hushed voice of Lance Corporal Burke close behind him. “Tighten up the intervals.” Stumbling, DeLong pushed ahead until his outstretched hand met the E-tool hanging from the Chief’s pack. The Chief turned sharply and slapped his hand away. For once DeLong was happy about the darkness because he couldn’t see the expression on the Chief’s face. If the looks he had received during the day were any indication, the one he was getting right now would be downright terrifying.
The going was slow and difficult, with each Marine feeling his way through the jungle as though he were blindfolded. Stumbles and falls were followed by a flurry of curses that covered everything from the stinking country to the Corps to the God responsible for jungles and darkness and all discomfort in general.
The lieutenant knew that moving through the Arizona in the dark was a potentially lethal game of blind-man’s buff, so when he felt their last position was far enough behind them, he called another halt and told the sergeant to set up a night perimeter with the CP in the center. The Marines stripped off their packs, and those who had them dug out jungle utility shirts and put them on. The squads quickly worked out a two-hour watch schedule. Sergeant Blackwell went whispering squad to squad, selecting men for the listening posts that would be set up below and above the platoon. He leaned in close, almost finding his victims by Braille. The LPs were an early warning device designed to save the rest of the unit from deadly surprises. They were the canaries in the coal mine. And though the concept was sound, it it seldom worked out for the canaries.
Third Squad was at the head of the column when they stopped, and in the highest position when the sergeant felt his way into their area. “Burke,” he whispered with as much authority as a whisper could command.
“Over here,” Burke answered.
The sergeant poked blindly into the spot the voice came from until he reached an obstruction wearing a flak jacket. “I need an LP up the mountain about a hundred feet,” he said into the darkness.
“Anyone in particular?”
“It’s your squad,” the sergeant said. “But make it a three-man LP. Send one of the new guys along. He can use the experience, and with three, maybe somebody can get some decent sleep.”
“Send three and make one a new guy. Are you sure it’s my squad, Sergeant?” Burke asked, feeling safely anonymous in the dark.
“Maybe you want me to radio the base and get Strader to make the decision for you.”
It was difficult to have a conversation with someone when you couldn’t see faces. You couldn’t get a read on someone’s intent. What seemed to be anger might be sarcasm. Then again, it might not. “It’s my squad,” Burke relented, turning to the invisible men around him. “Tanner, Chief, take one of the FNGs and set up an LP about one hundred paces upgrade.”
A steady stream of bitching in a Southern drawl issued from Tanner’s position. “Shit, Burke. Why me? I thought we was close.”
“We’ll still be close, Buck. At least as close as a hundred paces can be. But do me a favor, make the paces long ones.”
Tanner made a show of temper gathering his gear, but it was completely wasted because no one could see it. Even Tanner couldn’t see it himself. “Shit, man. I hope you ain’t gonna let a little power go to your head.”
“I don’t have any power. I just have headaches.” Burke tried to sense the spot in the blackness in front of him where the Chief might be. “Chief. Where the hell are you?” He was startled when a voice as smooth as whipped butter sounded in his ear. “Here,” was all it said.
Burke reached out but felt nothing. It was like talking to a ghost. “Collect one of the new guys and head up the mountain. And stay sharp.” He had often seen the Chief dragging the blade of that big stag-horn knife across a whetstone, honing it to a razor’s edge, and he immediately regretted using the word “sharp.” Now that he was squad leader, he would have to choose his words more carefully.
The Chief took a few steps and reached down into the dark, catching hold of the collar of a flak jacket. “Which one are you?” he asked.
A voice feigning enthusiasm drifted up. “DeLong,” it said.
The Chief tugged, pulling the Marine to his feet. “Let’s go.”
Haber pushed DeLong’s rifle into his hands as he was hauled away. The two privates weren’t on the buddy program, but they had been traveling the same path together since Okinawa and took some comfort in a shared misery. Being the new guy in an established unit was difficult, which made a companion going through the same experience invaluable. Now, as the three Marines moved off into the night, he was the single odd man out for the first time, and his relief that the Chief’s hand had found DeLong’s collar and not his was a reason for considerable guilt.
The LP detail left the perimeter, crossed a shallow ravine, and started up a lower slope of the Ong Thu. The Chief led the trio, followed by DeLong and then Tanner, who was keeping an audible count of his steps.
“Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three.”
Each number made DeLong flinch, and his apprehension grew with the count. The idea that the growing numbers emphasized how far they were from the platoon was somehow a secondary concern to the actual sound of the counting that seemed to say over and over to anyone listening in the darkness, “Here we are.” He wished Tanner would be quiet but didn’t feel he was in a position to say so. Suddenly, the Chief stopped and came down a few paces. He reached through the open front of Tanner’s flak jacket and grabbed a fistful of T-shirt. “Shut the fuck up, Anglo,” he hissed, the kind of hiss that could make a snake change its mind about biting. Then he was climbing again with DeLong and Tanner playing catch-up. After a few yards Tanner muttered, “He made me lose count.”
Sau squatted in front of a large tree hosting a cluster of tetrastigma vines on their climb to daylight. And just as the vines used the tree, a parasitic rafflesia plant clung to the vine. Though Sau knew little of plants, he knew death, and the enormous rafflesia flower gave off an odor many likened to a rotting corpse. When the breeze shifted with the vagaries of the forest, Sau had to cover his nose with his hand.
He used the stock of his rifle planted between his feet for balance, unwilling to sit or lean against the tree. To stay awake on sentry when you needed sleep, you took an uncomfortable position and stayed in it. His comrade sat a few feet away with his arms folded across his knees and his head balanced on his arms. He would be allowed to sleep until it was his turn to assume an uncomfortable position.
The wind changed direction and swept up from the valley, and Sau closed his eyes and let the coolness wash the plant stench away. But something rode in on the wind, something different. He gripped his rifle barrel with both hands and slowed his breathing so the sound of it wouldn’t interfere with anything he needed to hear: mosquitoes buzzed through the thermal waves rising from his skin; something with small teeth chewed to his left; and the breeze from the valley twisted leaves on their branches until they snapped. Sau held his breath and cupped a hand behind one ear. Something snapped again. Then something crunched.
Sau turned his head slowly and gave a slight whistling chirp, no more than the sound of a distant bird or a small rodent. The other sentry’s head snapped up, and he reached immediately for the grip on the AK at his side.
“Nghe ma,” Sau whispered, alerting his companion to listen to the movement.
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