Walter Myers - Fallen Angels

Be alert, don’t think. Don’t think.

I think that time is passing and they haven’t found us. I’m thinking that if daylight comes we might live. We might be able to crawl out of this mother and see some Cong dressed like a farmer, his rifle hidden in a bush somewhere, working in the paddies.

We might be able to see the stream and get across. The helicopters might swoop us up from the ridge and save us a trip back to the hooch. All that and life, too, if daylight came.

Thou preparest a table for me in the presence of mine enemies… .

It came. The insects noticed it first. The chirping picked up. There were birds. The distant boom of artillery switched from its sporadic night rhythm to the purposeful daylight pounding.

We hadn’t heard voices all night. Now they were there again. The Congs were awake. The voices didn’t seem too close.

“I’m going to look outside,” Peewee said.

“Okay.”

He stuck his head out and looked around. When he got back in he unhooked a frag grenade from his belt. I gripped his shoulder.

“They look like they getting ready to move out,” he said.

“They headed this way?”

“No, but if any of them do…”

No more voices. Peewee was between me and the front of the hole. Our sixteens were at our side, too jammed between us and the walls of the hole to use. My legs ached. I couldn’t have run if I had wanted to.

Peewee patted me on the leg, and started to look out again. He jerked back in.

“One coming this way, the others headed away from here.”

I tensed. I flexed my hand twice, quickly. Got it back on the sixteen.

Outside the hole. Something had stopped just outside the hole.

A voice. Movement in the grass. I could see the feet. They wore thick black-soled sandals. A rifle poked in. Peewee put his hand on mine, moved my fingers off the trigger.

He moved his hand away, and my finger went back onto the trigger.

The voice again. We had disturbed the grass in front of the spider hole and the guy wasn’t sure. The feet turned and moved away.

Peewee didn’t say anything. He pushed up and looked out. A long moment passed. Peewee moved back against me.

“Most of them gone. This dude went a little way after them then stopped,” Peewee said.

“He coming back?”

“I don’t know,” Peewee said. “I think this his hole.”

The feet again. The rifle came into the hole. A voice. Peewee was right. He was nervous about the hole. Then a pole came in. On the end of the pole was a knife. It went near Peewee, then into the wall near me. The Cong above us shifted his position, then pushed the pole in again. Peewee was pushing it aside with his hand. I saw blood on Peewee’s hand. Then the pole went into the dirt near my head. It came out clean. Then it was gone.

Then a rifle was thrown into the hole. Peewee grabbed it and pulled it in. The Cong s feet followed. I pushed the sixteen into the small brown body and pulled the trigger. The body jerked backward once.

Peewee was frantically trying to pull him in on top of us.

“Get his arms!”

I could hardly move before; with the Cong in the hole I couldn’t move at all. I couldn’t reach the arms and just grabbed a piece of his shirt and pulled on that. We got him in and for a moment he was still. I thought he was dead. Then the shock of being shot must have worn off and he began to struggle.

“Don’t shoot again!” Peewee was saying.

I got one arm free and was pulling at the Cong’s hair. Peewee was trying to strangle him with one hand. The Cong was desperately trying to push his way out of the hole. Me and Peewee were desperately trying to hold him.

He got one arm out of the hole.

“Shoot him!” Peewee said.

I couldn’t find the trigger of the sixteen. Peewee had one hand around the Cong’s neck. We pulled until he stopped struggling.

We waited. The Cong was dead. I knew he was dead. The smell of death filled our small grave. The Cong’s body growled and let off gases.

“Peewee, we got to get out of here!”

Peewee started to push on the Cong. He was halfway wedged between the front of the spider hole and Peewee.

“Can’t move his ass,” Peewee was saying.

“Wait, let me pull him.”

I searched around until I found his arm. Then I pulled on it. He came down in the hole. His knees were on either side of Peewee. The three of us were wrapped around each other. I kept pulling. His head slipped past Peewee’s shoulder.

A kid. He was a damned kid. The blood stained the smooth chin. The eyes weren’t completely closed.

“Pull, man!”

I pulled. Peewee got his elbow on the Cong’s side and pushed him enough to get his arms out of the hole. He pushed up and went out.

“C’mon!”

I pushed past the dead Cong out into the open air.

I had to reach back in and get my sixteen. I felt around for the grenades, felt the Cong’s body, and left them.

I sucked in the fresh air as hard as I could. The day was clear, the sky brilliant. There were fields of rice paddies before us and in one of them a Vietnamese farmer stood. He turned toward us, still kneeling in the knee-deep water. Maybe it was his son in the hole. He stood and Peewee lifted his rifle.

He ducked down into the water again.

We left him and got to the top of the ridge. There was nobody around.

“Watch the stream,” Peewee said.

We ran down the side of the ridge until we got to the stream. There were some reeds in the water. I didn’t remember if they had been there the night before or not. I hoped they had been as we started across the stream.

Peewee was slightly ahead of me. The water turned bright crimson around him as he went through it.

“You bleeding?”

“Ain’t shit,” he said.

We were on the other side of the stream. We started moving along the stream as fast as we could. We ran for five minutes before Peewee stopped and fell to one side.

“Peewee!”

“Go on, man, I can’t make it,” he said.

“Never happen, man. I’m not leaving you, Peewee.”

“Go on, man.”

“No way, Peewee.”

I looked around for a stick or something he could use as a crutch. I didn’t see anything. My mind wasn’t working anyway. Nothing made sense. I looked at Peewee to see how he was doing. He was looking at me through the oldest eyes I had ever seen.

“Get my neck!”

He threw his arm around my neck and I pulled him to his feet. We started off again.

It took another five minutes to find the pickup zone. When we got there, it was more trouble.

It was Monaco. He was sitting against a tree. He had his head in his hands. His piece was about ten meters in front of him. I wanted to go to him, but Peewee stopped me.

“He ain’t sitting there for nothing,” he said.

I looked around. Nothing. What the hell was wrong with this damn war? You never saw anything. There was never anything there until it was on top of your ass, and you were screaming and shooting and too scared to figure out anything.

Me and Peewee found some cover and watched Monaco,

“Maybe he’s dead,” I said.

“Could be.”

Monaco moved. He straightened his legs out and then brought them back up again.

Voices. We looked to see where they came from. There was a clump of bushes off to one side. It was just a little thicker than the rest, but I could still see one branch that was a little too straight. It was the barrel of a gun pointed at Monaco.

“They got him covered. He move and he dead. They waiting for a chopper to come in and get him,” Peewee said.

We looked around, trying to spot anything else we could find. There was another suspicious clump of bushes on the other side of the pickup zone.

“Let’s get the one on this side when the chopper come,” Peewee said.