unconscious.
Bailey said, “The kid’s right. It’s too damn quiet.”
“They’re waiting,” Chuck said.
“For Chrissakes, Silverstein, will you shut up?”
“Scared, Fiore?” Bailey taunted.
“Of course not. I can’t think of any place I’d rather be than up
to my ass in mud, waiting for some slant-eyed bastard to turn me into
hamburger.”
At the first staccato rifle report, he reacted on instinct. As he
dove for the ground, Chuck Silverstein was jerked off his feet and tumbled like
a rag doll onto the grass. Beside him, Bailey, too, dove for cover. “Christ,”
Bailey said, “it’s a fucking sniper.”
“Stay with me!” Danny barked, and began crawling on his belly,
seeking cover in the thick undergrowth. But the night was as black as he
imagined hell must be, and he was hopelessly lost. He knew with a sudden
clarity that he was going to die. He was twenty goddamn years old and he was
going to die here in this rotten jungle in a rich man’s war that he’d wanted no
part of.
There was more fire, and then, behind him, a sharp grunt followed
by a slow sighing, like a snake slithering through the grass. “Bailey!” he
whispered. “Are you still with me?”
Bailey didn’t answer. The rifle fire began again, and he couldn’t
figure out where it was coming from. The night sounds of the jungle confused
him. Where the hell was Bailey? Why hadn’t he answered? Suddenly, it became
imperative that he go back and find him.
Belly dragging in the mud, he began inching his way backward. He’d
gone just a few feet when he bumped up against an immovable object. He reached
out a hand to touch it, and his hand came back sticky. “Shit,” he said. “Oh,
shit.”
He was quietly sick, there in the mud. Behind him, all was
stillness. He didn’t have time to mourn. That would come later. Right now,
the only thing that mattered was getting out alive. He began inching forward
again, through a pool of Bailey’s blood and his own puke. After an eternity,
he reached the shelter of the trees. Panting, his heart hammering, he hauled
himself to his feet.
And came face to face with Charlie.
The enemy. Four feet tall. Beardless. His face devoid of
expression, that damned Oriental inscrutability. He was about twelve years
old.
His rifle in his hand, his finger on the trigger, Danny froze.
He couldn’t do it.
The kid raised his rifle in slow motion. With a strange
detachment, Danny saw that it was American-made. The home of the free and the
brave, amen.
He pulled the trigger.
***
“Danny, wake up!” She shook him with brute force. His side of
the bed was saturated with sweat, and he was still making those godawful choked
sobbing sounds deep in his throat.
He awoke with a jolt, stiffened, dropped back weakly onto the
bed. Covering his eyes with a forearm, he turned away from her and curled into
a fetal position, trembling violently.
She touched his shoulder. When he didn’t resist, she drew him
into her arms and comforted him the only way she knew. His heart was slamming
against his chest with such force that she feared it would explode. “Danny?”
she whispered in terror.
In a ragged voice, he said, “It’ll run its course.”
She held him in silent desperation for what seemed hours, until
his trembling subsided and his heart rate returned to normal. He pulled away
from her then and sat on the edge of the bed with his face in his hands. “So,”
he said, “now you know my dirty little secret.”
She squeezed his shoulder. “How long have you been having these
nightmares?”
Elbows braced on his knees, he ran his fingers through his hair.
“Ever since I came back from Nam. I should have warned you, but I’m gutless.
I didn’t know how you’d react.”
Softly, she said, “It must have been terrible.”
His bark of laughter was brittle. “A real picnic.”
“Have you talked to anyone about
Bailey said, “The kid’s right. It’s too damn quiet.”
“They’re waiting,” Chuck said.
“For Chrissakes, Silverstein, will you shut up?”
“Scared, Fiore?” Bailey taunted.
“Of course not. I can’t think of any place I’d rather be than up
to my ass in mud, waiting for some slant-eyed bastard to turn me into
hamburger.”
At the first staccato rifle report, he reacted on instinct. As he
dove for the ground, Chuck Silverstein was jerked off his feet and tumbled like
a rag doll onto the grass. Beside him, Bailey, too, dove for cover. “Christ,”
Bailey said, “it’s a fucking sniper.”
“Stay with me!” Danny barked, and began crawling on his belly,
seeking cover in the thick undergrowth. But the night was as black as he
imagined hell must be, and he was hopelessly lost. He knew with a sudden
clarity that he was going to die. He was twenty goddamn years old and he was
going to die here in this rotten jungle in a rich man’s war that he’d wanted no
part of.
There was more fire, and then, behind him, a sharp grunt followed
by a slow sighing, like a snake slithering through the grass. “Bailey!” he
whispered. “Are you still with me?”
Bailey didn’t answer. The rifle fire began again, and he couldn’t
figure out where it was coming from. The night sounds of the jungle confused
him. Where the hell was Bailey? Why hadn’t he answered? Suddenly, it became
imperative that he go back and find him.
Belly dragging in the mud, he began inching his way backward. He’d
gone just a few feet when he bumped up against an immovable object. He reached
out a hand to touch it, and his hand came back sticky. “Shit,” he said. “Oh,
shit.”
He was quietly sick, there in the mud. Behind him, all was
stillness. He didn’t have time to mourn. That would come later. Right now,
the only thing that mattered was getting out alive. He began inching forward
again, through a pool of Bailey’s blood and his own puke. After an eternity,
he reached the shelter of the trees. Panting, his heart hammering, he hauled
himself to his feet.
And came face to face with Charlie.
The enemy. Four feet tall. Beardless. His face devoid of
expression, that damned Oriental inscrutability. He was about twelve years
old.
His rifle in his hand, his finger on the trigger, Danny froze.
He couldn’t do it.
The kid raised his rifle in slow motion. With a strange
detachment, Danny saw that it was American-made. The home of the free and the
brave, amen.
He pulled the trigger.
***
“Danny, wake up!” She shook him with brute force. His side of
the bed was saturated with sweat, and he was still making those godawful choked
sobbing sounds deep in his throat.
He awoke with a jolt, stiffened, dropped back weakly onto the
bed. Covering his eyes with a forearm, he turned away from her and curled into
a fetal position, trembling violently.
She touched his shoulder. When he didn’t resist, she drew him
into her arms and comforted him the only way she knew. His heart was slamming
against his chest with such force that she feared it would explode. “Danny?”
she whispered in terror.
In a ragged voice, he said, “It’ll run its course.”
She held him in silent desperation for what seemed hours, until
his trembling subsided and his heart rate returned to normal. He pulled away
from her then and sat on the edge of the bed with his face in his hands. “So,”
he said, “now you know my dirty little secret.”
She squeezed his shoulder. “How long have you been having these
nightmares?”
Elbows braced on his knees, he ran his fingers through his hair.
“Ever since I came back from Nam. I should have warned you, but I’m gutless.
I didn’t know how you’d react.”
Softly, she said, “It must have been terrible.”
His bark of laughter was brittle. “A real picnic.”
“Have you talked to anyone about
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