Read Online Fields of Fire by James Webb - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Webb
Tags: Fiction, General, Historical, Asia, History, Military, War & Military, War stories, Vietnam War, 1961-1975, Vietnamese Conflict, Southeast Asia, Literature & Fiction - General
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First Sergeant was dead.
And it wasn't fun anymore.
On his second night in An Hoa he was awakened by a company clerk who told him that the company was in contact, and asked him if he wanted to watch. It was past midnight. He couldn't quite understand the man's meaning. Do I want to watch, he pondered over and over, gathering his flak jacket and helmet and weapon. Do I want to watch. Why? Is it on TV?
But he dutifully followed the man and joined several clerks from the company office on top of a large sandbag bunker. They pointed north, across the river, and he followed their fingers as his eyes searched into the hell that was known as the Arizona Valley.
And he sat, feeling slightly obscene, as if he were a peeping tom to someone's private doings, and watched his company dying across the river. Red and green tracers interlaced and careened into the black night air. Mortars and B-40 rocket-propelled grenades flashed and impacted, spewing dirt with whumps that he could hear from the three-mile distance he was watching. Illumination flares dangled like tiny streetlights in the distance.
He was washed with a mix of helplessness and fear that overrode any emotion he had ever experienced, and continued to stare, an armchair spectator to the sport of dying. And tomorrow, he said over and over as he watched, tomorrow that will be my very own Vietnam.
4
Ogre was bleeding right outside the hole. Lying there, inching through the dust, grinning for a fat man's ass.
Not supposed to be grinning.
I'll bet that mother's stoned again, fretted Snake. Then he doubted himself. Been out on the listening post for five hours, now. Wouldn't smoke on no LP. Not out here. Not even Ogre. Then he double-doubted himself. Maybe Ogre would. Crazy fucker. He peered across an eternity of dust that began abruptly at the edge of his fighting hole. Ogre was fifteen feet away. Ogre peered back, the ugly square face grinning, yes grinning, behind the droopy moustache.
“Hey-y-y-y, Snake. You seen Baby Cakes?”
Came from the bomb crater. That's close, mused Snake. But they won't get any closer. Too late for them. We got 'em stopped.
An illumination flare popped in front of him and floated down on its parachute, brightening the distant treeline. It swung lazily, a phosphorescent pendulum. Snake peeped the crater in the flare's dim light. Fifty feet away, maybe. The flare flickered once, twice, and was out. Another grenade exploded in front of the hole. Ogre screamed again. He was maybe two feet closer.
“Snake. Heyyyy, man. Where's Baby Cakes?”
Machine gun from the treeline again. The rounds ripped through the perimeter like a daisy chain of cherry bombs. Got to find Phony. Snake bolted to the next hole, a quick crabwalk.
“Phony!”
Phony grinned earnestly, chewing C-rat gum, as if he were expecting some insane or at least irresponsible request from Snake, and grooving on it. “What's Ogre doing, man?”
Snake shrugged impatiently, his eyes on the crater. “Looking for Baby Cakes. Listen. See that crater?” Phony nodded. “There's four, maybe five gooks in it. We been keeping 'em down but we can't put any rounds out now. Might hit the LP Christ knows where they are, with Ogre back here. Chuck a couple in the crater. OK?” Phony nodded again, still grinning, but concentratedly now. “And don't throw too hard. LP's somewhere on the other side. Hear?” Phony nodded yet again, apparently unconcerned. He was the only member of the squad with the accuracy to pull it off.
Another illumination round popped behind the tree-line and Phony raised his head six inches out of his hole and peeped the crater. He gestured to Snake, popping his gum crazily. No sweat. He prepared two grenades. Snake crawled quickly back to his own hole. AK-47 bullets followed him. They raised dust near Ogre, too. But they were fired from the treeline, two hundred yards away, and most of them went high, into the center of the perimeter. Ogre screamed again. He was
And it wasn't fun anymore.
On his second night in An Hoa he was awakened by a company clerk who told him that the company was in contact, and asked him if he wanted to watch. It was past midnight. He couldn't quite understand the man's meaning. Do I want to watch, he pondered over and over, gathering his flak jacket and helmet and weapon. Do I want to watch. Why? Is it on TV?
But he dutifully followed the man and joined several clerks from the company office on top of a large sandbag bunker. They pointed north, across the river, and he followed their fingers as his eyes searched into the hell that was known as the Arizona Valley.
And he sat, feeling slightly obscene, as if he were a peeping tom to someone's private doings, and watched his company dying across the river. Red and green tracers interlaced and careened into the black night air. Mortars and B-40 rocket-propelled grenades flashed and impacted, spewing dirt with whumps that he could hear from the three-mile distance he was watching. Illumination flares dangled like tiny streetlights in the distance.
He was washed with a mix of helplessness and fear that overrode any emotion he had ever experienced, and continued to stare, an armchair spectator to the sport of dying. And tomorrow, he said over and over as he watched, tomorrow that will be my very own Vietnam.
4
Ogre was bleeding right outside the hole. Lying there, inching through the dust, grinning for a fat man's ass.
Not supposed to be grinning.
I'll bet that mother's stoned again, fretted Snake. Then he doubted himself. Been out on the listening post for five hours, now. Wouldn't smoke on no LP. Not out here. Not even Ogre. Then he double-doubted himself. Maybe Ogre would. Crazy fucker. He peered across an eternity of dust that began abruptly at the edge of his fighting hole. Ogre was fifteen feet away. Ogre peered back, the ugly square face grinning, yes grinning, behind the droopy moustache.
“Hey-y-y-y, Snake. You seen Baby Cakes?”
Came from the bomb crater. That's close, mused Snake. But they won't get any closer. Too late for them. We got 'em stopped.
An illumination flare popped in front of him and floated down on its parachute, brightening the distant treeline. It swung lazily, a phosphorescent pendulum. Snake peeped the crater in the flare's dim light. Fifty feet away, maybe. The flare flickered once, twice, and was out. Another grenade exploded in front of the hole. Ogre screamed again. He was maybe two feet closer.
“Snake. Heyyyy, man. Where's Baby Cakes?”
Machine gun from the treeline again. The rounds ripped through the perimeter like a daisy chain of cherry bombs. Got to find Phony. Snake bolted to the next hole, a quick crabwalk.
“Phony!”
Phony grinned earnestly, chewing C-rat gum, as if he were expecting some insane or at least irresponsible request from Snake, and grooving on it. “What's Ogre doing, man?”
Snake shrugged impatiently, his eyes on the crater. “Looking for Baby Cakes. Listen. See that crater?” Phony nodded. “There's four, maybe five gooks in it. We been keeping 'em down but we can't put any rounds out now. Might hit the LP Christ knows where they are, with Ogre back here. Chuck a couple in the crater. OK?” Phony nodded again, still grinning, but concentratedly now. “And don't throw too hard. LP's somewhere on the other side. Hear?” Phony nodded yet again, apparently unconcerned. He was the only member of the squad with the accuracy to pull it off.
Another illumination round popped behind the tree-line and Phony raised his head six inches out of his hole and peeped the crater. He gestured to Snake, popping his gum crazily. No sweat. He prepared two grenades. Snake crawled quickly back to his own hole. AK-47 bullets followed him. They raised dust near Ogre, too. But they were fired from the treeline, two hundred yards away, and most of them went high, into the center of the perimeter. Ogre screamed again. He was
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