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Perched on his upturned pack, the Chief held out the watch and waited for a break in the clouds. Finally, the moon cleared and a shaft of light touched the crystal face. Leaning over, he gave a tug on DeLong’s bloused trouser leg. When the new guy sat up, he pushed the watch into his hand. “It’s your watch,” the Chief said.
DeLong dragged a hand over his face as though he were wiping away four hours of sound sleep. He wasn’t sure if the Chief would be fooled or would even care, but he felt the subterfuge was worth the effort. “Yeah, that’s mine,” he said.
The Chief leaned in close so his face was nearly touching DeLong’s. Even in the diminished light DeLong could see the intimidating spark of intolerance in the Chief’s eyes. “It’s your turn to stand watch,” the Chief said, with emphasis.
“Oh, yeah. Okay. I’m awake, I’m awake,” DeLong said, getting onto his knees and immediately regretting the move as the soggy jungle floor soaked his legs.
The Chief turned away and stretched out in his earlier spot.
DeLong glanced at Tanner asleep against the tree. He imagined having to awaken the Chief because of some noise or movement he couldn’t identify, and he solemnly swore to himself that in that event, he would rouse Tanner first, no matter what.
DeLong followed the Chief’s example and sat on his pack. The plants around him moved in and out of filtered gray light, and he felt the responsibility of being the only one watching them. Before, through the other watches, when he lay on the ground awake, he knew that someone else was awake with him. Now the sound of steady breathing told him he was on his own.
After the flares died during Tanner’s watch, the jungle had returned to its natural hum and drone and still remained unchanged. DeLong knew he would listen to the same sustained litany of the countless species that serenaded Tanner and the Chief, only now the concert seemed to be a command performance for him only. He hoped he would be able to notice if someone was singing out of tune.
Sau’s attention was drawn to slight noises just ahead. Not as close as he had feared, but close enough that hushed whispers were discernible. He was fairly sure there were two voices, and he signaled as much to the men closest to him. All of the five were near enough to detect the sound and movement for themselves, even Co, who was on the extreme left flank and now knew that he alone would be entering the position from that side. With a little luck, within the hour they would be in a position to strike. They would be close enough to choose their targets. Less than an hour would seal their fate, and not only theirs but the fate of their comrades up above them on the side of the Ong Thu.
DeLong sat with his M16 across his knees, his right hand clamped on the handgrip, his index finger resting on the side of the trigger. His thumb played with the end of the select fire switch. If he had to, he could flip the switch to full automatic and empty his magazine into the bush in a split second. He could shred the trees with 5.56-mm rounds in the blink of an eye, and his only concern then would be a fresh magazine. He felt along the web belt at his waist for his extras. The M16 had been recently issued to the Marines and came with very few accessories, so everyone carried his magazines in old M14 pouches. They didn’t hold the smaller magazines tightly, but the Corps was famous for making do with what it had. He snapped one of the flaps open and felt inside, touching the top of the magazine so he would know which was the front in case he had to load it in a hurry.
In training on the ranges at Lejeune and working field problems at Pendleton, you always had a sense of power when you held your weapon. Having it in your hands made you feel prepared and capable, even invincible. And when you added the combined firepower of a squad or a platoon, you had the feeling that nothing could stand against you. But now, sitting in a dark, wet jungle on the other side of the world with his M16 and nearly one hundred rounds of ammunition hanging from his belt, he felt inadequate. He knew he had the potential to do a lot of damage to an enemy, but he still felt exposed and naked. There was a nagging suspicion that what he had might not be enough. If the rifle in his lap was all the protection that stood between him and a ride home in a flag-draped coffin, he wished that it at least felt like more.
DeLong looked at his watch, safe at home again on his wrist, and tried to calculate the time difference between Vietnam and Milwaukee. He thought it would be late afternoon, a cold afternoon. It was probably snowing there this very minute. It occurred to him that time zones were a silly construct of the human imagination. There was no difference in time. This very second existed all over the planet. At this second his father was probably at work, and whatever he was doing, he was doing it now, not yesterday or tomorrow. His mother was probably picking his sister up at school and laughing and bickering with her over the channel on the car radio. And they were doing it this very second. It seemed somehow comforting that this second existed both here and back in the world and that his family was living it, sharing this individual second with him.
A remote rumble echoed in the east and grew as a group of Hueys crossed high over the valley, leaping the Ong Thu on their way west. They might be from the base at Marble Mountain or from the Army squadron that bivouacked on empty ground beyond the runway at An Hoa, but whatever their origins, rhythmic thuds from the big turboshaft engines floated down to earth like snow on a Milwaukee lawn and melted into the jungle noises, and DeLong looked up into the trees in a hopeless and futile attempt to see them.
When he looked down again, the jungle on the mountainside had taken on a new configuration. There seemed to be wet faces in the foliage. He tried to blink the apparitions away, but instead of vanishing, they came on in a rush. In a single deft move, DeLong raised his rifle, flicking the safety lever to full auto. He squeezed the trigger. In that very second, he saw the fullness of his error: the clearing of weapons with Haber on the helicopter; hurriedly slapping in a magazine as the platoon moved away from the LZ; the distraction of the moving column and the rain. He’d never pulled the charging handle, never jacked a round into the chamber. And no matter how hard he squeezed the trigger now, he couldn’t change that.
The jungle was alive and leaping on him and past him. Strong hands clawed at his face, forcing their way into his mouth, and he bit down hard as a searing pain paralyzed his throat. The gritty sensation of sharp metal ground against his vertebrae and something warm spilled into his lap. His breath rushed out with no chance of returning. In that second, that world-encompassing second that existed here as it did in Milwaukee, Pfc. William DeLong knew he would not see Wisconsin snow again. A surge of anger that would have been voiced with a snarling scream made a wet, airless whisper, and his life’s blood flowed over his hands and wrists and coated his Sears wristwatch, smothering all the seconds that would define the here and now as well as all his seconds to come.
In that second, that final second for DeLong, two other NVA fell on the sleeping Tanner, smashing the wind from his lungs, and before his gasps could regain the slightest bit of it, they severed everything that made the recovery possible.
Co waited on the side until Sau and his men sprang forward, then broke cover in long strides. He expected to be giving whatever help might be needed to silence the two enemy sentries, but at the first sounds of struggle a third figure stirred on the ground in front of him. Co instinctively stomped down on the butt stock of a rifle as the American grabbed for it. Instead of aiding the others, he was forced to deal with a sentry on his own, losing precious surprise. Panic seized his chest as the promise of success quickly decayed into failure before his eyes.
The Marine pulled up hard on the rifle, breaking the stock. He immediately released the weapon
