"I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together...goo goo ga joob." ~The Beatles

Zeke Anderson had been in the 'Nam for a long time and had seen more atrocities than he cared to count, but the hideous scene in the cockpit of the burned-out Huey was possibly more than even this toughened first sergeant could stomach.

Anderson stood in the shattered remains of the helicopter for a long time, dreading the job ahead of him. He had told the guys that he would remove the bodies of the pilot and copilot for burial, but standing there so close to them now, Zeke wished he had never made such a rash promise. The smell of burning engine fuel was foul but he was grateful for what little it did to mask the pungent odor of burning flesh that wreaked the interior. The thought of even touching the corpses caused a churning in his stomach and he could feel the bile boiling into his throat.

The scorched bodies of Lieutenant Frank Richards and his copilot still smoldered in their seats, one of them headless, the other little more than a seared and broken skeleton. The blackened skin of Warrant Officer Allen vaguely reminded Zeke of the disaster of a failed Thanksgiving turkey he had once tried to make to impress Carol the year the two had met. The correlation rendered the memory no longer amusing.

Swallowing hard and wincing against the acidic taste in his mouth, Sergeant Anderson decided that the only way to handle the unwelcome burden he had placed upon himself was to get it over and done with as quickly as possible. He took a step forward to examined the cockpit, straining to see in the almost-total darkness. The sergeant knew all too well that the VC were skilled at taking full advantage of the Americans' compassion for their deceased, and it was not uncommon to find a dead G.I. transformed against his will into a lethal weapon just waiting for a would-be Samaritan to take pity on his lifeless body.

It took less than a minute for Anderson to learn that Charlie had spun his net of destruction. A wire translucent enough to be mistaken for a spiderweb under any other circumstance sliced a thin line through the fog that still snaked its way through the hull of the open helicopter. With the wire strung from door to door and over the disfigured laps of the pilots, Zeke knew in an instant that the Viet Cong had indeed left their deadly calling card.

An uneasy mixture of disappointment and relief swam over the platoon sergeant as he resigned himself to the fact that the two dead soldiers had already been entombed in what had now become their final resting place. Slowly and carefully so as not to disturb the booby trap, he moved away from the cockpit and crossed the belly of the craft to the hatchway, and with a sigh of regret, gently lowered himself to the ground.

Intent on getting his men settled in for the night, the sergeant made his way across the clearing to where Johnson, Percell and Ruiz waited by the freshly dug graves, two of which would instead be used as foxholes. With a final glance over his shoulder, Anderson acknowledged that the darkness had finally consumed the jungle and his men would no longer have to witness the ghastly vision inside the Huey.

They're right, he had to admit to himself as he shuddered away his own anxieties. It is spooky.

******************

"Shit, it's dark," Spec4 Taylor hissed, analyzing the situation in less time than it took his heart to skip a beat. "But not dark enough." Silently cursing the pain stabbing at him from the severed nerves of his broken leg, Taylor dropped to the ground as quietly as his Vietnam on-the-job training had disciplined him to do.

With the last hint of twilight clinging to life against the fog, Marcus acknowledged that he and his companions would be silhouetted against the fading sunset to anyone who might be ahead of them. Since the sound of the goat suggested a homestead of some kind--and that meant people--the soldier wasted no time making himself invisible and hoped the less-seasoned medic would know at least enough to do the same.

Private Hockenberry had heard Taylor's unsettling observation and, without waiting to be told, he, too, dropped to the ground, grabbing Lieutenant Goldman by the collar on his way down. Without letting go of Myron's shirt, Hockenberry placed a dirty hand over the officer's mouth to stop any protest before it could begin.

"Shh," the medic advised in a hushed tone that could only be heard by the man to whom it was directed. He could not be sure how much Goldman's condition had worsened, but Hockenberry hoped the lieutenant was still coherent enough to follow the order for noise discipline, even if he did not understand the reason for it. As soon as he was satisfied with the officer's compliance, Hockenberry released Myron's shirt collar and rolled over to where he knew the third member of their group was hiding. "What do we do now?" the medic whispered to his reluctant squad leader.

Taylor's response came in the form of a stress-filled sigh. He wondered how in the hell he had managed to find himself in charge of this rotten mess. He liked following orders a whole lot better than making decisions. And he hated following orders. This bullshit was for officers and NCOs, and since Uncle-fucking-Sam gave out promotions a lot slower than he issued draft notices, Marcus Taylor would just as soon have Doc Hock kiss his righteous black ass and go to hell for his damned answers.

Unfortunately, Marcus Taylor's righteous black ass was also in a shitload of trouble, making it impossible for the specialist to ignore the medic's inquiry.

"I guess we got two choices, Doc," the resentful soldier offered after taking a moment to think things over. "We either spend the night here or we go check it out."

Private Hockenberry frowned. "Check out what? I don't see a thing. Are you sure you heard a goat, Marcus? Maybe it was a monkey."

"You don't think I know the difference between a monkey and a goat?" Taylor spat, even though he had already asked himself the same question with no clear answer. Being questioned by the medic furthered his fears and his uncertainty, but Marcus knew better than to choose against intuition. "It was a goat and it was just up ahead there somewhere," he insisted, masking the nagging self-doubt behind feigned indignity. "This has got to be a farm or something."

Hockenberry trusted the conviction he heard in Taylor's voice, but his own instinct told him that venturing into a ville at night was a terrible idea, especially in their enfeebled condition. "Maybe we should go back," he suggested, hoping that Taylor would at least consider a third option. "We can dig in..."

Taylor eyed the featureless shadow of the medic as his thin layer of optimism dissolved into the haze. Of course walking into a ville--or a farm or whatever the hell it was--in the middle of unknown territory was not only foolhardy, it was stupid. The possibility of finding friendlies this far west would be unlikely at best and there was no way the three of them could fight a battle should the area be found crawling with VC. Retreating into the jungle was no doubt the only logical solution, but logic did little to relieve the specialist of the disappointment he felt at abandoning the possibility of a soft cot in a dry hootch.

"All right, Doc," Taylor finally relented. "Get the LT and let's go, but stay down ...and keep him quiet."

The medic nodded, momentarily forgetting that his comrade was unable to see the visual wilco. Again rolling across the clammy soil, Hockenberry reached out his hand to mobilize Lieutenant Goldman, but when all he grasped was a handful of mud, a surge of horror burst through the pit of his stomach. Hockenberry knew where he had left the lieutenant just as he sure as knew that the man was no longer there.

"LT!" the medic called, trying to keep his voice low against his growing alarm. He patted the earth, vainly searching for the missing officer. "LT, where the hell are you?"

Hockenberry choked back a cry of surprise when he felt a hand wrap around his ankle. "Quiet, Doc," he heard the squad leader's whispered demand. "Unless you want to spend the night as a POW?"

Noting the lack of levity in Taylor's voice, the medic resumed his hunt for Lieutenant Goldman with a more subdued voice, holding in the panic with a thin layer of composure.

Beyond the thunder of his pounding heart and the eternal din of the insects, the area was quiet. Hockenberry was stunned that the officer had been able to wander away undetected and knew that finding him in this environment would be harder than finding political justification for America's presence in Vietnam. Disregarding the unbalanced odds for success, the private continued his rabid scan of the area until Taylor once again interrupted.

"Doc..." the specialist imposed.

"He's gone, Taylor," Private Hockenberry blurted in frustration, abandoning his quest only long enough to pull his leg away from the other man's grip. As soon as he was free, Hockenberry got to his feet and peered into the blackness. "Man, where did he go?"

"Where'd he go?" Taylor repeated in disbelief as he grabbed onto Private Hockenberry's fatigue pants and began a fast climb to a standing position. With the seesaw of emotion quickly marauding his loosely controlled nerves, the specialist roared his accusation, "What'd you mean, 'Where'd he go'? You lost the LT?"

Frances Hockenberry grabbed Taylor by the shoulders and tried to shake away the swelling hysterics that threatened to consume the specialist's limited sense of reason. "Keep your voice down, Marcus. They'll hear you" After reminding Taylor of his own fatalistic warning, Hockenberry released the squad leader and turned away, calling for Lieutenant Goldman. "LT....LT..."

With a more controlled voice, Taylor tried to make sense of what had happened. "How the hell did you lose the LT, Doc? You were supposed to be watching him."

"I was talking to you!" Hockenberry returned, his anger mounting. His relationship with Taylor had always been tumultuous but he had tried to put the unsettled partnership to rest for the sake of survival. Unfortunately, with no sign of their CO and Taylor's unwarranted denouncement, the medic was becoming increasingly agitated, and his head was pounding from the strain of trying to hold their band together. Had it not been for their precarious situation, Hockenberry might simply have screamed. Instead, he exhaled a wet, hot breath and, keeping his tone as calm as possible, softly declared, "We've got to find him."

Taylor was also close to his breaking point, but maintained no such rationality. He was tired and dirty and, although it could not have been any later than zero-630, he just wanted to sleep. Without conscious thought, he retorted, "Why? Maybe the gooks'll go after him and leave us a nice warm hootch for the night."

When the remark was met by nothing but a disgusted silence, Specialist Taylor reluctantly recanted. "Well, with his brains for shit, he could be anywhere. But it can't be far."

Before either man could expound on the hypothesis, a curious sound pierced through the hypnotic lullaby of a million crickets.

"See, Doc? I told you I done heard a goat," Taylor cried with glee, relieved by the proof that he had not been hearing things after all.

"All right, all right," the medic agreed, unsure of whether to feel comforted or afraid by the unusual noise. Although it was clearly a farm animal, there was something odd about the sound it had made and, although he knew very little about livestock, there seemed to be some amount of distress in its high-pitched cry. Peering into the shadows, Hockenberry tried to establish the location of the bleating, but when the area again fell silent, he wondered if he and Taylor might both had been imagining things.

After taking a few steps toward where the sound had seemed to originate, the medic stopped and turned to his squad leader. Deciding it was not his place to go scouting the area, Hockenberry turned the matter over, placing even more unwanted responsibility on the other man's shoulders. "It doesn't seem too far away. What do you wanna do?"

Taylor needed no time to think about his reply. Standing in the dark doing nothing but talk about their options was growing tiresome. He needed to do something, even if it meant getting his fool-head blown off. "We gotta check it out, Doc. That's all there is to it." With a sudden pang of hunger stabbing at his empty stomach, he added wryly, "Maybe we can eat it."

"Ew, Taylor," Hockenberry gagged as he and Taylor wrapped themselves together, the medic once again becoming a human crutch. "That's just gross." Crouching down to keep as low to the ground as possible, the two men began their slow journey into the heart of the domicile.

"What?" the specialist defended himself as he limped along. "We done ate Baker's pig" Forgetting that the medic had barely met Private Scott Baker and had never heard the story of the renegade pig, Taylor neglected to explain further. His mouth began to salivate at the clear memory he still retained of that heavenly aroma of roasted pork, and he could not help but wonder if barbecued goat might not taste just as good. Nothing made a G.I. forget his worries quite so fast as a big ol' hunk of fresh-cooked meat.

Hockenberry had intended to respond, but his words were silenced when, a few feet ahead of them, the shadow of a man suddenly appeared through the murk. He was sitting on the ground, his body hunched over, the only noticeable movement coming from the right arm as it seemed to be stroking something with long, careful sweeps. To the medic, it looked almost like a young boy petting a beloved family dog, but intellect told him it was something much more sinister.

"LT?" Specialist Taylor croaked, a surge of adrenaline searing through his veins. Knowing in his heart that the figure was indeed their commanding officer, Taylor still brought himself to ask, "Is that you, Man?"

"They needed milk for the baby," a hushed and mournful Myron Goldman tried to explain. He lifted his head and turned his body to reveal the shadow of a bloody knife sticking out of the carcass of the freshly slain animal. "But the goat almost gave them away."

*********************

"Sarge?"

Zeke Anderson had not heard Specialist Percell's timid approach, but, sensing that the young soldier was still dealing with some ugly demons, the first sergeant was already prepared for this inevitable encounter. Percell and Doc Hock had formed a strong bond during Percell's painful withdrawal from heroin just a few weeks before, and Anderson suspected that Danny's sullen mood since discovering the medic's broken glasses among the rubble of the crash, meant that those demons were gnawing away at him. Just as Hockenberry had been there for Percell, he knew the young specialist felt the same loyalty for the medic and was angered by his inability to act upon it.

"They're alive, Percell," Anderson told the shadow in front of him.

After serving with Sergeant Anderson for nearly a year, Danny Percell was no longer surprised when his doubts were put to rest before they had even been voiced. Instead of attempting to disguise the fact that the first sergeant had been correct in guessing Danny's motivations, the specialist nodded and plopped himself on the ground, condemning heaven and hell when a sharp fragment of the obliterated Huey sliced through the back end of his fatigues when he sat down.

"Sonofabitch," Percell grumbled in disgust. Anderson knew he was not cursing the shrapnel.

"You okay, Percell?" The first sergeant was not addressing the shrapnel either.

Percell pulled the small piece of metal out from under his aching body and flung it into the darkness, startling both Johnson and Ruiz when it connected with the metal sarcophagus with a loud clank. "Yeah, Sarge," he lied. "I'm all right, I guess."

"Look here, Danny," the weary sergeant comforted, hoping a lukewarm promise would be enough to ease the other man's anxiety. "We'll find 'em."

Percell allowed the night to absorb the NCO's words. After a long, thought-filled moment, the younger man broke the silence. "Dead or alive, Sarge?"

Sergeant Anderson leaned back, bending the flimsy sapling behind him until it gave way under the pressure of his bulk. Allowing his head to touch the ground, he closed his eyes and gently repeated, "I said we'll find 'em."

***********************

Doc Hockenberry and Spec4 Taylor exchanged a troubled look. Neither man had the slightest idea what Lieutenant Goldman was talking about, and both worried that the brutal action against the animal was an indication that something had gone terribly wrong inside the man's brain.

Marcus could see nothing more than a vague outline of the ghastly scene, but the smell of blood was unmistakable and he was sickened by the unwarranted cruelty he perceived before him. "LT, what's with you? You seen somethin'?" he finally asked, grasping for some explanation, no matter how perverted.

The officer's somber reply was barely audible. "Not living."

When Marcus opened his mouth to respond, Frances Hockenberry prodded the specialist away with a deliberate but gentle push. Stunned by Goldman's baffling behavior, Taylor did not resist being involuntarily maneuvered, and allowed his words to trail away somewhere between his thoughts and his voice.

Pointing his M-16 at the ground, the specialist leaned his weight on the weapon for balance, not caring that the barrel might become clogged from the muddy soil. With the back of his hand, he annihilated a bead of sweat that had formed on his brow and hung his head to wait for the nausea that was churning away at his stomach to pass. Marcus Taylor was no longer interested in fresh meat.

"Come on, LT," Private Hockenberry encouraged, placing a comforting hand on Goldman's shoulder. "Let's get out of here." With the same care that he had used in budging Taylor, Hockenberry moved his hand to the officer's chest and pushed the submissive man away from the dead animal. As Goldman backed into the gloom, the medic reached forward and quickly yanked the lieutenant's knife out of the still-warm carcass, wincing at the stickiness he felt as his palm whispered across the bloody, matted fur.

Something tells me we're going to need this before the night is done, he thought morosely to himself, swiping the blade across his fatigue pants. Lord, how are we gonna make it another 10 hours?

"Doc...," Taylor hissed in a low, almost frantic voice that startled the medic out of his latency. "Doc, we gotta get out of here." Neither man had seen or heard anything to warrant the urgency, but an underlying current of anxiety had reawakened in the specialist and he was itching to di di back into the jungle.

Before Hockenberry could acknowledge his agreement, he heard Lieutenant Goldman's firm voice relate a different point of view. "No we don't. There's nobody here."

Taylor and Hockenberry looked into the direction of the voice coming out of the darkness, an indignant Taylor speaking first. "And just how do you know that, LT? You can see in the dark now? Some kind of psychic voodoo or somethin'?" Pausing long enough to shake his head and roll his eyes in disgust, the spec4 attempted to resume command of the trio. "Forget it, LT. We're gone."

Lieutenant Goldman's words remained uncharacteristically amiable, but his tone had turned deadly serious, causing Taylor to stop cold and take notice of the change in the officer's demeanor. "Nope, my friend," Goldman demanded. "We're staying right here."

"No, we're not," Taylor spat back, pretending not to notice Hockenberry's gesture for calm. "You don't know shit from Chicago right now and I ain't about to get my head blown off because you say it's safe. Fuck that." Specialist Taylor picked up his rifle and slung it over his shoulder in a gesture that was intended to look defiant, but the pain that shot through his leg prevented him from retreat and instead, he stood there in the dark, looking pathetic and forlorn.

Turning his attention to Hockenberry, Lieutenant Goldman took the voice of reason. "Look you guys, there's nobody here," he confirmed, spreading his arms far apart to indicate the entire area. "At least nobody alive. There's some dead guys over by that hut, but they're not gonna bother us." Indicating a hootch to the west of them, he continued, "and there's a barn or something over there and it's got an opening. We can stay in there."

"Oh, an opening." There was no mistaking Taylor's oozing sarcasm. "What? Like a window? Oh great. A room with a view so we can really enjoy all this fresh country air." The specialist was determined to drive his point home. "What we need is a bed, LT, not a window."

Not to be deterred, Lieutenant Goldman surprised specialist and medic alike when he asked, "I have a higher rank than you, don't I?"

It was Hockenberry who answered, remembering that he had told the officer in an earlier dialog that Goldman was the CO of Team Viking when the chopper went down. "Well, yeah. So...?"

"So...," Goldman justified, "I say we need a window. And since I'm the commanding officer and you work for me, then I believe that makes it an order. Doesn't it?"

"Shit," the checkmated specialist muttered in disgust, accepting that he had been unexpectedly outranked. Short of declaring mutiny, he had no choice but to concede.

Frances Hockenberry also accepted the end to the deliberation, but with more relief than his unhappy counterpart. The medic could not help but be optimistic that the officer had possibly shown the first sign of his mental fog lifting.

With no further discussion, Private Hockenberry wrapped and arm around Marcus Taylor's waist and helped the defeated specialist hobble the few paces to the nearby hootch. Making their way through the small entryway, the medic released his hold to allow Taylor to drop to the hovel's dirt-covered floor and settle in for the night. As he looked into the darkness, wondering if his eyes would ever adjust, Hockenberry stopped to listen to a faint sound coming up from behind him.

Sure of what he was hearing, the medic found himself battling between amusement and concern when the distinct voice of Myron Goldman happily crooned, "It's been a hard days night, and I've been working like a dog..."

************************

Tap ta-tap tap tap tap-ta-tap tap tap

Specialist Alberto Ruiz was rapping away at the barrel of his machine gun at a jaunty pace, the click of his dirty fingernails against the cold steel of the sleeping pig sounding more like a ticking time-bomb than the rhythm of a favorite tune.

"Ru," Danny Percell whispered, poking his friend with a quick thrust of an elbow. "Knock it off, will ya? You're giving me a headache."

The machine-gunner considered Percell's requisition, but his anxiety had bubbled over and his restless hands refused to yield. The hastily dug foxhole was small and shallow and Ruiz could not forget that the burrow had been originally intended for other purposes.

"I can't help it, Brother," Ruiz apologized, his last word coming out as brutha. "I gotta do somethin' or I keep thinkin' about them dudes in the chopper."

Spec4 Percell did not need to be reminded of the lurid scene just a few meters away. The team had been able to bury the one accessible corpse they had found...or what was left of it, anyway...and Lieutenant Richards' head, but with the two decaying bodies still perched in their seats, Percell knew that the ghosts of the pilots were stalking the restless machine-gunner. Hell, they were haunting everyone, including the sharpshooter, and Danny did not even consider himself particularly superstitious. This must be torture for Ru, who could not even bring himself to cross a gook graveyard during a critical mission without having a panic attack.

Hoping to divert his hole-mate's attention, Percell attempted a change of subject. "So what's that you're drummin' there, Ru?" he asked not caring too much about what answer he might receive. When Danny tried to reposition himself in the cramped quarters, his funny bone connected with the machine gun's ammo belt and he instantly repented the loud "Aw, hell!" he spontaneously wailed.

Ruiz stopped his mindless tapping and used both hands to steady the M-60. "Watch it, Danny," he lectured. "You're gonna make her jam."

Before Percell could vindicate himself, Sergeant Anderson materialized out of nowhere, demanding immediate silence. "Keep it down, y'all," he instructed, his voice humane but firm. "This ain't no camping trip, y'hear?" Knowing that no further explanation would be needed, Zeke paused only a moment to let his words sink in and then, with as much stealth as he had in appearing, the first sergeant drifted back into the darkness.

"Yeah, Ru. Get with the program," Specialist Percell agreed, as if the soldier sitting mere inches away might have missed Sergeant Anderson's order. "Quiet."

Several minutes passed in silence as each man thought his thoughts...Percell meditating on Sergeant Anderson's promise that the LT, Taylor and Doc would be found just as soon as the sun made its next appearance, and Ruiz bemoaning the unburied dead on the other side of the clearing.

Just when Percell began to feel his body relax as he settled back into the damp wall of the shallow grave, he heaved a sigh of resignation when he once again heard that Ruiz had not yet rested his frenzied nerves.

Tap ta-tap tap tap tap-ta-tap tap tap

************************************

Private Hockenberry was exhausted. Common sense told him to quiet the officer, but he had expended so much energy trying to keep Taylor and Goldman from killing each other that the medic was having a hard time caring much about the ramifications of the officer's noise. If Goldman wanted to sing, fine. Let him sing. If they were lucky, the farm was owned by friendlies who would hear it and come give them food and aid. If not, maybe the enemy would just shoot all three of them and get it over with. Anything would have to be more enjoyable than the past few hours had been.

After several minutes of crawling around the hootch on his hands and knees in search of any danger that might be lurking in the pitch black interior, Hockenberry had at last had enough of the lieutenant's misguided melody. "LT," Hockenberry advised, sounding more tired than angry. "You might wanna keep it down."

Without comment, Lieutenant Goldman stopped singing and gazed out the window. There was nothing to be seen beyond the hootch...or within it, for that matter..., yet he stood there for some time, staring into the darkness. When at last he spoke, Myron revealed the heavy heart he had been masking behind the jovial tune.

"Doc, who killed the farmers?" the lieutenant asked, his voice crackling with emotion.

Taken aback by the question, Private Hockenberry was slow to answer. Instead of responding, he reached into his pack, pulled out a serrette, and, without permission, gave Taylor a shot of morphine. Tossing the empty tube aside, the medic leaned back and rested his head against the soft grass wall. He closed his eyes, trying to find a suitable answer to the commander's inquiry.

"I don't know, LT," Hockenberry voiced his only reply, rubbing his nose as if his glasses were still balanced there. "How do you know they were farmers? Maybe they were VC."

Goldman slowly turned away from the window and lowered himself to the floor, sliding his back down the wall's sturdy thatching. He was cruelly reminded of his injury when a thick board rubbed against his shoulder, but the officer found the vision of slain human beings to be much more painful. "I'm not sure I know what a VC looks like, Doc," he explained, "but those people outside, they looked like just ordinary people to me. A man and a woman."

Cowering in the corner of the room, the once strong and capable officer pulled his knees into his chest as his body began to shiver with an uncontrolled fury. The medic could not see Goldman's posture, but he could sense the other man's distress and the sound of heavy breathing soon turned into violent sobs.

"Their throats were cut," Goldman expounded between gasps for breath. "I've never seen anything like it..." His voice trailed off and after a moment he added, "At least I hope I haven't."

Specialist Taylor had been laying on the floor on the other side of the hootch. He was near sleep, and did not want to become involved in this emotional display, but he could not avoid interjecting his explanation for the brutality against the people outside. "The gooks thought they were helping us," Taylor mumbled through a yawn. "Charlie thought those farmers knew where we was and cut 'em when they didn't fess up." The specialist rolled over so that his back was to his lieutenant. "That's what they do, LT. You seen it before and you'll be seein' it again."

As Marcus Taylor drifted into a dreamless sleep, Goldman and the medic sat in the dark, unable to find a way to segue into a less agonizing discussion. Since the squad leader's words left little opening for idle conversation, the two men allowed themselves to become lost in thought.

Private Hockenberry was reasonably certain that, since the Viet Cong had already been through this area, the three soldiers would be more or less safe for the next few hours. Still, he wondered how they would manage some kind of security watch. With Taylor medicated and already asleep, and Lieutenant Goldman's mental state still very questionable, the medic knew that sentry duty would become his own responsibility. This would be a serious problem since one man would be physically unable to stay awake for the duration of the night, especially after such a stress-filled day. Even more problematic was the medic's unwillingness to engage the enemy.

Frances Hockenberry had never questioned his resolve before. His status as a conscientious objector was more than just an empty label attached to the hippy side of himself. It was the core of who he was. Peace before honor...peace as honor. He would not kill.

Still, Hockenberry had made a vow to the men with whom he served that he would never abandon them. He would not sit quietly by, tempting fate by not taking precautions. "LT," he whispered, wondering if Lieutenant Goldman was still awake.

The officer grunted, unable to find the will to formulate any words. Myron Goldman was still in his corner, sitting with his arms on top of the peaks of his knees, his forehead resting on his crossed wrists. He had calmed his earlier outburst, but his mind could not dispel the memory of the murdered farmer and his wife, and Myron wondered if he would be destined to recall this scene as his first real memory for the rest of his life. The first thing I saw when I got my sight back was a dead family. It seemed so familiar.

"LT, we need to take watch," Hockenberry said, cutting in to the lieutenant's meandering reflections. When no acknowledgment came, the medic repeated, "LT...are you there?"

Lieutenant Goldman lifted his head off of his arms and wiped his face with his bloodstained hands. "Yeah, I'm here, Doc," he acknowledge, using his sleeve to wipe his dripping nose. "I heard you. We've got to take watch. Right." Although he was not entirely sure what the other soldier wanted, Goldman understood that the medic was adamant about the execution of some cooperative effort and the officer was ready to take his part in it. "What do you want me to do?"

Private Hockenberry gave the matter careful consideration before offering a proposal. There was no clear answer and still being somewhat new to the unit, the medic was uncomfortable with being responsible for whatever outcome his decision would bring. Still, seeing no other choice, he finally offered, "I'll tell you what, I'll take the first watch while you and Taylor get some sleep..."

"What's a watch?" Goldman interrupted, sending a shock of alarm through Hockenberry's mind that was quickly squelched as the medic determined it to be a colossal waste of energy.

"You know--where one of us keeps a look out for the dinks while the other two guys are sleeping?" Hockenberry waited in nervous anticipation for the lieutenant's reaction, and was amused by the naive simplicity of the one-word response that soon came.

"Oh."

Suppressing a chuckle, the medic continued. "Anyway, I'll take the first watch but you need to understand, if something happens, you're in charge."

The officer flinched. Contemplating the medic's words, Myron became angry with himself for not being able to comprehend what seemed to be a basic instruction. In charge of what?

He realized that since he had displayed the audacity to use his rank in ordering the men into the hut, he deserved to have his arrogance thrown back at him now. However, it was a responsibility Lieutenant Goldman somehow felt he could not satisfy. Being in charge sounded like a heavy burden and, although he would be willing to make an effort, Myron could not help but worry about might happen should he fail.

"All right," he agreed after a long, awkward moment.

Choking back the flood of questions that begged to be asked...What is "something" and what am I supposed to do when it happens?...Lieutenant Goldman kept his uncertainty to himself. He could tell that the man Taylor referred to as Doc was troubled, and the officer did not wish to magnify the other soldier's concerns any further. Putting his nagging self-doubt aside, the lieutenant acknowledged that he had been confident when concluding that this building would be a safe harbor for the night. He would have to stand by that determination, even if it did seem to come from some gut feeling and not any gathered intelligence.

If the something that Hockenberry was referring to did, in fact, happen, then they would just have to deal with it when the time came. For now, something more important had occurred to the officer and it affected his ability to concentrate on anything else.

From out of nowhere, the medic's permission for Goldman to go to sleep made a sudden intrusion into the officer's weary thoughts. Despite a surge of guilt for wanting to rest over keeping watch with the medic, there was no way the lieutenant could deny his body's desperate cry to accept the invitation for rest.

Lieutenant Goldman had heard Hockenberry stand up and move closer to the window, ready to take up the first lonely vigil. To the officer, it seemed a signal that the medic's plan had been put to action and there was no need for further analysis. Easing himself out of the corner, Myron crawled to the other side of the hootch and laid his head on Specialist Taylor's hip.

Making himself comfortable by using the sleeping soldier as a human pillow, Goldman tried to shut out his perturbation when he heard the private ask him, "Sir, why did you kill the goat?"

There was no explanation, at least not one that made any sense to the lieutenant. It was not something he had consciously set out to do when he left to explore the farm while Taylor and Doc were arguing over where to spend the night. An inexplicable feeling had compelled him to investigate and when he had found the slain corpses of the man and the woman, their throats so savagely sliced open, Myron somehow believed that the goat had been the cause. It seemed like something about which he had been told, but exactly what, he could not be sure.

The goat almost gave them away...or was it the baby?

But how could he explain that to the medic? Could he say that he slaughtered a defenseless animal for no other reason than a suspicion...an intuition...a memory?

In the end, all that the officer could think of to say was, "I dunno, Doc."

Hockenberry heard the weariness in the other man's voice and chose not to pursue the matter any further. A long moment passed in silence as the medic contemplated the solitary hours ahead. Assuming that the lieutenant had already drifted off, Hockenberry was caught off guard when Goldman's sleepy voice disrupted the stillness.

"What's your first name, Doc?"

Hockenberry was hesitant to answer the unexpected inquiry. He was uncertain if the Lieutenant Goldman of just a few hours ago had even known his medic's first name, let alone cared. To have the question asked now, in the darkest of hours and for no apparent reason, the private felt as uncomfortable as he did surprised. "Frances," Doc Hock at last replied, a hint of skepticism seeping into this voice. "Frances Thurman Hockenberry. I was named after my grandpa."

Myron Goldman laid there in the quiet for some time, turning the name over in his mind. Some scrap of memory seemed to be whispering to be heard, but the officer was too exhausted to fight for it. Frances...the name was familiar, but somehow wrong.

As Myron Goldman closed his eyes and his mind began to drift, the name kept repeating itself over and over again, until all that remained was sleep...Frances Hockenberry...Frances...Frank...Frank Richards....

**************************

Danny Percell had volunteered to take the first watch, allowing Johnson and Ruiz to catch a few hours of shut-eye. He had no idea where Sergeant Anderson was, but Percell was certain that the NCO was not off napping...that was just not something he would do. Danny sometimes wondered if Sarge ever slept. If he did, he sure kept it a secret from his men. Just as well, the specialist thought with some relief. I'm not sure I'm ready to be in charge of an LP yet.

Leaning back against the snoring machine gunner, Percell reached into the shirt pocket of his fatigues and pulled out a gnarled piece of metal. He could not see Doc Hock's glasses in the dark, but by running his fingers over the glass, he was satisfied that there was no serious damage to the lenses. There might be a few scratches, it was impossible to tell, but if there were, they would be small and, hopefully, fixable.

The wire frames were another matter altogether. They were bent and contorted into a mangled mess that barely resembled something that could help a blind man see. Upon reflection, Danny decided that this might have been a good thing. Had they been in tact, the gooks might have found the glasses and seized them for their own use. That would have left poor Doc having to hassle with S-3 to get a new pair. What a damned nightmare that would be.

As it stood, Percell had ownership of the spectacles and he was confident that he could bend the frames back into shape, if he took his time and did it carefully. Since time was not a problem, he had all freakin' night after all, the specialist made himself comfortable and began the tedious assignment of putting his buddy's specs back together.

**************************

Private Hockenberry rubbed at the bridge of his nose. After nineteen years of wearing glasses, he hated the feel of them not being where they belonged and he vaguely wondered how difficult it would be to get a replacement pair through the Army. The medic had toyed with the idea of getting contacts when he learned that he had been drafted, but the idea of sticking his fingers in his eyes every day was only slightly less palatable than stepping on a land mine, so he had deferred. Now he would suffer the consequences.

Being a practical man, Frances recognized that, had he been wearing his glasses, the night would have still prevented him from seeing two feet in front of himself, but there would have been some element of comfort in having the lenses with him. In just a few hours, the sun would be rising and with it, the fog should lift. For Taylor and the LT, that meant that they would be able to better navigate their way through the jungle, but for the nearsighted medic, the world would continue to be a dangerous blur.

It was a thought that terrified him. There were too many hidden dangers out there and Frances Hockenberry was not yet ready to become a statistic.

Since, for now, he maintained the same disadvantage as everyone else in this little corner of Vietnam, the medic decided to postpone fretting about the morning until he and his companions had made it safely through the night. Settling in to his watch, Hockenberry unsheathed the lieutenant's knife that he had slipped into his belt after retrieving it from the dead goat, and, without really thinking about it, began to while away the hours by carving a message into the thick board that served as a sill to the hut's modest window.

Doc Hock was here. Give peace a chance.

*************Continued Part 4****************