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 Two: The Decision

Eight hours of humping the next day through the pouring rain and thickening mud still left both platoons a considerable distance from the bridge, and Goldman wondered, not for the first time, why Command had chosen to insert them so far from their objective. The weather continued to delay their progress, leaving them to deal with anything from overflowing rivers that had no safe point to cross to a minor mud slide when climbing a ridge that had all but washed away. Tempers were short and the men were growing tired, causing them to make careless mistakes.

First Squad of Goldman’s platoon had pulled the point position, followed by the remainder of their platoon with Jennings’ men bringing up the rear. Jennings had just walked past Goldman and was nearly in line with Anderson when a young private next to them stumbled over a root, knocking into a tree just off the trail. The action caused the branches of the tree to sway, which released the wire on a booby trap that was strung high enough in the branches that it had been overlooked by the men passing by ahead of them.

There was a gentle thump as the grenade that had been wired in the tree fell to the ground, landing in such a position that both lieutenants were in immediate danger of the effects of the explosion.

Anderson was the first to react. “GRENADE!” he yelled, and the men around him scrambled in their attempt to dive for cover.

Goldman threw himself as far away from the grenade as he could and rolled his body several times in an effort to clear the area. As he came to a stop, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Anderson had gone down on top of the explosive. Not fully trusting his eyes, the lieutenant’s mind recoiled in horror at the reality that he was about to watch his sergeant die in an effort to save his men. Goldman instinctively scrambled up to get to Zeke without thought for his own safety.

Sergeant Jones was close enough to Goldman to realize what the lieutenant intended to do, and he immediately tackled him, pushing him back down where the officer would be safe from the explosion. Having no desire to lose two men to the same fragging, Jonesy lay on top of the lieutenant to forcibly hold him there.

Goldman struggled ferociously to free himself from the other man’s grasp, desperate to stop the inevitable. As he continued to fight, it dawned on him that enough time had passed for the grenade to go off, and nothing had happened. He stopped his efforts suddenly, and raised his head in attempt to see what was going on.

Anderson lay still, holding his breath, the mud from the trail covering the front of his fatigues. His face was drained of all color, and he could barely feel his legs. Unable to believe what had just happened, he slowly used his arms to push himself up off the Vietnamese grenade, which lay dormant in the mud. He rolled to a sitting position and picked it up carefully by the tail, throwing it as far from himself and the men as he could.

Zeke drew his knees up toward his chest and loosely wrapped his arms around them, sitting for a moment and savoring every breath. The rain continued to fall gently upon him, and for once he didn’t mind. It struck him that the rain would still be coming down whether he were dead or alive. He was just grateful to be here to feel it.

Jonesy, seeing that the danger to the lieutenant had passed, released Goldman from his grip and allowed him to stand.

The lieutenant worked at controlling his emotions before closing the distance between him and his sergeant. He stared down at Anderson as he sat, not trusting his voice just yet, and simply held out his hand.

Zeke looked up at his LT and noticed the relief that was not well hidden in the younger man’s features. He grabbed hold of the lieutenant’s offered hand, gripping him around the wrist, and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Once standing, he bent down to pick up his weapon and then straightened, using his free hand to wipe the mud off his face.

Taylor and Percell had been close enough to their sergeant to see what had occurred, and they now came up behind him, Taylor grabbing Zeke in an exuberant hug.

“Damn, I thought you was gone for good!” Taylor exclaimed. “Are you nuts? Don’t do that to me, ya hear? You nearly took 10 years off my life!”

“Yeah, Sarge,” Percell chimed in, forcefully slapping Anderson on the back. “Ya scared the hell outta all of us!”

Anderson gave a little laugh, and spoke in a voice that gave away none of what he was really feeling. “Well, Percell, ya know, it kinda scared the hell outta me too. But ya ain’t gonna get rid of me that easy. I got no intention of dyin’ out here.” He disentangled himself from his men. “Alright now, ‘nough already. Y’all give me some space here.”

Myron watched the men as they unashamedly expressed their emotions, and felt a twinge of envy. Part of him longed to join in the display; after all, he was as relieved as they were after their beloved sergeant’s near brush with death. But Myron Goldman had never learned how to show what he was feeling, was never willing to risk the rejection if someone were to turn those feelings against him. He’d had so many years of practice in keeping his emotions so deeply hidden inside him that most people simply assumed he had none. To anyone watching now, he was merely observing, holding himself aloof, as the officer he was supposed to be.

But inside, he was thanking God that he wasn’t facing the remainder of this war without his closest friend.

Lieutenant Jennings had watched the events unfolding before him with a sense of disbelief that he had almost not walked away from this one. He prided himself on his combat instincts, his reactions, and most of all, his length of time in the bush. The mission came first with him, it always would. If there was a job to be done, he felt he was the man to do it and he hoped the higher-ups felt the same way. The lieutenant was not about to let some VC booby trap put an end to that. He stepped forward onto the trail, anxious to get the men moving again.

“Alright,” Jennings called out in a voice that was somewhat shaky due to the rush of adrenaline that was surging through him, “let’s keep it going! If Charlie’s in the area, he probably knows where we are now. I want my Second Squad up here on point! And let’s keep a better eye out for booby traps, you men hear?” He watched wordlessly as the men responded to his orders, and allowed a small smile of satisfaction to cross his lips.

The men needed no encouragement to continue on, each of them anxious to put as much distance between themselves and the location of the near-explosion as possible. The point man took extra care to look not only at the path he was walking, but also in the trees overhead for any other surprises that the enemy might have left for them.

Zeke stood, inspecting his weapon carefully, and allowed most of his platoon to pass him by before taking a spot alongside Ruiz. He kept a close eye on all his men from where he walked.

“Hey, Sarge,” Ruiz said, “you okay?” Though the sergeant seemed as calm as ever to him, he found it hard to believe that any man who had looked death so squarely in the face could just shake it off so easily.

“Yeah, Ruiz,” Zeke sighed, “I’m alright. Don’t you worry yourself about it, ya hear?” Anderson brushed aside the other man’s concern as easily as swatting a fly.

“Man, Sarge, I ain’t never seen nothing like that!” Alberto continued, the awe evident in his young voice. “Jumping on a grenade to keep the lieutenants from getting blown up—damn! They oughta give ya a medal for that, or something. I mean, you’re a hero!”

“Give it a rest, Ruiz. It don’t mean nothin’.” Anderson was clearly uncomfortable with the praise he was receiving, and chose to move farther forward in an attempt to end the conversation. He bypassed several men and found himself walking alongside Goldman.

Goldman cast a sideways glance at the sergeant, as if to reassure himself that the man was actually still walking and breathing. Though Zeke seemed remarkably at peace over the event, Goldman himself was more shaken than he was letting on.

“You really alright?” Goldman asked in a low voice, still watching the sergeant.

Zeke shifted his gaze and looked directly at the lieutenant, nearly reaching the point of annoyance over the repeated concern that was being displayed toward him. Something hidden in Goldman’s eyes, however, gave away a hint of the emotions the younger man was feeling, and Zeke knew that the lieutenant was as affected by what had just happened as he was himself.

Zeke sighed. “Yeah, LT. I really am,” he answered softly.

“What the hell were you doing back there?” Myron asked. Though the answer seemed obvious, he’d never seen his sergeant react that way to a grenade before.

Zeke allowed his gaze to sweep the area briefly, making certain his comments were for the lieutenant’s ears only. “Well, Sir, I’ll tell ya, it wasn’t what it musta looked like, that’s for sure. That there--well, that was an accident.” Zeke returned his gaze to the terrain in front of him, looking down at the makeshift trail they were traveling as the rain wove its path through the trees overhead and fell softly on his back.

“An accident?” Goldman echoed curiously.

“Yessir.” Zeke hesitated only briefly before telling the officer exactly what had occurred. “LT, I been in-country three years, and I ain’t never gone down on top of a grenade before. Kinda limits your options, ya know? I was tryin’ to grab it to throw it away, and I…well, I slipped.” Zeke looked up at Goldman as they walked and shrugged, grinning sheepishly.

“You slipped?” Goldman parroted again, trying to see if there was truth in the sergeant’s eyes.

“Yessir. Landed right on top of the damn thing, and for half a minute I was too stunned to react.”

Goldman turned to stare at his sergeant. He slowly shook his head. “Unbelievable,” was the only thing he could think of to say.

“You got that right,” Zeke answered.

The lieutenant stepped carefully over a log that had fallen across the trail and pushed a branch out of his way, noticing that either the rain was getting heavier or the jungle was thinning out. He recalled the conversation he’d shared with Anderson the day before regarding Zeke’s feeling of uneasiness on their assignment, and his face brightened slightly. “Well, hey, maybe this must be why you were feeling so uncomfortable with the mission, right?” he asked hopefully.

“Maybe,” Zeke replied, not completely convinced, but unwilling to relate that to his lieutenant.

Myron readjusted the position of his M-16 to ease the ache in his tired arms. “Just try and make sure you don’t fall on any more grenades on my account, okay?”

“Aw, c’mon, LT, didn’t ya hear Ruiz? I’m a regular hero.” Zeke chuckled as he moved ahead toward the front of the line.

“We got enough of those around here, Sergeant,” Myron whispered to his retreating back.

**********

The jungle was indeed thinning out, and within a few minutes, the men of Jennings’ Second Squad led both platoons down the trail as they skirted around a clearing. The path they followed went down a slight incline, and they could see that the high grass opened up to reveal a village. There were several hootches made from bamboo and mud, with tattered pieces of cloth hanging from makeshift doorways. Attached to two of the huts were fences used as livestock pens, though there was no sign of any animals. In fact, there were no signs of life at all.

The point man crouched down, raising his fist into the air, and the action continued like a wave throughout the other men in line. Jennings made his way up to the front of the line, where Sergeant Jones was scanning the perimeter, and Myron joined the other lieutenant in a matter of seconds. He crouched down and placed the heel of his rifle on the ground, leaning against it for balance. His RTO followed him out of habit, despite the fact that the radio he carried was now useless.

“Village looks deserted, Sir,” Jones stated. There were no fires burning, no friendlies moving about, not even the scent of animal dung in the air. “From the looks of things, whoever lived here didi’d out a long time ago.”

Jennings turned on his heels to face Myron. “What do you think, Goldman?” he asked, shifting his helmet back slightly to get a better view.

Myron felt surprise that Jennings would even take the time to ask, but he didn’t hesitate to offer an opinion. Something about the village didn’t sit right with him, though he was unable to place his finger on it. Zeke crept up from behind them and crouched down next to his lieutenant, quietly observing the terrain, his weapon comfortable in the ready position.

“I think we ought to check it out, Jennings,” Myron answered. “Don’t know what it is--just looks a little too quiet.”

Zeke nodded his head in affirmation, his gaze never ceasing in its sweep of the perimeter. “That’s exactly what it is, LT,” he spoke in a whisper. “Way too quiet. Not even the bugs are makin’ noise out there.”

Realizing the sergeant was right, Jennings looked away from the platoon leaders to scan the village himself. It was too quiet. Aside from the emptiness, nothing seemed out of place. Still, walking into an ambush would leave them with yet another delay, one that could very possibly cause them to have to abort the mission totally. And he had no desire for that to happen.

“Alright, Goldman, have Anderson take two of your squads and do a sweep of the village. The rest of the men will wait here and provide support should they get themselves in trouble,” Lieutenant Jennings ordered, completely ignoring the fact that Anderson was right within earshot.

Zeke imperceptibly shook his head in annoyance. He hated officers who avoided acknowledging the enlisted men if they could. Seeing no need to have Goldman repeat the orders, Zeke rose silently and signaled to Second and Third Squads to move up.

“Alright, boys, let’s do what the man says ‘n check it out,” Zeke said quietly, motioning toward the village with his head. “Ruiz, take Landry ahead of us now ‘n see if you can find a spot to set up the pig. I want First Squad headin’ up the center, nice ‘n slow. Johnson, you ‘n Percell head over to the right; Taylor, you’re with me. Eyes ‘n ears open, everybody—don’t want no surprises here.”

Ruiz and PFC Landry, the young, sandy haired boy who carried his ammo, headed off toward the ville. They spotted a ridge in the land just short of a rice paddy which would serve them well as cover. Ruiz quickly lay down with the M-60 and pulled down the bipod, stabilizing the weapon on the dirt. Landry pulled one of the ammunition belts off over his head and handed it to Alberto, who flipped the top on the pig before loading the belt. He closed the cover and pulled back on the bar, then released the safety. He glanced over at Landry, who had laid the remainder of the ammo on the ground and had his hands ready to guide the belt as Ruiz fired. Ruiz nodded at him, and Landry nodded back, signaling his readiness.

The rest of the men walked cautiously down the hill that led to the village, passing by the lieutenants and the remainder of the platoon. First Squad had the lead, and the point man, Bobby Dawson, nervously darted his eyes back and forth, hoping like hell he wouldn’t spot anything. As they entered the village itself, they began spreading out, each of the men heading toward a different hootch. Third Squad brought up the rear, fanning out as Anderson had directed them.

In a hootch dead center on the far side of the village, the barrel of a gun gently pushed aside the rag covering the window. Two other guns were set in place in the doorway, their owners waiting patiently for the men to come within range. The NVA soldier in the window raised the sight on the gun to his eye, his finger curling around the trigger.

Bobby Dawson was the first to go down, followed quickly by his buddy Randy who was just off to his right. Then all hell broke loose as an enemy machine gun opened up on the men, sending them diving for cover, struggling to get their weapons adjusted to a line of fire.

Zeke and Taylor dropped simultaneously to the ground, scrambling for cover behind a wooden bin that looked as if it had been a trough for whatever animal had lived here. The bin provided little protection however, and they were directly in Charlie’s line of fire. Taylor rolled slightly onto his back, trying to keep his legs out of the way, while Zeke leaned just beyond the edge of his temporary shelter in an attempt to return fire.

A bullet came whizzing past his ear, and he pulled himself back abruptly, leaning shoulder to shoulder with the young black man.

“Damn, Sarge, this ain’t good!” Taylor exclaimed in his Motown twang, holding his

M-16 back against his chest with the muzzle pointing upward. He tried to peek over the top of the trough, but quickly pulled his head back down. “I can’t even get off a shot!”

“See if you can get a grenade over there, Taylor,” Anderson urged.

“What do I look like, some damn quarterback?” Marcus replied testily. “Ain’t no way I can throw that far!”

Anderson swore under his breath. He bit down on his lower lip, thinking fast and hoping to come up with a plan.

Ruiz had the M-60 lined up and ready to go, and was trying desperately to lay down cover fire. The rounds were falling short, however, and he knew he needed to get farther up into the village. He hugged the machine gun to himself and stood up, yelling for Landry to follow. They made their way quickly and cautiously into the ville and up to the first hootch, where Ruiz scrambled to get the pig set up again.

Goldman and the men with him saw the firefight erupt. Knowing they were still too far back to do any good from their position, they rushed down the hill to the aid of their buddies. Coming in from the trail, Myron made a rapid assessment of the situation and saw where Zeke and Taylor were being pinned down by a single NVA shooting from the tree line.

“Ruiz!” he yelled out. “Check the tree line! My two o’clock!”

Ruiz didn’t hear the lieutenant over the sound of the M-60, but Landry did. He saw the muzzle flashes coming from the bush and elbowed Ruiz, pointing him in the right direction. Ruiz swung his weapon to the right and opened fire. Within seconds he heard a grisly scream and saw the bushes rustle as his target collapsed, barely visible to the men.

“Taylor! Anderson!” Goldman screamed, “You’re clear! Get the hell out of there!”

Neither man wasted any time in falling back to the lieutenant’s position. With two full platoons engaged in the battle, the few enemy soldiers should have been subdued within minutes. But the Vietnamese had the advantage over the American troops, and the machine gunner in the center hootch struck down anyone who tried to approach.

Anderson continued firing, noticing that the outskirts of the village suddenly seemed lit up with muzzle flashes. “Looks like Charlie just got himself some backup, LT,” he said, pulling the clip from his weapon and flipping it quickly to replace the spent cartridges. He could see his men pinned down throughout the outskirts of the village. Knowing the hope of calling in for support was fruitless and the option of retreat was less than appealing, he looked again at the hootch housing the machine gunner. The hootch itself had to be well fortified, for their efforts to take out the enemy soldiers within had no effect.

“We gotta take out the gunner.” Anderson noticed the M-79 strapped to Taylor’s rucksack. “LT, I’m gonna take Taylor ‘n try to flank ‘em. See if we can’t get close enough to hit ‘em with the bloopers, or maybe a satchel charge.”

Myron stopped firing briefly and looked at the sergeant before nodding. “Go,” he ordered simply, as he had so many times before.

“Collins, toss me your 79!” Anderson yelled to a nearby private who had been humping the weapon. The young man laid down his M-16 and did as he was ordered.

Zeke caught the weapon deftly and looked to Taylor for confirmation. “Ready?” he asked.

“Let’s do it,” Taylor replied.

Both men melted into the tall grass outlining the village, seemingly disappearing from existence.

On the other side of the ville, Percell and Johnson remained trapped by enemy fire. Both lay on their stomachs on the inside of the rice paddy with their upper bodies just below the crest and their legs immersed in the muddy water. They were doing their best to fire at an enemy they could barely see, but an NVA soldier in the bushes to their right was holding them back.

Percell raised his head slightly above the mound of dirt surrounding the paddy and concentrated his shooting at the soldier. The trees the NVA was hiding behind offered him excellent protection, however, and nothing was getting through. Out of the corner of his eye, Danny saw someone advancing up to their position. Within seconds, Lieutenant Jennings had nearly thrown himself into the paddy only a few feet from Percell, splashing mud and water all over him.

“Alright, troops, I want you guys to cover my back. I’m heading up to that hootch to see if I can’t nail that damn gook.” Jennings said.

Johnson glanced over at Jennings. From the look in the lieutenant’s eyes, it was obvious the man was getting off on this.

“Cover me!” the lieutenant yelled before getting up and sprinting toward the hootch.

Johnson and Percell were left with no choice but to do as he ordered, and they began laying down fire in hopes of aiding the lieutenant.

“Damn fool officer…” Johnson said to himself.

“I heard that,” Percell agreed. Danny watched in relief as the lieutenant made it behind the relative safety of the bamboo hut.

Jennings unhooked a grenade from his belt and pulled the pin, counting to two before tossing it in the direction of the NVA solider. It was well placed, and the enemy was barely able to let out a scream before falling to the ground, a large hole in the place where his chest used to be.

“Nice shot,” Danny commented under his breath to Johnson appreciatively. With the enemy no longer holding them down, both men cautiously advanced to the lieutenant’s position and renewed their firing at the tree line.

Taylor crawled on his stomach through the dirt, following Anderson’s lead. When the sergeant came to the edge of the tall grass that had been providing them cover, they found themselves directly across from the hootch with the machine gun. Marcus scooted up next to Anderson.

Zeke barely noticed the rain drizzling down his neck as he looked at the man lying beside him. “Alright now, Taylor,” he said, “let’s see if we can’t slow ‘em down a bit with these bloopers first. If that don’t work, we’ll try the explosives.

“You got it, Sarge,” Taylor replied, with obvious confidence in the older man.

Though they were within range of their target, it became apparent that the M-79s were having little effect on the soldiers within, and Anderson knew they had no choice but to get close enough to toss in the bags. “Keep firing, Taylor,” he said. “I’m gonna work my way up.”

Taylor loaded another round into both 79s while Zeke waited, and then nodded his readiness. Zeke moved quickly, crawling through the grass and approaching the hootch. The enemy soldier firing from the window noticed his approach, and turned to fire upon him just as Zeke released the bag and it flew directly into the hootch.

Myron watched from his position as the resulting explosion in the hut left no doubt that the enemy within had been neutralized. Silently thanking Zeke, he gave orders for the remainder of the men behind him to move up and after the men at the tree line.

Without the protection from their comrades in the center hootch, the NVA soldiers in the bush beyond the edge of the ville found themselves falling under a renewed assault. It wasn’t long before the decision was made to retreat, and they quickly and silently withdrew into the jungle. Goldman had no desire to give chase, and he ordered the men surrounding him to cease fire.

Jennings had other ideas, however. Though their mission may have been to take out the bridge on the supply route, finding and engaging the enemy and coming away with a confirmed body count would only make his file look even better. He gave the order to pursue the enemy to those around him.

Percell watched as the group of men in Jennings’ platoon he had been concerned about earlier immediately followed Jennings into the bush without question. He looked over at Johnson, knowing that both men were also expected to follow.

“Damn,” Percell said, obviously reluctant.

“We gotta go, Danny, ya know we do,” Marvin argued.

“Yeah, I know it, Johnson. Let’s get it over with,” Danny replied as both men hurried to catch up with the others.

Goldman watched Jennings disappear in the bush followed by his men, along with Johnson and Percell, and silently shook his head. He walked up further into the ville, scanning the area and surveying the damage done. A hootch just to his left was burning, and the smell of smoke was heavy in the air. He counted up four dead or presumably dead NVA soldiers, as well as several American walking wounded. Bobby Dawson never stood a chance, but his buddy Randy escaped with only a shoulder wound. As Myron gave the order to police up the enemy bodies, he could hear someone on the other side of the village screaming for a medic, and watched as the young man who was attached to Jennings’ platoon ran in that direction.

Myron walked up to where one NVA lay sprawled in the dirt, his weapon half under his body. He used his foot to roll the body over and saw that the soldier was barely more than a boy, maybe 15 years old. The youth was clearly dead, his wounds visible and severe. The pattern of bullet holes across his young chest indicated he had most likely fallen victim to Ruiz and his M-60. Out of habit, Myron kicked the weapon out of reach. Enemy or not, he found no joy in the senseless death of a promising young life.

Goldman couldn’t tear his gaze away from the young face. The boy almost looked peaceful.

Myron hoped he was.

PFC Thomas Landry walked slowly up to the lieutenant, hesitating as he noticed that his CO was affected by the sight of the dead Vietnamese boy. He stood silently, out of respect for his lieutenant, and wondered how any of them could not be affected by the things they witnessed daily.

“Ya want I should search him now, LT?” Landry asked in a soft southern drawl, hating the idea.

The question seemed to break Goldman out of his reverie. He glanced at the PFC, just noticing him there, and nodded.

“Yeah, Landry,” he sighed, “go ahead and…”

“LT! LT!” he heard Ruiz yelling anxiously, running in his direction. “LT, ya gotta come quick!” Making sure the lieutenant understood, Ruiz turned and ran back in the direction he’d come, stopping in front of a hootch where several men were crouched down.

Myron’s heart suddenly started pumping faster as the adrenaline coursed through his veins at the tone of Ruiz’s voice. He sprinted after the younger man, all thoughts of the Vietnamese soldier gone from his mind.

Nothing could prepare him for the sight that awaited him.

He could see the medic from Jennings’ platoon, working furiously to stop the bleeding of a wounded soldier. Though the soldier’s face was obscured from view, Myron felt a circle of fear take an icy grip on his heart, and he knew without a doubt who the soldier was.

Zeke.

Unaware that he’d said the name out loud, Myron stepped forward in a fog to stare down at his platoon sergeant. Anderson’s t-shirt had been ripped open, and his own blood covered him, mixing with the rain to form an ever-growing red puddle on the ground beneath him. Pearson, the medic, was trying to hold a bandage to Zeke’s chest to stop the bleeding while pulling out supplies to start an I.V. Taylor was there, tears rolling silently down his cheeks, holding Zeke’s hand and telling the sergeant to hang in there.

Myron felt the blood rushing in his ears, and struggled to stay on his feet, feeling utterly frozen in place.

“Sir? Sir, I can use your help!” the medic called to him, receiving no response.

“Lieutenant!” he shouted.

Myron visibly fliched, snapping out of his trance. He came forward the rest of the way and knelt down. “What can I do?” he asked in a voice that shook imperceptibly.

“I need you to hold this tight to try and stop the bleeding,” Pearson said firmly, directing the officer’s hands to the bandage on the right side of Zeke’s chest. He’s losing way too much blood, and I need to get his pressure stabilized, or he ain’t gonna make it.”

Myron did as directed, applying firm pressure even as he felt Zeke’s warm blood begin to seep through his fingers. He glanced up at the sergeant’s face, and was startled to see that Anderson was awake, his gaze fixed on the lieutenant, quietly watching him.

“Hey, LT…” Zeke said in a voice that sounded unbearably strange to Goldman’s ears, “this ain’t so…so good, ya know? I stopped….the bullet in a bad place here.” Anderson was noticeably struggling to catch his breath, and he began to cough, causing the corner of his mouth to fill with a frothy, pink-tinged sputum that rolled slowly down his chin.

It took every bit of self-control that Goldman had within him to turn off the emotions he was feeling. For once, he was grateful for all the experience the General had given him with that over the years, for he shut down completely, choosing to ignore the fact that this was Zeke who was lying there, that it was Zeke whose blood now covered Myron’s hands, that it was Zeke who was dying in his arms.

Myron was an officer. And he would act like one.

“It’s gonna be alright, Sergeant, you hear me? You’re gonna be okay. It doesn’t look too bad, and Pearson here is taking good care of you.” His words started to run together in an attempt to reassure his sergeant. Or maybe to reassure himself. “You just hang on. Just hang on. We’ll get you out of here.” The bandage he was holding soaked through, giving lie to his statement even as he spoke it. He reached for another and added it to the sticky mass on Zeke’s chest. How many times have I said those words to other dying soldiers? he wondered tiredly. How many times have I lied?

“You’re…a lousy liar, LT,” Zeke answered weakly, as if reading the lieutenant’s mind, before another fit of coughing overtook him. He was coughing up blood in earnest now, and though he tried not to give in to it, his eyes rolled back in his head as the blackness overtook him.

Myron dragged his gaze from his platoon sergeant to the medic, looking for any sort of encouragement that Zeke would indeed be alright.

“DAMN!” Pearson said violently, practically shredding the package containing the needle for the saline solution in his effort to speed care to Zeke.

“What?” Myron asked anxiously, trying to catch the medic’s eye. “What, Pearson, WHAT?”

“You gotta keep that pressure on, Sir. He’s probably bleeding into his chest—sounds like the pressure has collapsed his lung. We have to stop the bleeding before the other lung goes, or he doesn’t stand a chance!” Pearson took hold of Zeke’s left arm and deftly inserted the needle, starting the flow of saline to try and stabilize the sergeant’s blood pressure.

“Okay, Sir, we gotta roll him on his side,” Pearson ordered, motioning to Ruiz to assist them. Myron started to shift Zeke so that he was lying on his left side.

“No, LT, not that way! Roll him so he’s laying on his right.”

“But that’s where the wound is…” Myron said in confusion.

“I know, Sir. We gotta give the lung that hasn’t collapsed as much room as possible to expand. Trust me, LT,” Billy said, capturing Goldman’s eyes.

Myron nodded, and the three men rolled the sergeant so that he was lying on his right.

The men who’d been left in the village slowly began to gather in a circle around the struggling sergeant, each of them willing him to beat this battle with death. Ruiz stood there uncertainly, wishing there was something else he could do. He crouched down by Zeke’s feet and laid a tentative hand on his leg, needing to feel the contact with the man who’d kept him alive for half his tour.

Time crawled to a standstill as the men waited and watched, silence surrounding them. Myron’s arms began to ache, his fingers eventually becoming numb, but he continued to maintain the pressure on the wound. The third bandage he’d applied had not soaked through, and he felt the faintest glimmer of hope.

There was a slight commotion on the other side of the village as Jennings and the men with him returned from their pursuit of the enemy. There was no evidence that they had been able to locate the fleeing NVA, though this surprised no one. Charlie had a habit of disappearing like a candle in the wind.

Jennings made his way to the cluster of men. “What the hell are you men doing here? Get a perimeter set up, now! Move it!” he shouted.

As several of the men hastened to do his bidding, he pushed his way up to the front of the cluster, the remaining soldiers parting to allow him to pass. He gazed down at Anderson’s still form, surprised to see it was the seasoned combat veteran lying there. From the looks of things, it wouldn’t be long before he succumbed to his wounds, and for some reason, the thought left a bitter taste in the lieutenant’s mouth.

Billy Pearson had attached a second bag of blood expanders once the first had emptied, and he carefully removed Goldman’s hands to check Anderson’s wound underneath. The bleeding appeared to have slowed a great deal, but the wound continued to ooze, and there was no way of telling what was going on inside his chest. The medic placed a new bandage over the bullet hole and attempted to tie it in place, wrapping the gauze around the sergeant’s midsection and not even noticing the scrapes to his hands as he ran the bandage under the larger man’s ribs.

Johnson and Percell came up from the far side of the ville to see the large group of men gathered in a circle. Wondering what it was they were all looking at, they joined the group and noticed the LT as he half sat on the ground. His hands were covered with blood, going all the way up to his arms. Johnson’s first thought was that the lieutenant had been shot himself.

Danny had a better view. “Sarge,” he said fearfully. “Oh, God, it’s Sarge!” He shoved his way through the men who were in front of him, not caring who he knocked down in his attempt to get through the pack. He came to a halt only a few feet from Anderson’s head, and simply stood there, staring. It was hard to tell if Zeke was still breathing. He watched in silence, and the relief he felt upon seeing his sergeant’s chest move was slight. Danny had watched too many men die in his young life to not recognize the severity of Anderson’s injury.

“Oh, man, oh, man,” Johnson said over and over, coming up next to Percell. “Damn. DAMN! What the hell happened?” he asked no on in particular.

Taylor raised himself to his feet and covered the few steps to Johnson, laying his hand on Johnson’s shoulder. He felt a need not only to comfort his best friend, but to receive it in return, and he gripped the other man tightly. “He took out the gunner,” Taylor said quietly. “We’d all still be fightin’ it out with Charlie if he hadn’t gotten to the gunner.”

Myron took the olive drab towel from around his neck and tried to wipe the already drying blood from his hands. The rain was finally ceasing, and he noticed for the first time the number of men standing around idly. Casting another glance at Zeke’s face, he took the towel and gently wiped the blood away from the older man’s mouth. “So, what’s the story, Doc? Is he ready for a med-evac?”

Pearson knew what the lieutenant was really asking, and couldn’t bring himself to meet the other man’s gaze. He looked at the half-full bag of solution that Ruiz was holding up, and took Anderson’s wrist, searching in vain for a pulse, before giving up and trying at the sergeant’s elbow instead. Not finding one there either, he laid his fingers along Zeke’s neck, feeling the weak pulse that indicated the sergeant hadn’t yet given up this fight.

“His pressure’s not up enough yet for him to be able to survive the flight. I’d like to get one more bag into him before we try and move him,” Billy said, pulling one of his remaining liters out of his bag.

“Pearson!” Lieutenant Jennings called from several feet away, drawing the medic’s attention to where the lieutenant was aiding another wounded soldier. “I need you over here for a minute.”

“Yes Sir!” Billy responded, taking a quick assessment of Anderson before maneuvering through the men surrounding them to approach the lieutenant. He saw that the lieutenant had already bandaged the PFC’s arm, and he noticed no other sign of injury. “Did you need help with that, Sir?” he asked uncertainly.

“No, Private, I don’t need help with this. What I need is to know what the story is with Anderson. Is he going to make it?” Jennings asked, getting right to the point.

“Well, Sir, the external bleeding seems mostly stopped. I don’t think he’ll survive if we have to carry him out of here. But maybe if we call in a Huey…”

“What are his chances if we get a dustoff?” Jennings questioned.

“I don’t know, Sir…” the medic hemmed, afraid to give a straight answer.

“What are his chances, Pearson?” Jennings pressed.

Billy sighed. “Not very good, Lieutenant. Ten, maybe twenty percent. He’s lost a lot of blood…” He knew by answering directly he was pretty much condemning Sergeant Anderson to die, and he hated that responsibility. But he knew what the lieutenant was asking.

“Alright, Billy. Do what you have to do to make him comfortable. I’ll talk with Goldman.”

“Yes, Sir,” Billy responded quietly, surprised that Jennings even knew his first name. He wasn’t the type of officer to get personal with his men.

Myron looked up as the young medic approached and knelt next to him.

“The lieutenant would like to see you, Sir,” Billy informed him, refusing to meet Goldman’s gaze.

Something in the medic’s voice warned Myron that whatever Jennings wanted, it wouldn’t be good. His emotions had already taken more of a beating during the past two days than he thought possible, and he could feel his anger rising without much prodding. He pulled himself up to full height and unconsciously lifted his chin, preparing for whatever battle was ahead of him.

“What is it, Jennings?” Myron asked as he walked the few steps to where the other lieutenant stood with Sergeant Jones, who was filling him in on the wounded. Goldman could feel the eyes of his men following him, their anxiousness to discover what was going on making itself known.

One look at Jennings’ face left Goldman in little doubt as to what the lieutenant was planning.

“Goldman, look…” Jennings began, and suddenly found himself at a loss for words. He quickly glanced up at Goldman’s face, before returning his gaze to the men beyond him. “Myron,” he tried again, “we got one KIA, and a couple of walking wounded, and…and your sergeant. You know as well as I do that he’s in bad shape. He probably won’t make it even if we do get him a dustoff…the mission is still a go, Myron. We can’t give it up now for one man. I’m not calling it in,” he concluded softly, something akin to regret in his voice.

The tenuous hold Myron had maintained on his anger exploded, and he directed it at Jennings, full force. “DAMN you, Jennings!” Myron burst out, his anger pushing at him, refusing to be contained. “I knew you’d pull something like this. I knew it, you sonofa…” his words trailed off, though his anger only grew. “You think I care about the MISSION? SCREW the mission! Anderson’s life may not mean something to you, but it does to me. You can forget about your damn mission. Give me the radio—I’m calling for a med-evac.”

“Forget it, Goldman,” Jennings quietly stood his ground.

Almost of its own accord, Myron’s right hand, still covered with Zeke’s blood, slowly moved toward the service revolver he carried. “Give me the damn radio, Jennings,” Myron seethed. “Or I swear to you, I’ll…”

Jennings noticed the direction of Myron’s hand combined with the fury in his eyes, and knew he was rapidly losing control of this situation. “Look at yourself, Goldman!” he shouted. “Do you see what the hell you’re doing? You gonna shoot me now, is that it? Oh, yeah, that’d be perfect. You’ll be throwing away your career, your whole life, and for what? For a man who’s already dead. His body just doesn’t know it yet.”

Goldman’s hand curled into a fist and shot its way to Jennings’ chin, catching him solidly and knocking the officer backward into the group of soldiers who’d just come from the bush with him. One of them caught the lieutenant before he fell to the ground, and grasping him under the arms, helped him regain his footing.

The ache in his jaw shot up through the rest of Jennings’ face, and his hand rubbed along the skin in an attempt to sooth the pain. He righted himself, standing full height and spitting a mouthful of blood onto the ground at Goldman’s feet.

The soldiers of each platoon came to stand behind their lieutenants, their hands readying their weapons, each man involved in a standoff, ready to defend their leader should the need arise. Taylor stepped forward until he was directly behind Goldman’s left shoulder, the fire in his gaze leaving no one in any doubt that he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

Goldman’s shoulders heaved slightly with his effort to get a handle on his anger before things got any more out of hand, but it was an exercise in futility. “Anderson is NOT dead. The man’s survived longer out here than you and me combined. He never once gave up on any of his men. And I’m sure as hell not going to give up on him now. If anyone can make it, he will. But not if you don’t give him a chance. I’m asking you, Jennings. Hell, I’ll beg you, if that’s what you want. Just call for a chopper. That’s all. Call it in.”

Jennings hesitated only briefly before responding. “I’m sorry, Goldman. I really am. We can still make the bridge tonight. But we’ll never make it if we have to carry him. He’s only going to slow us down, and this mission is too important to scrub. I wish it could be different, but….that’s the way it’s gotta be. Gather your men…we’re leaving. That’s an order.” Jennings turned to his men, fully expecting compliance from all.

“No.” Myron’s voice was deathly quiet.

“What did you say?” Jennings asked, turning back in disbelief.

“I said no. I’m not going. I’m not leaving him.” Goldman stood his ground, fully prepared to face court martial or whatever consequences came his way in exchange for not leaving his sergeant behind.

“Don’t be a fool, Goldman,” Jennings said. “You’re already only a hair’s breadth from an Article 90 as it is. You want to add disobeying a direct order to that? Push yourself right over the edge?”

“Do you think I care?” Goldman asked angrily. “It doesn’t matter to me if I spend the rest of my life in Leavenworth. I’m not leaving this man here to die.”

“Yeah sucka, you can just court martial us both,” Taylor said. “Cuz I ain’t goin’ nowhere either.”

“Same here,” said Ruiz, echoed by Percell.

“Yeah, that goes for me too,” Johnson chimed in, stepping up so he stood shoulder to shoulder with the men he considered his family.

Goldman turned just for a moment to look at the men he’d allowed himself to become close to over the past months, close in the only way he was capable of. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said quietly.

“Yes, Sir, we do,” Ruiz answered for all of them. “For Sarge.”

The lieutenant glanced at Danny as he nodded his head in silent affirmation. Goldman turned back to Jennings. “We’re staying,” he repeated.

“Fine. Stay then. All of you. But I’ll be writing this up when we get back. You’re such an idiot, Goldman. What the hell are you going to do, carry him out of here?”

“If I have to,” Myron stated, turning his back and making his way to Zeke’s side. He was relieved to hear the sergeant’s breathing, though it was still labored. He firmly believed that if anyone could survive this, it would be Zeke.

He had to believe. He had nothing else left.

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

The men of both platoons stood, some of them still in the haphazard perimeter watch that Jennings had set up on his return to the ville. They were waiting uneasily for the command to move out. Jennings had two men move the body of Bobby Dawson behind a nearby hootch, in hopes they could retrieve it once the bridge had been successfully taken.

Billy Pearson took this opportunity to gather up his courage, and he approached Lieutenant Jennings. “Sir?” he questioned.

Jennings looked at him, waiting for him to continue.

“Sir, I was thinking maybe I could stay here. The sergeant needs all the help he can get right now, and…”

“Forget it, Pearson. I need you with us in case we come under fire at the bridge. You’re the only medic we’ve got, and I’m not wasting you on a dead man.”

“But, Sir…” Pearson tried again.

“I said FORGET IT!” Jennings’ temper exploded, and the young medic felt the heat of his anger. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sir,” Billy replied, subdued.

Taylor watched the medic as he approached the men who stood by Zeke. “Don’t worry about it, kid,” he tried to reassure him. “You gotta go. Just like we gotta stay.”

Billy glanced at Taylor, grateful for his understanding. He came and knelt by Zeke, feeling again for his pulse, and was relieved to find it at the elbow, indicating his pressure was holding steady. He rechecked the bandage and saw no evidence that the bleeding was starting up again. Standing, he turned to face Lieutenant Goldman. The medic could see the anger within his gaze. But it was tinged with something else—fear, perhaps. And sorrow.

“Sir, it’s probably best not to move him around just yet—too much jostling, and the bleeding will start up again. If I were you, I’d just try and keep him comfortable. Maybe in the morning, if he’s….if you…” Billy hesitated, at a loss for words. “Maybe it would be best to wait until then to carry him out,” he finished sympathetically.

Percell looked up at the threatening sky as the rain silently returned. “Can we move him inside the hootch? Ya know, to keep him dry?” he asked in a raw voice.

“Yeah, sure,” Billy answered, “but do it gently.”

Goldman nodded and directed Percell and Johnson to shift Zeke onto a poncho and carry him inside the hut, turning to follow them.

“Lieutenant, wait,” Pearson called, reaching into his bag and pulling out several small ampoules.

Goldman turned back to him, and noticing his action, held out his hand for the medic’s offering.

“It’s morphine,” the medic stated. “Sir…he’s probably going to get worse. And when that happens he’s going to be in a lot of pain.”

“Okay,” Goldman answered, somewhat impatiently, “I get it—morphine for the pain.” He waited while the medic refused to release the treasured drug into his waiting hand.

“Sir,” the young boy continued, carefully choosing his words and holding the lieutenant’s gaze with his own, “he’s going to be in a lot of pain…but given how weak he is right now, more likely than not the morphine will kill him.” He shifted uncomfortably, hating this part of his job.

“Then what the hell are you giv…” Goldman stopped in mid-sentence as understanding dawned. He involuntarily pulled his hand away, as if he’d been burned, and he stared into the medic’s deep green eyes. Oh God, you can’t be asking me to do something like this, he half-thought, half-prayed as the full weight of his command suddenly left him feeling as if he were trapped under a deuce and half. I can’t do this one, I mean…oh, God…not Zeke…please don’t ask me to do this. I don’t want to have to make a decision that’s going to end his life…

He could feel the eyes of the other men on his back, each one of them waiting for him to make a decision; each one glad that it was his responsibility, not theirs. He slowly reached out again, taking the morphine and trying not to notice the slight shaking of his hand. “I’ll take it,” he said flatly, “but that doesn’t mean I’m going to use it.”

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

Continue to Part Three…