a gun pointed right at ya'll's lily white ass," Morning sang out. "'Member ya'll can't see my ass in th' dark." The airmen hurried on.

I stopped the laughter and chatter before it could start. "Cagle, downstairs and turn on the floodlights. Novotny, Quinn, stay up here. You spot anyone in the grass, don't fire, but sing out so I'll know. Collins, Levenson, Haddad, take the inside of the compound, one by the jeep, one at the gate, and one walking." The lights came on; most of the fires around the wrecks were being extinguished, and headlights were bounding down our road. Things were trying to reach normal, when the jeep slid up behind our three-quarter, and Lt. Dottlinger leaped out and ran for the gate and shouted, "Open up!" as if he were under fire.

"Of all the bastards in the world…" Morning mused.

"You didn't show your badge, sir," I answered, agreeing with Morning. I had forgotten that Dottlinger was the OD, but I should have known.

"I haven't got it. Is that you Krummel? What are you doing on the roof? Sightseeing?"

"No sir. The Trick is up here." Jesus, I thought, here we go again, around the chickenshitberry bush.

"What for?" He peered harder into the lights, a muddled, myopic chicken. "Are those weapons loaded, sergeant?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you fire? Did you? I want to know. I'll have to report this."

"Yes, sir."

"Who authorized you to open the ammunition locker? Who ordered you to open fire? Just who, Sgt. Krummel?"

"Good question," I muttered. Levenson giggled.

"What's that, sergeant? Damn those lights, anyway," he said, shielding his eyes.

"He must really be pissed," Morning whispered. "He cursed."

"We were fired upon, sir. I assumed in an emergency that I was authorized to answer. I couldn't reach the major, Capt. Saunders, or you, so I assumed responsibility myself."

"Oh," he said, tugging at his ear to let us know he was thinking. "All right," he said, obviously disappointed. "I suppose we can find a regulation to cover the situation for our report. Open the gate."

"Sir, I can't unlock the gate from here unless you put your badge in the key-box."