"The temperature is a cool 70 degrees…" the radio blared, just before Lieutenant Myron Goldman angrily snapped it off. "70 degrees my ass," the lieutenant said loudly, rifling through his desk for a pack of cigarettes. Mild panic set in as his initial search came up empty, but with a little more persistence he was rewarded with his stash.

"LT?" Anderson asked.

Myron comically dropped the smokes and drew in a breath, startled by the sudden appearance and close proximity of his sergeant. "Dammit Anderson," he complained. "Don't you believe in knocking?"

Zeke tried to keep the laughter out of his voice, "Sorry Sir, I thought you was talking to me." Puzzled, the sergeant scanned the room. "Who were you taking to LT?"

The lieutenant allowed himself a sheepish grin. "The damn radio," he admitted. "Claims it's 70 degrees," he mumbled, justifying his actions.

"Well Sir, that may very well be. The temperature always feels hotter when the humidity is at a hundred percent like this…"

Myron pulled the cigarette out of his mouth before lighting it to stop Anderson's weather assessment. "Sergeant do not talk to me about humidity. If one more person tells me about the humidity, he better damn well be a general or he is going to be one sorry soldier." Myron stuck the cigarette back in his mouth, this time lighting it and taking a long drag, refocusing on the reason he had called for Anderson in the first place.

Zeke bit down on his lower lip to keep from smiling as his CO launched into the specifics of tomorrow's mission. Hunched over the map on his desk, the platoon leader pointed out the five villages they would be searching. "Here, here and here, four or five days," the lieutenant calculated. "Command wants all the villages in this entire sector checked out," he continued, glancing at Anderson, annoyed that the sergeant did not seem to be paying much attention. "We have these five. If we happen to find the VC stronghold, we call in artillery and let them do the rest."

Still smiling about the LT's confrontation with the radio, Anderson nodded and turned his head from the cloud of smoke that was quickly filling the room. Standing up straighter to get away from the direct puffs, Zeke thought about how much he had come to like and admire the young officer. Myron's youthful impatience and sarcasm no longer grated on the veteran sergeant's nerves. Instead, it served to keep him on his toes.

"You listening Anderson?" Myron asked sharply.

"Yes Sir," Zeke answered quietly, recognizing that the lieutenant was in a mood.

Pushing his chair away from the desk, Myron stood up to face the sergeant. "Yeah, then what did I say?" He asked sarcastically.

This was a side of the officer that the sergeant truly disliked. "That we are going to be searching some villes… Sir," Anderson answered deliberately. Taking a more erect posture, Zeke looked away from his lieutenant's irritated gaze. When Lieutenant Goldman was agitated, he tended to talk down to people, to berate them. It made the thoughtful sergeant wonder what the lieutenant's childhood with the general had been like.

Anderson was practiced at weathering the storm of tirades that the lieutenant could unleash without taking them too personally. Zeke supposed that was one of the reasons they got along so well, and valued each other's friendship. Those outbursts came less frequently than in the past, but the sergeant braced himself for one now.

Myron felt his anger subside as he looked directly into his friend's face. "Sorry Zeke," he managed, turning away.

"Ain't nothin' LT," Anderson said, grabbing Myron's arm. "What's going on?"

Feeling a little foolish, Myron decided to try and voice his despondency. "I don't know Zeke…it's, it's February, I hate February and this damn rain. Is it ever going to stop raining?"

Zeke looked at the door longingly, wanting to make his exit. The sergeant was a simple man, not given to the same brooding thoughts and changing moods as the lieutenant. A month, Zeke thought to himself. How can anybody hate a whole month? "Well Sir," Zeke said simply, patting the LT's shoulder. "It ain't raining now." Myron looked at the sergeant and smiled. Zeke took a couple of steps to the door. "It ain't the rain that's got you down LT," he winked. "It's the humidity."

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

Sitting in the doorway of the helicopter, staring down at the green landscape, marked with occasional pockets of black and brown, Myron wondered about the circumstances that brought him to this moment of time in this devastated little country… it was Wednesday, February 19th. The lieutenant was conscious of the date, not because of the mission, but because he had realized this morning that it was his birthday, his twenty-third to be precise. The Goldman family had never been much for celebrations and so the actual birthday was no big thing to the platoon leader. The date had however, given him cause to reflect on his choice of becoming what he had spent half his life vowing to himself, and to his father he would never be…a lieutenant in the United States army.

Grudgingly, Myron acknowledged that he liked being an officer. The responsibility was sometimes overwhelming; making decisions that could end one life and touch the lives of countless others back home. Until he had come to the Nam, the "burden of command" had just been another OCS cliché but here…

Here a phrase as simple as, "Baker, check it out", could result in the heartbreaking task of writing the "Dear Mrs. Baker, we regret to inform you" letter. That was his choice… he could have picked any one of them. Of course, the lieutenant never thought about any of this while he was out in the field. He acted on instinct. It was not until Myron was back at the base, lying on his bunk, that he would close his eyes and the dead would come alive asking, "Why me LT? Why did you pick me?"

That was his reality of the burden of command.

There was also a certain loneliness to being an officer that Myron had not fully recognized in OCS. He had however, been somewhat of a loner growing up, and though it did hurt at times (even now), Myron vaguely acknowledged that his life as a child and teenager, had in some ways prepared him for his life as a lieutenant.

What the officer did like was making the hard decisions and giving the orders. Despite all the doubts and fears about his abilities upon arriving in country, Myron had quickly learned to trust himself…he was a good lieutenant. Looking around at his men, Goldman realized that they had learned to trust him too. Their expectant looks while waiting for their orders, and the relief in their eyes when they heard the confidence in his voice, assured the lieutenant of that. Myron Goldman had survived his first mission as an inexperienced officer, had lost his first man, and had written his first, "I deeply regret to inform you" letter. Sadly, he had already outlived his first captain.

Lieutenant Myron Goldman was twenty-three years old today, but staring out the opened door of the Huey, he felt like a grizzled old veteran lifer. He glanced at his sergeant and could not even imagine what must go on in his head.

The lieutenant silently cursed the light mist that started falling almost immediately, as the squad exited their ride. More than a few of the young soldiers stared up into the sky, watching the Huey as it ascended into the clouds and turned away from them, desperately wishing they were still safely onboard. "Come on guys, let's get moving," Myron said, as much to himself as to his troops. The lieutenant understood their misgivings; he too had been watching the bird longingly.

Shielding his eyes from the raindrops, Myron looked up at the ominous sky and tried to shake the dark mood that hung over him and his men. "Damn this mission," he thought. Alone in the sector with just a squad--on a bleak, gray misting afternoon--with no idea if the enemy was out there or not. Myron honestly could not think of a worse place to be.

The lieutenant took a minute to shift his cigarettes from the band of his helmet to his pack, in hopes of keeping them dry and looked for Anderson, hoping to see some spark of humor. To his chagrin, his amiable sergeant looked just as miserable as the rest of them. As the subdued squad moved out, the mist turned into a slow steady rain. "Happy Birthday," Myron thought gloomily.

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

Marvin Johnson blinked his eyes, trying to keep the droplets from obscuring his vision. Walking point was hard enough, but with this nagging rain it was damn near impossible. Carefully picking their way through the soggy terrain for seven grueling hours had the grunts and the point man in a foul mood. Marvin rubbed his eyes again and stopped abruptly. "Damn," he thought. "I almost walked us right into that ville…right down Main Street." Johnson raised his arm and waited for the lieutenant and sergeant to make their way to the front of the column.

Using his hand as a visor, the lieutenant strained to make out the village through the sheen of water. Reaching under his poncho and into his pocket, the LT pulled out his map of the area. Trying to maneuver the poncho, while carrying his weapon and unfolding the map was proving to be too much, and the frustrated officer let loose a string of expletives. "I got it LT," Anderson said calmly, holding his own protective gear over the lieutenant and the map.

"This is it," the LT affirmed. Quickly fumbling with the already drenched paper, he managed to fold it and stuff it safely inside his shirt. "Good work Johnson," the lieutenant added, patting his point man on the back. Marvin smiled, grateful for the compliment from his demanding CO.

"All right," the lieutenant said. "Low and slow, two at a time and keep up your intervals." They all nodded…SOP.

Taylor and Johnson moved in first and took up their positions, followed by Baker and Ruiz, then Percell and Anderson, while the lieutenant and Horn brought up the rear. Doc stayed a short distance behind; waiting to be sure no one would be in of need his services. Not seeing any sign of the enemy, the experienced soldiers systematically began going hootch to hootch to gather the occupants together to question them and to keep them under surveillance while they searched the meager residences.

"I want all of them out here now," the LT barked. Watching his men scramble to carry out his orders, Myron felt a concentrated stream of water running down the small of his back. "Dammit," he cursed taking the saturated towel from his neck and wringing it out.

"That's all of them Sir," Anderson said, without much enthusiasm.

About forty soaked, listless villagers had been gathered up and were standing in the mud. Their world consisted of fifteen or so thatched huts, a well, and a couple of pens of various livestock. Keeping their weapons trained on the huddled group of people, the soldiers stared out into the rain. Not being able to tell a friendly ville from a VC ville, and past the point of caring, the soldiers rarely looked at any of the Vietnamese people…they looked past them. It was just easier that way.

Sergeant Anderson was the exception… he had a heart for the kids. "Wasn't their fault," Zeke always reasoned. "Just bad timing is all." Watching the little ones standing silently in the sludge, most barefoot in the dreary rain, somehow reminded the sergeant of his own painful childhood. The apprehension of never knowing what was going to happen next, obediently standing around waiting for directions and worst of all the dependency…the utter helplessness of being a child. "LT," Zeke yelled, breaking off his thoughts, needing to get this over with. "Who do you want to talk to?"

Turning to face the silent group of mostly women and children, Myron spotted three old men and had Percell bring the youngest looking of the three forward. Trembling, the old man stood before the young lieutenant. "This ought to be fun," Myron mumbled to Anderson.

Lieutenant Goldman knew exactly three phrases of Vietnamese, "Lai dai", "Di Di Mau", and "Xin Loi." The old man had been talking non-stop for more than a few minutes. Myron held up his hand. "Hold it. Just hold on a minute," he snapped. "Horn, you still got that dictionary?" The RTO opened his pack and handed the paperback to his platoon leader. The swollen, waterlogged pages ripped in Myron's hand as he tried to turn them. "Shit," the lieutenant finally yelled, giving up, flinging the useless book to the ground in frustration. "English?" The LT asked, gritting his teeth at the villagers. "Does anyone here speak any English?" Turning to look at the young girl coming forward, Myron caught a glimpse of Horn scrambling around in the mud, trying to salvage his dictionary and some of its pages, and felt a twinge of guilt.

"Let's go inside," Goldman motioned to Anderson, the girl, her mother and the old man he had been trying to communicate with. Removing his helmet, the LT ran his hand through his wet hair and released a grateful sigh to be out of the downpour for the first time since early this morning. Looking up at the villagers, the lieutenant saw them for the first time. The little girl looked to be about nine or ten and seemed terrified of him. "Well, who wouldn't be?" Myron thought, remembering his theatrics with the useless dictionary. The lieutenant squatted down to her level, "Do you speak English honey?" he asked gently. The child looked like she was going to cry.

"LT," Anderson intervened. "We searched everything. There's nothin' here."

Agreeing with his sergeant, the lieutenant nodded, standing up. "It's okay," Myron soothed, absently patting the child's head. "Sergeant get the men ready to move out," he ordered. "It's going to be dark soon."

The old man whispered something to the child, who in turn whispered, "You stay GI?" Anderson stopped in mid step and stared at his lieutenant. "It's a good idea LT," he said hopefully.

"Okay," the lieutenant agreed. It was still raining steadily and the nights were cold at this time of year. Lieutenant Goldman gratefully accepted the invitation. Anderson set up half guard and the men were thankful to get out of the rain and dry out their gear for a couple of hours.

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

The following morning proved just as dismal as the previous one. Within thirty minutes, every item that had been carefully dried out the night before was once again wringing wet.

The next two villages turned up nothing more than the first, and by the fourth evening, the soldiers were becoming edgy and impatient with the mission and each other. The temperature dropped into the fifties, as the showers continued their dreary persistent downward fall, and third squad dug in for another miserable night.

Taylor slumped down on his poncho, not sure if he wanted to sleep on it or under it and pulled out the crackers he had carefully wrapped in double plastic. They were soaked in spite of his efforts. "SHIT," he yelled frustrated, flinging the drenched package aside.

"You okay Taylor?" Sergeant Anderson asked, coming up behind him.

"NO," He practically yelled. "No Sarge, I am not okay. I am freezing, I am soaking wet and if it don't stop raining soon, I am going to lose it here," he ranted.

"Hey now, take it easy there Son," Zeke said putting a hand on Taylor's shoulder. "When we get back to the base, I am going to personally see to it that ya'll get a one day pass to do some serious damage in Sin City." The sergeant paused. "This rain won't even be a distant memory."

Anderson looked into Taylor's eyes, "What do you say?" he asked, nodding. Taylor remained quiet. "C'mon," Zeke urged again, shaking Marcus slightly. "You okay?"

"Yeah Sarge," the young soldier answered reluctantly.

"Yeah? You sure?" Zeke pushed.

"I'm okay Sarge," Taylor finally agreed to his sergeant's satisfaction.

"Hey Sarge," Marcus wondered. "How come you never get cold, wet or tired?"

"It ain't about nothin' Taylor," Zeke answered, avoiding the question completely. "If you only knew," the sergeant thought with a sigh. "If you only knew." Zeke checked on the rest of the squad before reporting to the lieutenant.

Ruiz, Baker and Doc were practically lying on top of each other trying to keep warm. "Hey," Zeke asked concerned. "How y'all doing?"

"Okay," Doc answered, shivering. Ruiz echoed the sentiment.

"I don't know Sarge," Baker dissented. "I think my bones are rattling. I'm from California. Man, I don't know how much more of this I can take."

"Well just hang in there Baker," Zeke sympathized. "Two more villes and we are out of here right? … Hey, come on now Baker, right?"

"Right Sarge," the private finally conceded through chattering teeth.

The relentless drip, drip, drip of the rain on Zeke's helmet was putting him in mind of the Chinese water torture as he made his way to Percell and Johnson's position. "Maybe the LT was right," Anderson mused. "Maybe you could hate a whole month." If that were possible, the sergeant decided that he agreed wholeheartedly with his lieutenant… this would definitely be the month. The sergeant found the two soldiers sitting close, almost back-to-back, trying to keep warm, eating c-rats under a poncho. "Hey, how's the chow?" Zeke joked, already knowing the answer from his own wretched meals.

"It is truly nauseating Sarge," was Percell's calm assessment. "I can't even believe I'm gonna eat it."

"As soon as you open anything water gets in it, or moisture or something, because it gets really disgusting, really fast," Johnson whined. "You want to see it Sarge," he offered.

Anderson had seen enough of it himself. "No that's okay Johnson," he answered, wondering what they thought he was dining on.

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

Finishing up the last of his waterlogged chow, Private Roger Horn took a minute to glance at his lieutenant. Horn was cold to be sure, but Goldman appeared to be freezing. Even under the poncho, Horn could see that the lieutenant's body was shivering and he seemed to be struggling to keep his teeth from chattering. Never exactly sure of when was a good time to have a conversation with the LT and when it was best to stay quiet, the concerned RTO forged ahead. "You all right Sir?" the private ventured.

"I'm fine Horn. Don't worry about me, you just worry about yourself," the officer answered testily, afraid of appearing weak in front of his men.

Sorry he had asked, Horn curled up under his poncho. The admiration and respect the private had developed for his CO was often mingled with the trepidation of having to bear the brunt of the lieutenant's short fuse and sarcastic outbursts. Reading the lieutenant's moods was never easy, and Horn was glad when Sergeant Anderson joined them to take turns with guarding and monitoring the radio. The lieutenant had been in a mood since the mission began, the RTO reflected. "Must be the rain," he surmised.

Myron tried to keep his voice steady and his body still as he asked his customary question, "How are the men Sergeant?"

"The men are cold, exhausted and… wet, Sir," Zeke answered honestly, feeling none too warm himself. "Now LT," Anderson started slowly. "I'm not sure if command would have sent us out if it had been raining like this when we left…" Zeke let the thought hang in the air.

Tensing his muscles to keep from shivering, Lieutenant Goldman looked at Anderson. "What's your point, Sergeant?"

Anderson hesitated. "My point being LT, maybe we should think about aborting and getting the hell out of here," he quietly suggested, not at all sure how the idea was going to go over with his "by the book" CO.

Lieutenant Goldman was getting irritated at his platoon sergeant. Biting down on his lip, Myron clenched his teeth to keep them from rattling. "And how exactly do you propose I go about doing that Sergeant?" He snapped. The aggravated officer did not wait for a reply. "Assuming any choppers are flying in this crap, and that is a huge assumption," he continued. "Just what would you have me tell the captain… that we are cold and tired and we really just don't want to be out here anymore?"

Zeke knew by the lieutenant's tone to stay quiet.

"Is that what you expect me to tell him Sergeant?" Myron repeated sarcastically, demanding an answer to his rhetorical question.

"No Sir," Zeke answered calmly.

"I didn't think so. I'll take the first watch," Myron said, knowing he was too worked up to get any sleep right now anyway.

Horn had been glaring at the lieutenant during the confrontation with Anderson, and Goldman was thankful that the RTO had not opted to join in. Myron watched as Anderson moved closer to Horn and the two of them settled in for the long wet, frigid night ahead. Pulling his poncho over his head, Myron decided he needed a cigarette and after five tries, finally got one lit. About half way through, he decided the smoke was more work than pleasure and put the butt out.

With trembling hands, Myron wrapped the flimsy poncho tighter around him and took a quick look at Anderson and Horn. The sergeant and RTO were sound asleep, huddled together on one poncho, with the other draped over their sizable shoulders like a flimsy wet blanket. "The closeness must be what's keeping them warm," Myron observed, fighting to control his own shivering body. A wave of loneliness swept over the lieutenant as he turned his attention to the lonely jungle. He tried to fight it off with his own considerable will and powers of logic, but could not seem to shake the overwhelming emptiness. Eventually his emotions, like the relentless rain flooded over him. Succumbing to the wave, Myron closed his eyes, acknowledging the desolate world that surrounded him and wondered if he would ever find his place in it…a safe place…somewhere without the sad steady rain.

The lieutenant forced his eyes opened. Embarrassed, he took a quick glance around to be sure Anderson and Horn had not noticed. "It must be the birthday," Myron thought, needing something to blame for his melancholy mood and temporary lapse in duty…fully aware that it was not the first birthday he had spent alone.

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

"Don't even feel like rain anymore, does it?" Johnson observed, even though it was pouring down same as the previous three days. "It doesn't seem like it's falling, it seems like it's just here."

"You're right Marvin, I don't even remember what it feels like to be dry," Taylor whined.

"Yeah, I feel like a damn fish," Ruiz agreed. "Hold it," Rue continued raising his hand, noticing that the line had come to a halt. This would be the fourth village in four days. Ruiz, Taylor and Johnson sighed and shared a look that expressed their pent up feelings about the villes, the war and the rain without saying a word.

"Come on guys let's get this over with," the LT said, approaching his men. "Same as the last three," he added grimly

"Wait a minute LT," Anderson said, making his way over to the lieutenant. "Percell's got something."

"What is it Percell?" Myron asked working his way back to his point man

Danny stood frozen in disbelief. "Lieutenant," he said excitedly. "That's it! That's where the VC are…I just saw them. I saw a whole lot of them Sir." The lieutenant got out his binoculars, scanned the village, wiped them off and handed them to Anderson. The sergeant gave it a look and confirmed what Goldman and Percell had already seen. The lieutenant got on the radio and reported the find to Headquarters.

"We outta here?" Anderson asked, voicing the question on everyone's mind.

Myron worked his lower lip and looked past his sergeant. "Nothing is flying until this damn weather lifts," the LT said, shaking his head. "Brass wants us to wait it out, stay hidden, observe, wait for a break."

"And if they try to leave?" Anderson demanded.

Myron shrugged. "Then we go after them."

"Sir," Anderson started, annoyed at the whole situation. He wanted to explain to the lieutenant what a bad idea that would be. The VC in the village looked to be the size of a company rather than a platoon; even with surprise on their side the experienced sergeant did not like those odds. Not only that, but the rations were almost gone and there was virtually no chance of being resupplied in this rain. Looking into the lieutenant's eyes, Zeke saw none of the usual temper and defiance and realized the LT must be aware of these facts as well. The lieutenant was following orders, just like the rest of them. "Sir," the sergeant started again. "I'll make sure the men all get dug in with good vantage points," he offered.

"Thanks Zeke," Myron whispered gratefully.

"I don't get it Sarge," Baker complained. "Why do we gotta stay here?"

"Yeah," Ruiz chimed in. "We gave them the coordinates, why can't they just wait until the rain stops and then--BAM," he said, pounding his fist to emphasize the point.

"Well now," Zeke explained patiently. "They really want these guys. I guess they're worried that Charlie will decide to di di before they get to the BAM part. We are just going to watch them that's all. Y'all don't need to worry about it."

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

It was Monday morning, February 25th, the sixth day of the operation. The men were tired, hungry and wet…weary of the waiting game. Many of the VC soldiers were sitting out in the open under makeshift shelters, eating, laughing and joking, seemingly oblivious to the rain. Myron thought how they sounded much like his own platoon after coming in from a long stint in the field. The lieutenant put those thoughts aside, reminding himself that they were the enemy. If this damn rain ever stopped, he would call in an artillery strike and have the ville leveled to the ground and these people would cease to exist. "Lieutenant," Anderson interrupted Myron's thoughts. "What about all these all these kids, Sir?"

"What about them?" The lieutenant asked evenly, displaying no emotion. "This is a VC village Sergeant and as soon as this rain lets up, whatever time that happens to be, we are going to bomb the hell out of it." Myron paused. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"No Sir," Zeke answered, knowing that the lieutenant was right. The expression in Goldman's eyes proved that the LT was fully aware of how many women and children were in the ville. "The boy has enough responsibility to bear," Zeke thought. "He certainly doesn't need me to remind him of it." Wishing he had not mentioned the villagers, Sergeant Anderson made his way back to his men.

The problem was lying in the mud for two days, with nothing to do but observe, had caused some strange feelings to arise. Killing time in the steady downpour was no easy task and so the men had begun making up names and stories for some of the kids and other villagers to pass the time.

In particular was one little guy, maybe four or five years old, that they had nicknamed Bubba because of his robust size and an enthusiasm that was rare in this war torn country. His little tough guy antics had entertained the soldiers during the soggy monotonous wait.

Anderson lay down in the mud between Johnson and Baker. The men were laughing for the first time since the mission began. "Hey, hey Sarge watch Bubba," Johnson whispered. While the VC soldiers talked and ate the boy would sit beside them, watching intently. As the men would hunch down to study the map in front of them, the child would snatch a handful of their rice and quickly shove it into his mouth. This was cracking up third squad and they were engrossed in watching the little boy play.

"Hey wait a minute," Johnson said. "You guys notice anything?"

"Yeah, Bubba's eating better than we are," Baker laughed.

"Not that," Marvin answered.

"It's not raining," Anderson observed flatly.

Within seconds Doc appeared. "Horn, LT wants to see you ASAP with the radio."

The laughing stopped and the little boy's antics took on an ominous, hazy, almost nightmarish quality. The men immediately put on their soldier persona. The same demeanor that allowed them to look at the torn up body of a close buddy and declare…it don't mean nothin'.

The lieutenant got on the radio and made the call the brass had been waiting for.

"Bravo Six this is Bravo Two-six. Over."

"Two-Six this is Bravo Six. Go."

"The fire mission is a go, Six," the lieutenant said into the handset. "I repeat the fire mission is a go. The coordinates are grid 4 – 06379. Over."

"We copy Two-six, grid 4 – 06379," the tech repeated.

The colonel got on the radio. "Two-six, stay at your location to mark the target before extraction. We will have a bird waiting…good work Lieutenant. Over."

"Yes Sir, Two-six. Out."

It was not long until the planes were in the air. Myron popped some smoke and was back on the radio.

"Your target will be one hundred meters November red smoke. Over."

"We see it Lieutenant."

The lieutenant glanced at the village one last time. Bubba was running in circles laughing, trying to catch a stray chicken. A brilliant ray of sunshine burst through the clouds for the first time in six days.

Myron raised the radio. "Fire for effect," he said wearily. "Let it rain."

Image created by Danny Shaw (c) 2001

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