almost anything in the bush. You came to admire—and even love —all sorts of people you probably wouldn’t stand within ten feet of back home. The most popular guy in the platoon—Rag Top Willy—was a good old boy from Texarkana who admitted one night to Pruett that he’d once viciously beaten a black boy for nothing other than the color of his skin.
Yet some of Rag Top’s best friends in the platoon were black, and though they knew his story, these self-respecting men trusted Rag Top—and Rag Top trusted them. Men would abide almost anyone squatting in the hole next to them if it meant they’d likely wake up for another day—because waking up for one more day meant you were that much closer to going home.
But a coward?
Cowardice had its own color. If you abided a coward, you might as well be carrying a one hundred and eighty-pound grenade with the pin pulled; death was just a matter of time.
PFC Pruett stewed all day. He pretended not to notice the sideways looks. He’d been a popular soldier right from the start, but that was fading fast. He volunteered for point on that night’s patrol. The fact that the countryside all around them was hot as a fry-cook’s griddle only made PFC Jimmy Pruett happier: he prayed all day to find Charlie out there in the jungle; knew the only way he was going to redeem himself was to choke down that motherfucking fear and get some.
Kill or be killed. Either way, Jimmy Pruett was returning to camp a goddamned hero.
The patrol found the shit, all right—came upon a small contingent of Vietcong who were unaware how deeply the Americans had penetrated into their perimeter. The eight members of the night patrol killed all nine of the Vietcong encampment without firing a shot. PFC Jimmy Pruett killed two for himself. He also took a finger from every enemy killed. When he returned to the camp, he stood in the middle of them—those who’d returned with him, those who were trying in vain to sleep, those who stood post. Eventually the platoon gathered around him. PFC Jimmy Pruett—the soldier who failed them earlier; the man whose courage had become an ever increasing doubt in the minds of those he’d sworn to stand beside and protect—laid the gook fingers down, one by one, in a small pile that resembled kindling that might start a small campfire. Jimmy Pruett shined his standard issue flashlight on the trophies for exactly one minute. He timed it on his watch. Sixty seconds of silence; one minute of a prayer-like atmosphere. Then he extinguished the light and crawled into his sack.
He fell asleep without ever saying a word and no one questioned the courage or the will of the soldier named Pruett again.
“I focus on the pain
the only thing that's real
the old familiar sting
try to kill it all away
but I remember everything”
Johnny Cash,
Performing
Nine Inch Nails,
Hurt
Chapter 6
THE BADGE of the Sublette County Sheriff’s Department was really a simple thing, made of something like thirty percent silver and the rest Pruett didn’t know what. He was no metallurgist. It was a five-point star with the word “SHERIFF” arced across its top and another five-point star with some basic stenciling that had an Old West feel to it. There were only six things Pruett demanded his deputies to know about the symbol they wore over their hearts:
The five points represented their mission as officers of the law.
Peace.
Service.
Loyalty.
Protection.
Honor.
The sixth was that he expected every one of them to be willing to lay down their life for any citizen of the County of Sublette, which they served. It wasn’t in the oath, but James Pruett made them swear it to him.
Pruett polished the metal with a callused thumb pressed beneath a shirttail. He put the badge down on the table and reached for the bottle. He half-filled his glass tumbler and drank until it was empty. The smoky whiskey reached his bowels and stoked him like a
Yet some of Rag Top’s best friends in the platoon were black, and though they knew his story, these self-respecting men trusted Rag Top—and Rag Top trusted them. Men would abide almost anyone squatting in the hole next to them if it meant they’d likely wake up for another day—because waking up for one more day meant you were that much closer to going home.
But a coward?
Cowardice had its own color. If you abided a coward, you might as well be carrying a one hundred and eighty-pound grenade with the pin pulled; death was just a matter of time.
PFC Pruett stewed all day. He pretended not to notice the sideways looks. He’d been a popular soldier right from the start, but that was fading fast. He volunteered for point on that night’s patrol. The fact that the countryside all around them was hot as a fry-cook’s griddle only made PFC Jimmy Pruett happier: he prayed all day to find Charlie out there in the jungle; knew the only way he was going to redeem himself was to choke down that motherfucking fear and get some.
Kill or be killed. Either way, Jimmy Pruett was returning to camp a goddamned hero.
The patrol found the shit, all right—came upon a small contingent of Vietcong who were unaware how deeply the Americans had penetrated into their perimeter. The eight members of the night patrol killed all nine of the Vietcong encampment without firing a shot. PFC Jimmy Pruett killed two for himself. He also took a finger from every enemy killed. When he returned to the camp, he stood in the middle of them—those who’d returned with him, those who were trying in vain to sleep, those who stood post. Eventually the platoon gathered around him. PFC Jimmy Pruett—the soldier who failed them earlier; the man whose courage had become an ever increasing doubt in the minds of those he’d sworn to stand beside and protect—laid the gook fingers down, one by one, in a small pile that resembled kindling that might start a small campfire. Jimmy Pruett shined his standard issue flashlight on the trophies for exactly one minute. He timed it on his watch. Sixty seconds of silence; one minute of a prayer-like atmosphere. Then he extinguished the light and crawled into his sack.
He fell asleep without ever saying a word and no one questioned the courage or the will of the soldier named Pruett again.
“I focus on the pain
the only thing that's real
the old familiar sting
try to kill it all away
but I remember everything”
Johnny Cash,
Performing
Nine Inch Nails,
Hurt
Chapter 6
THE BADGE of the Sublette County Sheriff’s Department was really a simple thing, made of something like thirty percent silver and the rest Pruett didn’t know what. He was no metallurgist. It was a five-point star with the word “SHERIFF” arced across its top and another five-point star with some basic stenciling that had an Old West feel to it. There were only six things Pruett demanded his deputies to know about the symbol they wore over their hearts:
The five points represented their mission as officers of the law.
Peace.
Service.
Loyalty.
Protection.
Honor.
The sixth was that he expected every one of them to be willing to lay down their life for any citizen of the County of Sublette, which they served. It wasn’t in the oath, but James Pruett made them swear it to him.
Pruett polished the metal with a callused thumb pressed beneath a shirttail. He put the badge down on the table and reached for the bottle. He half-filled his glass tumbler and drank until it was empty. The smoky whiskey reached his bowels and stoked him like a
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