The Needs of One…

Author: Jaz, © January, 2003 Rating: PG-13 (mild language and violence)

Disclaimer: Tour of Duty and the characters herein are the property of Zev Braun Productions. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story.

Summary: A mission goes wrong, leaving Lieutenant Goldman in the position of deciding if the needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many. Time frame is second season, circa the episode Promised Land.

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

Part One: The Mission

Anderson rapped his knuckles lightly against the wooden door to Goldman’s hootch, not bothering to wait for a response before opening and entering. “Ya wanted to see me, LT?” he asked unnecessarily.

“Yeah, Zeke, c’mon in.” The lieutenant was seated at his desk, holding a cigarette in one hand and a pile of papers in the other. Though darkness covered the base, Goldman’s damp t-shirt showed evidence of the heat that still lingered in the air.

“You drinkin’ tonight?” Goldman asked casually.

“Now, LT, when ya ever known me to refuse you?” Anderson replied with a grin. He grabbed the spare glass Goldman kept on the wooden framework of the hootch and brought it to the table where his platoon leader sat, pulling out and straddling the extra chair he half considered his own.

Goldman stared briefly at his platoon sergeant. “Well,” Myron answered, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms behind his head, “Let me think. Other than our first mission together, where I almost wrote you up for disobeying an order? There was that time we were ordered to leave the Montagnard village. I seem to remember you weren’t all that keen on comin’ along.”

“Those were orders, LT,” Zeke smirked as he nodded his head. “This is drinkin’. There’s a world of difference. Anyway, as I recall, you ended up comin’ back to the village with me instead.”

“Right,” Goldman stated dryly, sitting forward as he filled the sergeant’s glass. “Speaking of orders, we’ve got some.”

“Kinda had a feelin’ our time back at base was due to run out. What’s up?”

“Darling will fill us in on the rest of the details in the CP in about 15 minutes. But what I’ve got so far is that we’ll be teaming up with Jennings’ platoon to try and take out a bridge before a supply run that Charlie’s setting up. Jennings and his men were inserted yesterday, but Command has decided they need more support. I guess this bridge is supposed to be a big deal—they want to make sure nothing gets through, and they’re willing to risk both platoons to accomplish it.”

Zeke slowly lowered the glass the lieutenant had passed him, and looked Myron directly in the eyes. “Well, bless Command’s little heart for bein’ willin’ to risk our lives for us.”

Myron recognized the tone in his sergeant’s voice, and raised a hand to cut him off. “Don’t start, Zeke. I don’t like it anymore than you do, but orders are orders.”

“Yeah,” Zeke replied thoughtfully, backing down in deference to his friend. “I guess at least we can be thankful that these orders make a little more sense than most. ‘Cuz lately, I been wonderin’ just what the hell it is we’re doin’ here.”

“Only lately?” Myron questioned wryly. “Hell, I’ve been wondering that since the day I set foot in ‘Nam.”

“Well, Sir, you always did seem to think a bit more’n the rest of us.” Zeke smiled, grateful once again for the fact that he could speak his mind with the lieutenant.

“Lucky me,” Myron said absently, lifting his cigarette to his lips and inhaling deeply.

Zeke took a sip from his glass, and deciding it was just what he needed, took another. “LT, you gonna be okay with Jennings?” he asked.

“What are you getting at, Sergeant?” Even with the comfortable level their friendship had reached, Myron could feel his guard going up, and his eyes darkened imperceptibly.

“Nothin’, LT. Just that I know there’s no love lost ‘tween you ‘n him. And Darling is likely to give him command of the mission.”

“Don’t worry about it. I haven’t got a problem with Jennings.” The harshness in Myron’s voice belied his words, and he knew Zeke wasn’t fooled for an instant. As usual, that bothered him. He sometimes hated that there was nothing he could hide from this man.

“Easy, LT. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.” Zeke held up his hand in a silent offering of peace.

Myron sighed, and realizing that Zeke had truly meant no harm, allowed himself to relax a bit.

“I know, Zeke. But I meant what I said—I won’t have a problem with Jennings.”

“Yessir,” Zeke answered without directly looking at Myron.

“You know, I HATE when you say that!” Myron shot out, with just a touch of amused exasperation in his voice.

“How’s that?” Zeke questioned, honestly confused as to why the lieutenant would take offense with his response.

“When you say ‘yessir’ like that. God, do you think I haven’t watched you do it to the other officers enough by now to know that you’re just humoring me?”

Zeke’s lips began to twitch with a smile he did his best to contain. “If you say so, Sir.”

Goldman was unable to stop the laugh that burst forth at his sergeant’s seemingly innocent impudence. “You are something else, Anderson, you know that?”

“Yessir,” Zeke replied, grinning himself.

“Let’s get over to the CP, Sergeant,” Goldman said, rising and crushing his cigarette into the c-rat ashtray. He quickly shrugged himself back into his shirt and placed his hat onto his head, smoothing out the brim before leading the way out of the hootch.

**********

The men stood in clusters by the helipad as the sun painted its colors across the sky. The early morning light in Vietnam was a contradiction, the beauty of the sunrise belying the atrocities of war. The platoons were waiting for the chopper jocks to finish their final checks before loading. A twenty-five minute flight would bring them into the vicinity of the area of operations where they would meet up with Lieutenant Jennings and his platoon, but they would still have nearly a day’s hike to the bridge in an attempt to skirt the rumored NVA activity in the area.

Zeke stood off by himself with his M-16 resting on his hip, barrel pointing skyward. His gaze roamed over the men in the platoon, inspecting each one in an attempt to spot any signs they weren’t ready for battle that he might have missed during the lineup. Nothing appeared out of order; however, he still couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was off the mark. Though he often had doubts about the mission they were being asked to do, he had a bad feeling about this one in a sense he was not used to.

He looked up to see Goldman watching him closely. He realized that something on his face must have given away his thoughts when he saw the lieutenant raise his eyebrows in a silent question that only Zeke could hear. Recognizing that it wouldn’t help the lieutenant to know of his sergeant’s doubts, Zeke shook his head and offered him a lopsided grin in reassurance, determined to shake off these feelings as well.

Myron watched Anderson as the sergeant approached the men, and thought about going to question him further when McKay appeared from around the front of the chopper.

“Your taxi’s ready when you are, Goldman,” McKay said cheerily.

Goldman found himself immediately battling the irritation that seemed to make itself known whenever McKay was around. “Alright, Anderson, let’s load ‘em up!” he called to the staff sergeant.

McKay walked directly to where Goldman stood, wiping the grease off his hands on a rag. “You guys headed out for a while?” he asked casually.

“Couple of days,” Myron replied, his gaze on the men as they scrambled one at a time onto the chopper decks.

“Ah, life in the bush. Gotta love it,” McKay responded, tongue in cheek. “’Course, I’ll be happy to keep an eye on things here on the base for you. You know, if there’s anyone…I mean, anything you want me to check on. You can always just drop me a postcard. Or give me a buzz on the radio, and I’ll be sure to let you know how everything is.”

Myron turned to face him, the annoyance on his face apparent. “What is with you, McKay?” he asked tersely.

“Nothing, Myron. Relax, okay? I’m just trying to lighten things up a bit for you. Don’t bite my head off.”

“Well, thanks, but no thanks,” Goldman answered, lifting his hand and running it through his too long hair. He started walking away from the pilot toward the waiting chopper.

Johnny watched him walk away, determined to needle him once more just for the hell of it. “Oh, that’s right, Goldman, I forgot. Gotta maintain radio silence, so no calls home to wish me goodnight. Well, then, guess I’ll see you in a couple of days!” McKay gave him a wink and a devilish grin when Myron looked at him over his shoulder. Pleased with himself, the pilot began whistling as he made his way to the cockpit of the chopper and prepared to get these men in the air.

***********

Anderson called up to Percell, who was on point several paces ahead of him. They had been walking for close to two hours with no enemy contact, and they were making good time.

“Percell!” Anderson shouted in a whisper. “Hold up! LT wants to take a look at the map.”

Danny turned halfway so that he could see both the platoon and the path they were heading up and lowered himself to a crouching position.

Goldman waited for Sergeant Anderson to join him before laying out the map he’d had tucked inside his shirt. He unfolded it and held it up where the sergeant could look over his shoulder, taking a moment to familiarize himself with their current location.

“The way I see it, we got about 3 klicks to go till we meet up with Jennings and his platoon,” the lieutenant stated. “Now, we can either continue on the path we’ve been taking, which leaves us a little more wide open, or cut to the south a bit where the terrain’s a bit rougher but less traveled.” He paused, looking up at the man whose judgment he trusted so highly.

“The choice is yours, LT—you call the shots. But if ya truly want my opinion, I’d say we’ve been moving along quick enough that we can afford a little extra time for safety’s sake.”

Myron nodded. “Alright, we cut to the south then. Have First Squad move up and take point,” he said, refolding the map.

“Yes, Sir,” Zeke replied, already moving to put the lieutenant’s request into action.

Myron watched him as he directed the men, noticing the way Zeke surveyed the trail both ahead of and behind the men. He saw again the same look on his sergeant’s face that he had seen that morning by the chopper. If the lieutenant didn’t know better, he’d have thought his platoon sergeant was actually worried about something. Knowing the older man rarely allowed himself such emotions in the bush, Myron decided to question him about it then and there.

“Hey, Zeke, hold up a minute,” he called out. The men of their platoon were far enough away that by lowering his voice, Goldman could keep the conversation private.

“Yessir?” Zeke questioned, returning to the lieutenant’s side.

“Alright. Out with it. I can tell just by looking at you that something’s bugging you.” Goldman chose to maintain the familiarity he shared with the sergeant back at the base despite the fact that they were in the bush, hoping that it would prompt Anderson into speaking his mind.

Still believing it would do no good to have the lieutenant aware of his doubts, Zeke remained silent.

Myron was aware of his sergeant’s desire to keep his feelings to himself, could certainly relate to that inclination. For once, he turned the tables on Anderson, determined to patiently wait his sergeant out as Zeke had done so often with him. “C’mon, Zeke. Let’s have it.”

Zeke sighed inwardly, seeing the determined look in the lieutenant’s eyes, and reluctantly gave in, sharing his burden with his commanding officer. “Aw, LT, it ain’t nothin’. I just…I just got a bad feelin’ about this one. Can’t explain it. But like I said, it don’t mean nothin’.” His gaze tentatively captured the lieutenant’s in an attempt to gauge the other man’s reaction.

“A bad feeling?” Goldman echoed cautiously. “You got anything to base it on?”

“No, Sir,” Zeke replied quietly.

Goldman paused for a moment, recalling the sergeant’s experience and time in the bush. There was no other man whose instincts he trusted more. In fact, if Zeke Anderson had told him he thought Santa Claus might be dropping by, Myron would have hung up his stocking. In spite of being Jewish.

“Alright,” the lieutenant responded without hesitation, “Let’s hike security up a notch. Make sure every man is on full alert. If something is going to happen out here, we’ll do our best to be ready for it.”

“Yessir,” Zeke responded, somewhat pleased by the lieutenant’s display of trust. After the rocky start to their relationship, it still sometimes caught him by surprise. He returned to the task of moving the men out, relaying Goldman’s request that they all be ready for anything.

**********

Less than an hour later, they had arrived at the rendezvous point to find Jennings’ platoon already waiting for them.

Lieutenant Dennis Jennings and his platoon sergeant separated themselves from the others and made their way over to where Goldman and his men were approaching.

“Nice of you to show up, Myron,” Jennings called out mockingly. The tall, lanky lieutenant glanced at the watch he wore in a message he hoped Goldman would pick up on.

“Save it, Jennings. We aren’t late and you know it,” Goldman responded with a touch of annoyance in his voice.

“Maybe not,” Jennings prodded, “but if you’d made decent time like my guys, we could’ve been halfway to the bridge by now.”

“We aren’t even scheduled to reach the bridge till tomorrow and we’ll get there in plenty of time. Unless you’d rather just call it a day and dig in here for the night?” Goldman replied sarcastically. Anderson had been right once again—not even two minutes in the other lieutenant’s company and already Myron was wishing this assignment was over.

“No way, Goldman. Let’s see how much ground we can cover—unless your men need to rest their feet a bit first?” he taunted.

Myron found he was in no mood to play the ‘my platoon’s better than your platoon’ game with this man, and turned to Zeke, who had stood silently behind the LT during the exchange with an impassive look on his face, his gaze settled on a distant point.

Zeke quietly nodded at Goldman’s unspoken question, assuring him that the men would have no trouble continuing on.

“Alright, Anderson--keep ‘em moving.” LT said, and walked back towards his men.

It was as Anderson was giving Bravo Company the signal to walk on that he first noticed Jenning’s platoon sergeant. He stopped his arm in mid-wave, and a slow smile of pleasure lit his features.

“Sergeant Gordon T. Jones—damn, if you ain’t a sight for sore eyes.” Zeke said, reaching over to shake the other man’s hand vigorously.

“Hey, Zeke!” Jones replied, responding in kind to the offered hand. “Lookin’ good, my friend. How ya been doin’?”

“I’m good, Jonesy, I’m good. What the hell are you doin’ here? I thought you hit your DEROS already.”

“Yeah, I did. Went home, too. But man, the World sure ain’t like I remembered it,” the black man stated, shaking his head. There was a wealth of information in that simple statement.

“I heard that.” Zeke nodded, thinking back to his recent time in the States after escorting the body of Sergeant Binnion home to his family. He began walking next to the men, Jones easily falling into step with him.

“So you came back for another tour,” Zeke stated the obvious.

“Yep. Maybe one of these days I’ll even catch up to you for time spent in-country.” Jonesy smiled.

“Man, you must be crazier than I remember,” Zeke said, laughing. “Ya been with Jennings long?”

“Bout two weeks. Long enough,” he added under his breath.

Zeke heard him, and gave him a sympathetic glance. He clasped the other man’s shoulder in a gesture of support.

“I see you still got your cush gig going,” Jonesy commented, nodding his head in the direction of Lieutenant Goldman.

Zeke nodded and followed the direction of Jones’ gaze, knowing how much a decent working relationship with a lieutenant could make or break a sergeant’s time in ‘Nam. And Zeke had much more than that.

“Yeah, Jonesy, that I do,” he responded as the men walked on.

***********

The afternoon skies held the threat of rain. Though it hadn’t started falling from the sky yet, the clouds overhead were ominous, and the mood of both platoons was taking a downward spiral. Taylor lifted his gaze skyward from his can of c-rats, cursing Mother Nature and her need to dump on himself and the other poor grunts around him. As if being in ‘Nam weren’t bad enough, you had to spend half your time cold and wet, too.

“We’s about to get wet, Ru,” Taylor said. “Just you wait. Gonna pour for the whole damn night.”

“Yeah,” Ruiz agreed sullenly. “Just what we need.”

Third Squad sat in a semi-circle on the dampened ground, taking advantage of the 15-minute break to eat. Percell, who was leaning back against the broad trunk of a tree, lifted his spoon and gestured towards a group of men from the other platoon. “Ya see those guys over there?” he asked his friends.

Ruiz, Taylor and Johnson all followed the direction of his pointing and observed the group of men Percell was pointing to. There were six of them, all of them white, huddled closely together and talking quietly.

“Yeah, Danny, we see,” Johnson replied. “What about ‘em?”

“I don’t know,” Danny answered. “But somethin’ tells me they’re gonna be trouble. I been watchin’ ‘em all afternoon. The big one seems more ornery than a bull in heat.”

“Well, don’t worry about it,” Johnson said. “Sarge knows their sergeant—they been friends a while. Besides, their sergeant’s a brother—he ‘n Sarge’ll keep things under control.”

“Wait a minute,” Ruiz said, with a look of perplexity on his face. “Is there such a thing as a girl bull?”

“No, you moron,” Taylor responded. “A girl bull is a cow.”

“So how can a bull be in heat?” Ruiz asked.

There was a moment of silence following his question, before the men he was with burst into laughter.

“Jeez, Ru, that’s the point!” Danny said, enjoying the other man’s confusion thoroughly.

“I still don’t get it,” Alberto sulked, embarrassed. “Hey, man, how’d you expect me t’know the difference between bulls and cows anyway? I’m from the city, hombre.”

“So?” Taylor chuckled. “I knew the difference Ru, ‘n I ain’t no farm boy. Just how many farms ya think they got in Detroit?

“Lay off, Taylor,” Ruiz said, feeling the heat suffusing his face.

“Alright now, boys, how ‘bout if y’all lay off over here?” Anderson walked up from behind them and stood at their backs, his M-16 in its familiar resting place with the heel against his hip. His sleeveless T-shirt had seen better days, and his bare arms were covered with the grease most of the others simply used on their faces.

“Keep it down, ya hear?” Sarge continued. “We don’t wanna be invitin’ Charlie t’join us for lunch.”

“Okay, Sarge,” Danny responded, still smiling. It was hard enough to find something to laugh about these days. He wanted to savor it while he could.

Zeke gave them all the once-over, then nodded and walked over toward where the two lieutenants were somewhat heatedly debating the best route to take for the remainder of the afternoon. He could tell they were not in agreement by the tone of the conversation, and he smiled to himself, recalling Goldman’s promise not to let the other lieutenant get the better of him. Easier said than done, Zeke thought.

Goldman looked up over Jennings’ head as Zeke approached, and caught the smirk on his sergeant’s face. His eyes darkened imperceptibly and he shook his head subtly in a warning to the other man. This served no purpose other than causing the sergeant’s smile to deepen.

Anderson stopped before approaching further. He had no desire to get himself caught in the crossfire between two pissed off lieutenants, so he took a moment to compose himself. As he stood there, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and he tilted his head gradually, as if listening to something in the distance. His eyes widened slightly as he recognized the whistling sound made by mortar fire.

“INCOMING! DOWN, DOWN, EVERYBODY DOWN!” he shouted, turning around and taking quick note of the positions of his men before he sought cover by a nearby tree. He grabbed his helmet from where it hung on his rucksack and hurriedly shoved it onto his head, allowing the strap to dangle. He saw the men in his squad lying flat on the ground where they had been eating moments before, attempting to shelter their heads with their arms.

The first round landed about 100 meters to their right, spraying Vietnamese soil upward and turning a small tree into kindling. The second round followed shortly after, moving slightly closer to their position. This was the worst kind of fire to be under—there was nothing the men could do but wait it out and hope like hell they wouldn’t be hit—There was no enemy for them to fire at. The ground they lay upon trembled as the mortars continued to blast away.

Zeke raised his head long enough to locate the direction the mortars seemed to be coming from, and realized he needed to make his way to the LT pronto. He raised himself off the ground and ran for the lieutenant’s position a few yards away, coming to a rolling stop next to where Goldman was crouched behind a rock.

“LT!” he shouted, ducking his head as the dirt thrown into the air by the latest round came raining down upon him. “LT, there’s an American firebase in the same direction those rounds are coming from!”

It didn’t take any prodding for the lieutenant to understand what Zeke’s meaning was. “Dammit!” he said, realizing with growing fury that they were under fire from their own troops. He hesitated only a second before reaching for the radio from the nearby RTO and confirming their location to get Command to end the mortar fire.

Several minutes that seemed to last a lifetime went by before the rounds finally ceased. The men in the platoon were dazed and dirty. They cautiously raised their heads to see if it was safe before crawling out from hiding, the fear they had been feeling giving way to a bizarre mixture of relief and anger.

Zeke lay on his back next to the LT, breathing heavily. He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, saying nothing, and merely shook his head before pushing himself up to go check on his men.

Goldman threw the radio’s receiver back at the RTO in disgust and stood to his feet. He surveyed the damage. Though the area immediately surrounding them had taken heavy fire, there didn’t appear to have been any direct hits to their position. He watched as the men under his command began digging themselves out and brushing themselves off. There were a few minor injuries, but nothing that the medic couldn’t patch up. No need for a dust-off. He supposed he should be grateful, but there was no room for that emotion with the anger he was feeling.

It was with a sense of resigned disbelief that Goldman surveyed the area in front of him. Why it should surprise him that the Army was screwed up enough to be unable to track the movement of its own men, he didn’t know. By now, he should almost expect it, but still…putting your life on the line for your country was one thing. Getting yourself nearly blown away by your own troops was a whole other ballgame.

He had just started to move toward the men when Lieutenant Jennings came over to him.

“What do you think you’re doing, Goldman?” he asked angrily.

Myron looked at him, noticed the purpose in his stride as the man literally bore down on him. “What are you talking about, Jennings?” the lieutenant responded, at a loss to understand what the other man was upset with him about, and in no mood to deal with it.

“Soldier!” he yelled to Goldman’s RTO. “Get yourself over here now!”

Startled, the young PFC hurriedly made his way to where the two lieutenants stood.

Jennings grabbed the boy by the strap of the radio he carried and hauled him the last two feet to stand next to him. “You called it in, Goldman, didn’t you? Dammit, don’t the words ‘radio silence’ mean anything to you?” Jennings was standing in such a position that his height allowed him to look down on Myron, and he was enjoying the fact.

Myron stared at Jennings, his mouth literally hanging open. “I don’t believe you, Jennings. Are you serious? Of course I damn well called it in! We were getting shot to hell by our own artillery!”

“Well, congratulations, Goldman, you just gave away our position and maybe screwed our entire mission.”

Myron could feel the anger as it grew inside him, a tightly coiled spring that was fast approaching the point of no return. “I gave away our position? You’re worried that I gave away our position? If I hadn’t called it in, there’d been nobody left alive to complete our mission in the first place!” Myron stared incredulously at the other man.

Jennings eyes narrowed angrily as he realized the truth of Myron’s statement, but he refused to back down. He did a quick perimeter sweep, and noticed that many of the men had stopped what they were doing, turning questioning eyes to the two lieutenants. Appearances were everything to Dennis Jennings. Believing that admitting Myron was right would make him seem less in the eyes of his men, he turned to the RTO and pulled out the K-bar he wore attached to his belt.

The PFC, who had stood fearfully by as the lieutenants argued, cursing his luck, now felt his eyes widening, and he took an involuntary step backwards as Jennings came towards him with the knife.

Jennings grabbed the receiver from the RTO’s shoulder and used his knife to sever the wire from the unit. He then threw the receiver at Goldman’s feet.

“What the HELL do you think you’re doing?” Goldman yelled furiously.

“I’m making sure YOU can’t screw up again the next time you have an urge to call home! From now on, we got one radio in this unit. And the only person using it is gonna be me!” Jennings looked up; the men within earshot were now staring openly at the two lieutenants. Though he had no desire to be the center of attention, he refused to back down. Instead, he gave the RTO a shove as he turned and walked away.

“Jones!” he yelled out. “Front and center—I want a sit-rep, NOW!”

Goldman could do nothing but shake his head over the entire incident. He was consumed with anger, unable to believe what Jennings had done despite being an eyewitness to the other man’s stupidity.

He could feel Zeke’s gaze upon him. Goldman knew that if he turned, he would see the concern the sergeant felt over the situation displayed plainly in the older man’s eyes. Instead, Myron reached down and offered a hand to his RTO, who had fallen backwards when the other lieutenant pushed him.

“Thank you, Sir,” the young man said, uncertain if he was in trouble. He waited quietly, and was relieved to see the lieutenant stalking away. Bending slightly, he picked up the useless earpiece and stuck it inside his pack as the rain began to fall gently from the sky.

***********

The heavy rain had been coming down steadily for hours and showed no sign of letting up anytime soon. Though the two platoons had continued to hump it out for the remainder of the afternoon, the mortar fire and the rain combined had caused them significant delays and they were well behind schedule. With still over a day’s worth of distance between them and the bridge, they finally came to a halt. The men who were not set up on the perimeter had begun the task of digging in and filling some sandbags, and now the majority of them were settling in for the long night ahead.

Goldman sat alone in a foxhole dug earlier by Taylor and Johnson, listening to the patter of the rain as it bounced off his poncho and watching the little rivers that formed make their way down toward his feet. Each drop only added to the mud he was already sitting in. There wasn’t a dry spot anywhere on his entire body, and the chill he felt went all the way to the bone. It was days like this that made him wonder why he hadn’t already gotten out of combat and found himself a spot in the rear.

He saw out of the corner of his eye that someone was approaching his position, and he knew it was Anderson, even though the hood of his poncho obscured the older man’s face from his vision. He had known from the moment he’d finished his “conversation” with Jennings that it would only be a matter of time before the sergeant checked on him, making sure he was holding up. It was Anderson’s way—sometimes Goldman wondered if the man’s designator should be changed from Platoon Sergeant to Company Shrink. Anderson would probably inform him it was all one in the same. The thought brought a slight smile to Myron’s face.

Zeke lowered his weary body into the hole beside the lieutenant, making his way cautiously to avoid slipping in the mud and landing on his backside. “Hey, LT,” he said.

“Sergeant,” Goldman replied in greeting. “You got everything set up for the night?” he asked, keeping to business in a vain effort to sidetrack the sergeant’s inevitable questions.

“Yessir,” Zeke answered, as he hunkered down next to the LT. The hood of his poncho slid back as he sat, exposing his head and neck to the rain, and he shifted around a bit in an effort to get it readjusted. “Jonesy and I set up a rotation and let the men know—everything’s covered.”

“Good,” Goldman stated. He felt the desire for a cigarette, anything to keep his hands busy and his mind distracted, but knew that trying to pull out his smokes in this steady downpour would only make them too wet to light. “How long have you known Jones?” he asked casually.

“We served together for a time on my second tour. He’s a good man, LT. Just came back from the States for another go-round.”

“Well, I guess we can be glad for his experience in the bush, then,” Goldman remarked idly.

As was his custom, Zeke cut right to the chase. “LT—ya did good today. Ain’t nobody gonna fault ya for that.”

Knowing this conversation was coming did nothing to lower the lieutenant’s guard. He thought briefly about holding on to his silence, keeping a safe distance behind the walls he’d built for himself. But tonight, tonight he was tired. Tired of the dance he and Anderson played, knowing the other man would eventually end up wearing him down. He was becoming a pushover when it came to Zeke Anderson, and if his sergeant wanted to have his say, there was not much Myron could do to stop him. Hell, he’d just about given up trying.

Some days, maintaining the front he’d assumed for himself just wasn’t worth it.

Myron sighed. “Other than Jennings, you mean?” he asked dryly.

“Yeah, well, we both know what matters most to Jennings. And it sure ain’t his men. But you—you’re a good officer, ya know? Ya ain’t gonna risk your men’s lives like they don’t mean nothin’. And the men respect ya because of that.”

Myron smiled in the darkness, knowing his sergeant’s simple words were spoken from the heart. Truth be told, the lieutenant had not regretted his actions earlier in the day. But hearing them affirmed by the man he trusted completely only helped soothe the annoyance he felt over Jennings’ outburst.

“Course, if I were you,” Zeke continued, “I wouldn’t mention in the letter that this was a friendly fire incident.”

“What letter?” Goldman asked, recalling the afternoon’s events. He knew no one had been seriously wounded in either platoon, let alone KIA.

“The one you’re gonna have to write to that radio’s momma. ‘Killed in the line of duty’ just don’t seem to apply, ya know?”

Goldman could hear the smirk in Anderson’s voice, and silently shook his head. He hugged his M-16 closer to him and leaned against the damp wall of the foxhole, his shoulder brushing against Zeke’s as he struggled to get into a comfortable position. “Good night, Sergeant,” he said rather pointedly.

“Night, LT,” Anderson replied, still smiling, before he closed his eyes and settled his tired body in for a few hours sleep.

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

Continue to Part Two…