faint voice answered, “Roger, wait one.”
Within seconds another voice cut through the static. “One Actual.”
The radioman looked back into the trees as though looking in the lieutenant’s direction might be helpful. “Be advised, we have the LZ, sir.”
The radio squelched and the lieutenant’s voice jumped the two hundred yards to the radioman’s ear with all the force and power of two tin cans on a string. “How big a landing zone is it?”
The radioman turned back to the clearing, estimating the distance to the far side. “It’s big enough. We got some trees in the middle to deal with, but the rest is low brush and grass.”
The other two Marines moved off to the side, being careful to stay inside the concealment of the shade. The point man took deep gulps from his canteen.
The radioman held his M16 at his side by the sight mount as he listened. Finally he said, “Roger that,” and hung the handset back on his flak jacket. “Diehl says to get around the clearing and set up security.”
The point man seemed disappointed at missing an opportunity to sit until the rest of the platoon caught up. “Does he want us to go across or around?”
The middle man started along the edge of the clearing, staying just inside the tree line. “You can go across the open ground,” he said to the point man. “We’ll go around and meet you on the other side.” The radioman followed him.
The point man calculated the shortest distance between two points of seclusion and the lack of cover in between. “Screw it,” he said and fell in behind the others.
Far back under the jungle canopy, 1st Platoon was stopped. Nearly every man was squatting or down on one knee, taking advantage of the delay to grab whatever rest was offered. The column stretched well over three hundred feet, with each man able to see only the man ahead and the one behind; heavy undergrowth obscured all else. In the center of the column Lieutenant Diehl stood beside his radioman and watched the shorter man try to hop the heavy radio into a more comfortable position on his back, the blade antenna whipping wildly.
“Stand still, Bronsky,” the lieutenant said. He checked the notations written on the edge of his plastic-covered map. “We need to change freqs.”
Bronsky dropped to one knee and leaned forward so the lieutenant could see the top of the radio. Two large knobs controlled the tactical frequencies, and Lieutenant Diehl turned them until the numbers matched those written on his map. He squeezed the handset. “Pounder One to Highball, over.” He released the lever and listened to the static: nothing. He squeezed again. “Pounder One to Highball. Come in, over.” The radio hissed and gurgled, and hissed again.
“Maybe we need the whip, sir,” Bronsky said, pointing to the auxiliary antenna collapsed inside the narrow canvas case on the side of the radio.
“Maybe, maybe not,” the lieutenant said, squeezing the handset again. “Pounder One to Highball.” He turned the volume knob, making the static louder.
“Are you on the right freq, sir?”
“What do you think?” the lieutenant said. “Have you changed the battery lately?”
“Fresh this morning. Anyway, Clyde just came in loud and clear.”
Birds flitted through the jungle canopy, feeding and squawking and ignoring the men below.
The lieutenant sighed. “Pounder One to Highball.”
The instant he released the handset lever, a voice jumped back at him. “This is Highball, over.”
Diehl extended a hand, pulling Bronsky back to his feet. “Highball, this is Pounder One. You busy?”
“Negative, Pounder. We’re in the air. Your wish is our command.”
“Be advised, our ETA at WL 477336 is zero five minutes. Copy?”
“Roger, Pounder One. Contact you this net, over.”
“Roger, Highball. Pounder One out.” Lieutenant Diehl held the handset out to Bronsky and pushed the folded map back into the bag slung around his neck. “I need Four,” he said.
Bronsky turned to the man squatting ten feet behind him. “Papa Sierra up,” he said just above a whisper.
The Marine spoke into the shadows behind him. “The lieutenant wants the platoon sergeant.”
Receding voices called, “Blackwell up.”
In less than a minute a tall, black Marine pushed through the brush, mopping his face with an issue towel. The elastic band around his helmet held a bottle of insect repellant and a waterproof cigarette case with a pack of Marlboros inside. Perspiration darkened the waistband of his jungle pants, even soaking his web belt. “Sir?”
“Who has the demo bags, Sergeant?”
Staff Sergeant Blackwell squinted as though the answer had to be forced out into the heat. “The Chief has one back in 3rd Squad, and Franklin has the other one up ahead.”
“Okay,” Diehl said, putting a hand on Blackwell’s shoulder and walking him toward a kneeling man further ahead in the column, whispering instructions like a football coach sending a man in from the bench. “Tell Franklin to put charges on every obstruction in the LZ. I don’t want anything standing higher than his ass.” He stopped and looked back. “Make that Bronsky’s ass. He’s shorter.”
Bronsky toyed absently with the cord on the radio handset. “That hurt, sir. I’m sensitive about my height.”
Sergeant Blackwell had learned his tact and diplomacy as a drill instructor at Parris Island. “Both your feet reach the ground. You’re fuckin’ tall enough.” He pushed through the foliage and disappeared.
The lieutenant got the attention of the man resting at the spot where his sergeant had just disappeared. “Move out,” he said. The word spread up the column. After a few groans, the Marines rose and began moving again.
By the time the lieutenant’s spot in the column reached the clearing, the embankment across the stream was slick with the mud of dozens of boots, and knee and hand prints decorated the slope where lost footing had been saved. Sergeant Blackwell already had the first half of the platoon setting up defensive positions around the LZ, and Franklin was busy placing a C-4 charge at the base of one of the tall trees.
When the lieutenant got to the top of the embankment, he turned and gave Bronsky a hand up. “Find Sergeant Blackwell,” he said.
Before Bronsky could move, the sergeant came from the shadowed edge of the clearing. “Sir?”
“Sergeant, I want a couple of fire teams and one of the guns where they can cover this stream and the path we cut through the bush.”
“Will do. I put the other 60 on the rise to the right of the clearing just beyond the tree line.”
Bronsky extended a hand to the next man struggling up the embankment. Besides his pack the man carried two bags with straps that
