This story is rated R for violence and language

TOUR OF DUTY: BUDDY SYSTEM PART 2

Of the 38,171 Army casualties endured during the Vietnam War, only 4,633 were suffered by Officers.

Myron Goldman snorted as his head flopped over onto the shoulder of the private sitting next to him. The officer was worn-out, and the steady thump thump thump of the chopper's propellers combined with the gentle vibration of the metal floor beneath his drained muscles, had lulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep shortly after liftoff. Up until Marcus Taylor felt the lieutenant's head plop down, Sergeant Anderson, who was sitting in the open doorway directly across from Goldman, had been the only soldier on board the Huey to notice that their exhausted platoon leader had fallen asleep.

"What the hell?" Taylor spat, nudging the CO with an elbow. Anderson tensed and leaned forward, ready to grab Goldman if Taylor pushed too hard and sent the lieutenant flying toward the open doorway on his other side. "Get off me, man!" Instead of waking, the sleeping officer shifted his weight and buried his nose further into the crevice between Taylor's shoulder and rucksack, throwing his arm over the exasperated private's stomach.

That can not be comfortable, Sergeant Anderson silently noted.

The annoyed private cocked his head and flashed his chocolate eyes at the grinning sergeant. "Hey, man...what's up with this?" Taylor demanded.

"Relax, Taylor," Anderson suggested. "We're going to be in the air a little while yet. Let him sleep." Remembering that the lieutenant hadn't slept in almost 30 hours and that the last time he had, it was for only a couple of hours on the jungle floor, the staff sergeant added, "You wake him, you deal with him. Got it?"

Taylor huffed out a sigh and lowered his shoulder, resigning himself to the fact that he had become the lieutenant's own personal pillow for the duration of the flight to the LZ. "Bullshit," he muttered. The other two men from the squad exchanged a look and Roger Horn burst out laughing. "What're you laughin' at, nigger?" Taylor snapped and shot a glare at Bill Miller, daring the kid to join Horn's outburst. Marcus Taylor habitually called his buddies, regardless of their ethnicity, 'nigger' when they annoyed him. Being a black man himself, the word came out more as a gentle jibe rather than a profanity, and Horn was not offended.

"Not a thing, man," the RTO retorted with a snicker. "Just wondered if you would sing us a lullabye." At that, Miller let out a quick guffaw, caught Taylor eyeing him dangerously and turned to look out the open doorway as if something out there had suddenly become terribly interesting. Sergeant Anderson was shaking his head, grinning, when he lazily turned to follow Miller's gaze.

Not many friendlies out there today, the sergeant observed, taking in the view. The weather was good and he would have expected to see farmers working in their fields on such a clear morning. Caution building in his experienced mind, Anderson nudged his way further through the open doorway and positioned himself to get a better view of the terrain. Bracing his arm on the side of the bird, he leaned as far out from the opening as he safely could and looked around. "There ain't a friendly within ten klicks of here," he commented aloud. "What the heck's going on?"

The Huey's crew chief took the hint and moved to set himself more squarely behind the large machine gun bolted in the doorway of the helicopter. At the same moment, Anderson snapped his weapon off his shoulder and quickly checked the magazine. "Lock and load, boys," he ordered without turning around. "Looks like we're going in hot!"

The sound of M16 bolts being pulled back and snapping into place lurched the sleeping platoon leader into instant awareness. Jerking his head out from its resting place, Goldman came nose to nose with Private Taylor. "It's about time....Sir," the private snarled as he lifted himself into a crouch without regard to the arm still strewn across his stomach. The sudden movement sent the officer unsuccessfully scrambling for balance.

As soon as Taylor was out from under him, Goldman rolled over and used both arms to hoist himself up off the floor of the Huey and collected his rifle and gear. "What's going on, Sergeant?" he said, avoiding the curious looks from his subordinates. Falling asleep on the way to a mission. How do you like that one, General?

"We're just about to the LZ, Sir," Anderson began, still peering out the opening. "Things are too quiet out there. Looks like the friendlies know something we don't." He turned to the crew chief manning the machine gun and shouted, "Keep your eyes open for gooks. We're gonna have to jump and run. Watch out for the guys from the other bird."

Roger Horn shook Private Miller's arm to get the boy's attention, "Get ready, kid. You're after Taylor. Be ready to return fire but try to find cover first. Quick as you can. We're going in fighting!"

"I think I can handle it," Miller announced indignantly, shrugging away Horn's grip. The two privates locked eyes sending a shockwave of tension through the small compartment of the chopper. Sergeant Anderson contemplated intervening, but with a possible enemy confrontation just minutes ahead, he kept his eyes focused on the uncertain landing zone off in the distance and allowed Horn to deal with the difficult new understudy.

Private Horn had had his fill of Miller's misplaced commentaries. The last hour had proven to be considerably taxing on the only slightly more experienced soldier's nerves, with the new guy questioning each of Horn's instruction. Miller apparently believed he was better trained for combat duty than his buddy and regularly critiqued Horn's advise. Even recommendations as simple as, "Stay away from the ham'n'motherfuckers c-rats; they'll kill you," was greeted with lectures on why the meat and lima bean concoction was nourishing and that a decent soldier should accept whatever nutrition he was given gratefully.

Although Miller's attitude was annoying, Horn had been able to disregard most of the new private's quirks, but ignoring instructions for the right way to enter a hot LZ was absolutely unacceptable. "Look, Jackass," Horn snapped at his buddy, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of the egg beaters above them. "I don't like this any more than you do, but since my orders are to be stuck with your sorry behind until you get one of our asses killed, you're going to listen to what I tell you!"

The normally peaceful Horn was livid enough to briefly ponder the idea that the mission would go a lot easier on all of them if the freakin' new guy simply fell out the open door. Acknowledging that Sergeant Anderson and the lieutenant were sharing the ride and that such an "accident" would probably be frowned upon, Horn instead continued his lecture. "Now, listen up! There's a good chance Charlie's going to be waiting on us at the LZ. We'll be about a hundred meters or so from the berm line. Follow Taylor out of the bird and make your way over there. Fast! And keep up with the lieutenant! We got the radio! Don't ever forget that. When you're strapped to the radio, you're strapped to the LT!"

Sergeant Anderson listened to the exchange with pride. Maybe that Horn'll learn to play soldier as decently as he plays that harmonica after all.

Miller was staring at Horn but kept his mouth shut. The Huey was descending quickly and the five exiting soldiers prepared to jump.

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

The two helicopters carrying second platoon's first squad to the last known coordinates of Lieutenant Peters and his radio operator hovered shakily a few meters above the landing zone. Sergeant Anderson was the first to depart followed closely by Lieutenant Goldman. The two men advanced a few paces before lunging into the tall grass, and together they pulled their weapons forward, aiming into the surrounding treeline. They held their fire, aware that the chopper was receiving no attack from the ground. Anderson motioned back to the Huey to wave the three privates off the bird as quickly as possible. Goldman had his binoculars out and was scanning the row of banana trees, looking for any sign of the enemy.

Marcus Taylor jumped out and scrambled forward to where Anderson and Goldman were lying in the foliage. "I don't see nothing out there, Sarge. I thought you said we were going in hot."

The sergeant ignored the comment and looked over to the second chopper as it jettisoned the other half of the squad. Satisfied with the headcount, Anderson turned his attention to the helicopter from where he and the two men with him had just exited. Seeing that Miller and Horn had not yet jumped, the staff sergeant pulled himself out of the grass to curtail the delay. "Get your butts out here, you guys! Move it!" he yelled above the roar of the aircraft.

Goldman lowered his binoculars and peered back to the Huey in time to see Horn push the new private out the hatch. Miller disappeared into the long grass while Horn, remembering the lieutenant's reprimand from the last time the pacifist soldier had left his weapon behind, turned to grab his M16 off the floor of the bird. Just as the RTO was preparing to jump, a single rifle shot echoed through the valley floor. Heads quickly vanished into the brush while a dozen weapons broke into action, aiming at the area from where the shot seemed to have originated. Seeing no indication that they were receiving a return volley, Lieutenant Goldman shouted the order to cease fire and turned his concentration to the landing zone.

"Where's Horn? Where's Horn?" Goldman screamed. Near to where the Huey had been moments before, the platoon leader could see a hint of orange hair from behind the field radio that was unsafely balancing on top of a bulky rucksack. "Protect that radio, Private!" the lieutenant ordered, fearing the danger of losing their only source of communication back to the firebase. "Sergeant..." Anderson was already sprinting back toward the petrified private. "Stay down the rest of you!" Goldman called to the men. "That sniper is probably still out there. Keep your heads down!" The officer could barely see the men from his platoon as they hid in the field of elephant grass. Good, he silently considered. If I can't see them, maybe Charlie can't either.

Sergeant Anderson saw the blood on the radio before he reached Bill Miller's hiding place. The crimson fluid clashed violently with the drab olive color of the radio casing. "Private! Miller! Are you hurt, Son?" Anderson demanded as he simultaneously surveyed the area for the missing radio telephone operator. The sergeant pulled Miller away from the radio by the shoulder and scanned the boy's body for a bullet wound. "Miller! Are you okay?" he repeated.

"Yes, Sir...um...Sergeant," Miller finally managed, all of his self-assurance vanished. "It's not my blood." Bill Miller suddenly understood the impact of his words and hastily backed away from the field radio as if it were a bomb ready to explode. "Oh, God. It's not my blood. It's Horn's." Private Miller dropped his rifle and hoisted himself off the ground. His eyes locked with the sergeant's and Anderson immediately recognized that the kid was about to bolt.

"Relax, Private," Anderson instructed as he studied the fear in Miller's bright green eyes. He had seen eyes like that before. On another young private. Another FNG. "Billy, now calm down. I need to know what happened. Where's Private Horn."

Bill Miller stopped his backward movement and slowly began his response to Sergeant Anderson's inquiry. "He, uh, he was shot. I...I don't know where. I think it was his leg." Having spoken, Miller's words began to flow freely, his breath barely able to keep up with the rapid onslaught of information. "I heard the shot and then the blood just started gushing out. There was a lot of blood. Lots of it! Look, it got on the radio." Miller pointed to the bloody radio as if the sergeant had not seen it. "Horn was still on the bird. He threw me the radio and then he fell back. I think the crew chief grabbed him. I'm not sure. It happened really fast." Miller was inhaling heavily, drawing in deep gulping breaths as his anxiety threatened to overtake him. "There was so much noise, I couldn't hear what he was yelling at me. I didn't know what to do. They just flew away."

Anderson looked up toward the sky as if the helicopter might still be within visual range. He then glanced over toward the lieutenant, the treeline and to the other men in the squad before returning his attention to the panicked private. "It's all right, Miller. I'm sure Private Horn is just fine," he said, hoping he was telling the truth. "Come on. We got to move. We got a mission and we got a sniper. Put your helmet on and keep your head down." Anderson handed Miller his discarded rifle and the radio. "Here, you'll need these. Go catch up with the lieutenant."

The two men made their way forward and dropped down into the grass next to Lieutenant Goldman, Miller on one side, the sergeant on the other. Goldman quickly noted the field radio in the new kid's hands and silently eyed Anderson for an explanation. Zeke Anderson smirked in answer to the officer's questioning gaze. "Looks like you got yourself a new buddy, LT."

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

Lieutenant Goldman was losing his patience with the disgruntled soldier standing in front of him. "Look, Taylor," the officer snapped. "First of all, I do not need to justify my decisions to you or to any other man in this squad." Goldman shifted his heavy rifle into his other hand, pushed his helmet back and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the green towel he wore around his neck.

The officer was growing tired of having his orders questioned, but had managed to ignore Marcus Taylor's endless stream of criticisms...right up until the moment the discontented private charged Goldman with placing Marvin Johnson on point because he was black. "Second," the lieutenant spat, "I don't want to hear another word about oppression. You want to talk about oppression? Maybe you'd like to take a history lesson and visit a little place called Auschwitz." The lieutenant licked his lips several times in rapid succession, working furiously to control his mounting rage at being called a bigot. "Now, I don't care if he's purple, Private," the word bristled with disdain toward the subordinate, "Johnson is on point because he's the best guy for the job." The memory of Danny Percell missing the wire that had killed Private Greene flashed through Goldman's mind and quickly vanished.

Immediately contrite, Private Taylor tried to better explain his earlier accusation. "All I'm saying, LT..." Goldman glared at the private, "...Sir..." Taylor corrected, trying to continue before being cut off by the impatient platoon leader.

"No, Private," Goldman interrupted. "I really don't care what you're saying. I say Johnson stays at point and you shut your mouth and get moving." The officer expected Sergeant Anderson to intervene but appreciated that he was left to handle the situation on his own. Goldman wanted respect from his men and knew that if his well-intentioned sergeant persisted in interfering every time tempers flared, the officer's authority would continue to be questioned.

"Percell, you're behind Johnson," the lieutenant added bluntly, anxious to get on with the mission. "Learn something from him." Goldman's order pierced through the private's conscience, already guilt-laden from the previous day's tragedy. Danny took in a deep breath and flashed his pale blue eyes at the sympathetic sergeant before moving forward to join Johnson on slack. Lieutenant Goldman turned to the rest of the squad and waved his hand to get them moving. "I want absolute silence in this line starting right now. Now, let's go."

The platoon leader watched Marvin Johnson as the specialist resumed the slow task of moving the squad forward along the almost-invisible jungle path. Goldman was confident in Johnson's ability to spot enemy mines and gooks hiding in the thicket. The experienced specialist had always displayed great pride at the incredible responsibility he shouldered, each step forward a testament to a job well done. The lieutenant was certain it would be Specialist Johnson who would eventually locate the missing Lieutenant Peters. He just prayed it would not be as a corpse attached to a VC booby trap.

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

After several arduous hours of pushing through the lush vegetation, Sergeant Anderson moved up alongside his lieutenant and broke the silence. "LT, I think we better stop for a bit," Anderson suggested. "The guys are beat and it's hotter'n hell out here. What say we rest a spell?" When the lieutenant didn't cease his forward progress, Anderson grew concerned that the overly eager officer was pushing himself on pure adrenaline, and sooner or later, that adrenaline was going to stop flowing. Lieutenant Goldman was going to dry up. "Sir," the sergeant insisted, "you need to rest a few minutes."

Goldman stopped walking and again wiped his face with his towel. He was sweating profusely and his face had become flushed from the exertion of traveling through the dense jungle. The previous day's rains had left a thick, humid canopy hanging in the atmosphere and the lieutenant's lungs felt heavy from breathing the moist air. The heat, combined with his lack of sleep, caused the officer to feel thoroughly drained, but he wondered if stopping for rest might only make matters worse. "Fine, Sergeant," he finally conceded. "Ten minutes. I'll call in our position and see if base has had any further contact from Lieutenant Peters. Horn....Miller, get over here."

The lieutenant turned to look for the RTO and nearly knocked heads with the green private who was already standing rigidly at attention just inches from Goldman's face. "Yes, Sir?" Private Miller responded, ignoring his helmet as it slid down his freckled forehead.

"Private, what are you doing?" Goldman demanded, taking an involuntary step back. The officer frowned at the unseasoned soldier who, unsure of how to respond, looked worriedly around the squad as if he expected someone else to answer the lieutenant's question. "Private Miller," Goldman suggested testily, "Relax. And back off." Giving the amused sergeant a sharp look, Goldman pulled the cumbersome Communications and Electronics Operating Instructions manual from where it was tucked inside his shirt behind his holster and handed it to the RTO. The platoon leader ordered Miller to find the frequency for the 13-hundred change, and without further regard, turned to survey the area.

When Goldman realized that the squad had not yet dispersed, he turned around and followed the focus of the men to discover the young Private Miller thumbing nervously through the pages of the CEOI. The officer watched in disbelief when the red-haired boy's tongue comically protruded through his lips as he fruitlessly searched through an inch of call signs, operating-on signs, counter signs, frequencies and codes in an effort to locate the information Lieutenant Goldman had requested.

Cognizant of the fact that the kid had no idea how to retrieve data from the CEOI, the officer again asked, "Private, what are you doing?" Without waiting for a reply, Goldman addressed the staff sergeant. "Anderson, don't they teach these things in AIT?"

Anderson looked squarely into the lieutenant's eyes and replied frankly, "Well, Sir, I reckon they do. But, being in-country is a hellavalot different from training at Tigerland, no matter how real they think they've made it. You tend to forget everything you been taught the minute you see real blood flying out of a real guy." The sergeant paused a moment before adding, "I guess it's a good thing he has a buddy out here to show him the ropes, isn't it?"

"That's just great," the exasperated officer sighed, ignoring Anderson's sarcasm. Goldman reached for the code book that was resting loosely in the FNG's hands. "Here, Miller, give me that."

"Sir," Sergeant Anderson interrupted, intercepting the manual. "He's my guy. Let me handle this." The staff sergeant was looking intently at his lieutenant, making it clear that Goldman was coming close to overstepping the lines in the chain of command. Without waiting for the officer's retort, Anderson took the manuel and focused on the confused private. "Son, that book ain't easy for any of us to understand. Now, just take your time." Anderson gave Private Miller a reassuring pat on the arm and turned to wave the signal to the rest of the squad that they had better take a breather before their ten minutes was up.

Miller gave Lieutenant Goldman an apologetic look, which was thoroughly ignored, while Sergeant Anderson explained to the boy how to make the required 13-hundred frequency change. When the procedure was completed, the sergeant headed off to check on the rest of the squad. Before leaving Miller alone with the lieutenant, Anderson offered a final suggestion to the unpracticed private. "Now then, Son, if it looks like you're going to fall into enemy hands while you're holding that book, I hope you're hungry. And it wouldn't hurt to have a taste for paper and ink, either. You do not let that book fall into enemy hands. Understand?"

"Roger, Sergeant," Bill Miller assured the NCO and turned his focus to the platoon leader.

Without comment, Lieutenant Goldman reached around the private's shoulder, grabbed the radio headset from it's resting place and set it to his ear. "Six, this is two-one..."

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

Sergeant Anderson made his way around the small perimeter set up by the squad. Percell and Johnson were sharing a can of crackers while Doc Matsuda sat nearby sorting through his medic pack, inventorying the supplies. Ruiz was on the other side of the circle cleaning his machine gun and Baker worked on adjusting the heavy ammunition he carried over his shoulders. Anderson found Private Taylor a few meters away, sitting by himself, glaring out into the jungle. "Everything okay here, Taylor?" the sergeant prodded, hoping to lower the private's ever-present defenses.

Without looking at the staff sergeant, Marcus Taylor took a deep breath and rolled his eyes. "I don't get that guy, Sarge," the private explained, no doubt referring to Lieutenant Goldman. "I ain't never seen a guy so moody before. How're we supposed to watch his six if all he wants to do is throw LBJ in our faces all the time?" Taylor turned his eye from the surrounding entanglement of vines and weeds and looked at Sergeant Anderson "Man, he's just got to chill out."

The good-natured NCO laid a hand on the private's shoulder and smiled. "Taylor," Anderson advised, "maybe you're the one who needs to chill out. LT's a good man. He'll make a good officer once he learns not to try so hard." The sergeant shifted his weight and turned to finish his rounds. Before heading off, he gave Marcus Taylor a wink and added, "You might wanna rethink watching his six, Taylor. Lord knows he's watching yours." With that, the private was left alone with his thoughts.

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

Lieutenant Goldman slapped the radio headset back into its resting place and pulled out the folded map from his breast pocket. Already crouching low to the ground, he allowed his body to roll back onto the soft grass and pulled his legs in front of him, bringing himself into a sitting position. The platoon leader rubbed his face with the towel as he studied the paper in front of him, contemplating which direction would send the squad into accomplishing their mission. "Damn," he mumbled to no one. "They could be anywhere."

"Sir?" Private Miller asked. Not knowing exactly what was expected of him, the boy had thought it best to remain by the lieutenant's side unless otherwise directed. Miller was kneeling next to Goldman, encumbered by the weight of the radio but unsure if it would be adviseable to remove the burdon from his back during this rest period. Instead, the private remained kneeling, leaning hard on his rifle for balance. When the lieutenant failed to respond, Miller tried again. "Sir, did you say something?"

Goldman regarded the private, wondering how in the hell he got stuck with the FNG. Anderson's just loving this, I'm sure, the lieutenant thought sourly. After a moment, Goldman addressed the kid but did not answer the question. "How old are you, Miller?"

"Sir?" The private was surprised by the question, believing his age was irrelevant to the mission.

"How old are you, Private?" the officer repeated. Goldman looked intently at Bill Miller, haunted by the brightness of the private's emerald eyes. Green eyes. Jimmy Greene eyes.

"Nineteen next May, Sir." Miller responded, hoping the lieutenant would not recognize that the date was seven months in the future. The private studied Goldman, expecting to receive an explanation for the inquiry. Instead, the platoon leader shook his head so slightly it was barely detectable and wiped his face again.

The intermission had not calmed Goldman's sweating and his face had become blood-red. He licked his dry lips several times before completely burying his face into the persperation-dampened towel. The young private was growing concerned. "Sir, you should have some water. Here." Miller handed the officer his own canteen, encouraging Goldman to take a drink.

"LT?" Sergeant Anderson had moved up alongside the two men and was gently shaking Goldman's arm. When the lieutenant finally lifted his head from the towel, Anderson immediately recognized that the platoon leader was in serious danger of overheating. "Lieutenant, you look like crap. Here, take a drink. Now." The sergeant grabbed Miller's still extended canteen and raised it to Goldman's lips. With a look of annoyance, the officer seized the container from Anderson's hand and took a brief, tepid drink. Undaunted by the attitude, Sergeant Anderson grabbed Goldman's towel, poured some of his own water onto the soft cloth and handed it back to the lieutenant. "Wash your face, LT. And take another drink."

Goldman glared at the sergeant. I'll be damned if I'm going to be wet-nursed by my staff sergeant. "I'm fine, Sergeant. Get the men ready to move out." The officer snatched the towel out of Anderson's hand and absently wiped his face as he pulled himself off the ground. Lieutenant Goldman hurried to change the subject back to the mission before Anderson could say anthing more about his health. "Sergeant, there's still no word from Peters back at Ladybird. We'll continue on the same heading for another klick but if we don't see anything, we'll go in a little deeper. We should have found a blood trail by now."

"Roger that, LT," the sergeant complied, still mindful of Goldman's condition. The other soldiers had already gathered when they heard the exchange between their platoon leader and the sergeant. Anderson motioned for the men to fall into line, but just as Specialist Johnson resumed leading the squad down the narrow path, another shot rang through the jungle.

The nine soldiers simultaneously lunged for cover, firing their weapons into different areas of the surrounding vegetation. The echo made it impossible to pinpoint the origin of the gunshot and since, as had happened before, the sniper did not fire a second round, Goldman was compelled to order a cease fire. "All right, you guys, hold your fire," he called. "Save your ammo."

The lieutenant struggled out of the tangle of weeds he had fallen into and used his sleeve to wipe the persperation from his forehead. "What the hell is that all about?" he murmured to himself, wondering why a sniper would fire one shot and then disappear. The lieutenant did not like the growing feeling of being a pawn in the sniper's game of target practice. "Is anybody hit?" Goldman asked, anxiously scanning his men for any sign of injury.

Sergeant Anderson assured the platoon leader that no one was wounded but eyed Myron Goldman skeptically. "LT, none of the guys is hurt, but if you don't get some liquid inside you, we're going to be carrying your butt out of here on a stretcher." The exertion of the firefight had left Lieutenant Goldman looking even more flushed and the sergeant was intent on remedying the situation before another step was taken.

The officer frowned as he again accepted Private Miller's extended canteen. This time, if for no other reason than to shut Anderson up, Goldman took a long, gulping drink, savoring the warm water as it slid through his thirsty mouth. He was reminded of the fiery feel a shot of whiskey might make as it traveled down his throat and briefly promised himself a good, strong drink just as soon as this mission was over.

"All right, Sergeant," the officer ordered, lowering the canteen. "Let's move out." Johnson and Percell were already in formation and began making their way forward along the path. Lieutenant Goldman took his place in the middle of the line while Anderson brought up the rear. Noticing that he was still holding Private Miller's half-empty canteen in his hand, the platoon leader lifted his own off his hip and handed it to the boy walking next to him. "Here, Miller, take this," the lieutenant offered, smiling thinly. "Thanks."

Bill Miller accepted the officer's canteen and gratitude with a proud grin. "No sweat, Sir," he said, popping the container into his own belt and backing up a pace to drop in line behind the lieutenant. Myron Goldman surveyed the men following him and received a thoughtful, if not very reassuring, nod from the staff sergeant. Goldman knew Anderson's concern for his platoon leader was valid but the officer was determined to find the missing soldiers, order the dustoff and have his men extracted before nightfall. Lieutenant Goldman knew if he were forced to try and sleep another night in the damp jungle, he would be useless to his squad come morning. I'm responsible for these guys.

No sooner had Goldman returned his attention to the search for Lieutenant Peters, when Specialist Johnson stopped, raised his left fist into the air and crouched down on one knee to stop the line. A shot of adrenaline burst through the officer's veins as the squad instantly immobilized and hunched low to the ground, weapons on full automatic. Johnson tugged on his collar to bring the squad leader forward. Without waiting for Sergeant Anderson to initiate the evaluation of Johnson's discovery, Goldman grabbed his RTO's sleeve and yanked the boy forward as he anxiously advanced to point, ahead of his staff sergeant.

Lieutenant Goldman worried that the point man had spotted a trap, which would halt their forward progress. The weeds on either side of the narrow path were tall and gnarled which would make footwork difficult and spotting mines impossible. Disarming an enemy trap was not impossible, but, with so few men on this mission and Sergeant Anderson being the only one with enough experience to attempt it, Lieutenant Goldman chose not to view that as an option. "What is it, Johnson?" the platoon leader queried as Anderson made his way alongside them.

"Blood trail, Sir." Goldman followed Johnson's gaze and saw the blood splattered on a patch of broad-leafed plants to the right of the path. The soldiers could see that the crimson trail was headed into the thicket for several meters before abruptly ending, just before an apparent cavity in a tangle of weeds. Lieutenant Goldman licked his dry lips and turned to his sergeant.

"Anderson," the officer instructed, brushing the sweat away with the back of his hand. "We need to send someone over there to check that out. It could be one of our guys."

Anderson nodded, tapping the lieutenant's canteen a couple of times to indicate to his platoon leader to take a drink. As the lieutenant unscrewed the cap and raised the container to his lips, the sergeant looked squarely into Goldman's eyes and diffused the officer's arrogance. "Sir, take Miller and go back to the squad," Anderson demanded. "We got this under control. I think I can handle it." Goldman was taken aback, but understood that his sergeant had a right to be annoyed. The lieutenant had broken protocol and overstepped his boundaries as platoon leader by assessing the situation before the squad leader. To lighten the mood, Sergeant Anderson added with a wry grin, "Besides, Sir, we can't afford to lose both of us with one frag, now can we? Don't worry. I'll let you know what's going on."

Good ol' Zeke Anderson.

As Goldman and Miller fell back, the staff sergeant pointed to Taylor and Ruiz and motioned them to advance. Private Miller, who had been hesitant to leave the lieutenant's side, boldly approached the NCO. "Sir...Sergeant, I'll go," Bill Miller volunteered.

Anderson smiled warmly at the red-haired young man. "Maybe next time, Billy," he replied, taking the boy's arm and gently moving Miller back a pace. "You stay put and keep an eye on the lieutenant. Make sure he keeps drinking. And if he stops sweating, let me know." The sergeant gave Goldman a nod that said he meant business and turned his attention to the two soldiers he had called for this dangerous phase of the mission. "Taylor, you're with me. Ruiz, watch our six. That sniper ain't far and I have no intention of dying out here today."

The private lifted his machine gun a bit higher across his chest to illustrate to the sergeant that they had nothing to worry about as long as Alberto Ruiz was covering their backs.

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

Sergeant Anderson followed Private Taylor away from the squad through the thick underbrush toward the large indentation in the jungle floor. The two soldiers followed the red trail closely, knowing that any trap that might have been set in the area would have already been sprung by whomever had lost the blood. As he and Taylor approached the area where the trail ended, Anderson mentally prepared himself for an attack, mindful that a wounded enemy soldier could have left the blood as easily as a friendly.

Marcus Taylor was the first to see the bodies through the thick tangle of weeds. "Oh, shit, Sarge. Look at that," he directed, indicating the small mound almost hidden among the vegetation.

The olive colored uniforms and M16 rifles clearly indicated that the bodies belonged to American soldiers. From where he stood, Sergeant Anderson was able to see two sets of legs sticking out of the weeds, but the angle of the bodies hid the men's faces. It appeared that one soldier was lying face down on the back of his companion, with his arms wrapped around the other's neck. The soldier on top had a field radio strapped to his back. "Oh, shit," Anderson echoed Taylor's sentiment. "Looks like we found our guys."

Sergeant Anderson looked back to the lieutenant and raised two fingers, indicating that they had found two bodies. He saw that Private Ruiz was holding steady, waiting for any signal that the enemy might be in the vicinity and noticed Goldman using his binoculars in an attempt to get a better look at the discovery. Returning his gaze to Private Taylor, the sergeant braced himself to continue the mission. "Charlie-Mike, Private. Let's move," he ordered.

Anderson made his way to the forms lying in the grass and lowered himself to a crouch so he could get a better look at the bodies. "Radio's fragged," he informed Private Taylor, pointing to the jumble of wires springing from the considerable hole in the casing. "No wonder we lost contact." The sergeant unhooked the straps that held the radio in place on the operator's back and removed the bulk, setting it off to one side.

Carefully rolling the RTO onto his back, the sergeant gasped at the gruesome sight of the private's shattered remains. It appeared as though the man had been shot at point blank range, with no recognizeable features remaining in the cavernous hole where his face should have been. The man's skin was a pale purple-blue and his body was beginning to bloat. The initial stages of rigor mortis caused the soldier's arms to remain inflexible above his head. Anderson carefully lowered the extremeties, sending a cascade of small insects circling the corpse. Sergeant Anderson removed the towel from his shoulder and gingerly laid it over the soldier's head. Removing one of the private's dog tags and securing it in his breast pocket, the NCO shifted his attention to the second man lying on the jungle floor.

A large blood stain covered the lieutenant's back, but Anderson knew instinctively that it was the RTO's blood and not the officer's. Peters' arms were to his side where the sergeant could easily see his exposed hands. Although they were covered with dirt and blood, Anderson could see that they had not turned blue and he was confident that if Lieutenant Peters had succumed to some injury, it had been very recently. "Come down here, Taylor," the sergeant ordered. "Let's roll him over, but be real careful. Grab his legs, I'll get his body." Anderson moved so that he was crouched over Peters' head and reached under the lieutenant's chest to hoist him over by the arm pits. Taylor simultaneously turned the officer's legs in the same direction, bringing the man around so that he was lying on his back.

There was no doubt that the blood soaking the front of his fatigues belonged to Lieutenant Peters. Anderson tried to ignore the organs protruding from the gaping hole in the officer's chest and held two fingers to Peters' neck in search of a pulse. "He's still warm," the sergeant announced, looking up to make eye-contact with Taylor. "I guess we know what that sniper was aiming at." After a moment, Anderson finally sensed the very faint flow of blood through the artery on the officer's neck. "Come on. He's still alive, Taylor. Barely. We got to get him out of here."

Marcus Taylor voiced the question that the sergeant had subconsciously been asking himself since they first saw the blood trail. "Sarge, why were they heading away from the LZ? We could've found them a long time ago if they'd stayed put." After a moment's consideration, he added, "Damn. We were almost on top of them. Another few minutes..."

"I don't know," Anderson curtly interrupted, painfully aware of the fact that they had been so close to finding the missing officer without injury. Already lifting Lieutenant Peters' sizeable body, the sergeant added, "Maybe they were lost. Right now, it doesn't much matter, does it? Come on, grab his legs."

Just as the private was moving to comply, Anderson belayed the order. "Hold on, hold on," he said, lowering the lieutenant to the ground and resting the officer's head on his boots. The sergeant again motioned to his own platoon leader, raising two fingers and drawing his palm toward himself, hoping Goldman would understand that he needed two more men to carry out the RTO's body. When he saw Baker and Percell briskly moving toward him, Anderson again reached down to gather Peters and lifted him off the jungle floor.

Private Baker and PFC Percell paused as they approached Anderson and Taylor who were moving as quickly as possible in the opposite direction toward the path. "Get the RTO," Anderson ordered. "Be careful with him. He's KIA, but he's still one of ours. Keep his head covered." Just before the two groups separated, the sergeant added, "Baker, grab the radio." Anderson did not want to leave the instrument behind since he was unsure if it could be repaired. An American radio in the hands of the VC was not something for which Sergeant Anderson wished to be responsible.

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

Lieutenant Goldman was using his bayonet to clear away as many vines as possible to allow his men easier access back to the trail. He had already ordered Ruiz and Johnson to begin making a stretcher to carry the officer's body. The radio telephone operator could be carried by a single man, since it was known he was killed in action, but hoisting a WIA onto someone's back would mean certain death. Doc Matsuda was kneeling next to the makeshift stretcher with a bundle of supplies at his side, anxiously waiting for his chance to assist in the operation. Private Miller stood near his platoon leader, not knowing what was expected of him.

Anderson and Taylor stumbled through the dense growth of weeds and quickly lowered the wounded officer onto the stretcher. Specialist Matsuda began tending to the traumatic injuries, an all but hopeless expression masking his face. "Doc?" Goldman prompted, already knowing the prognosis was grave. The platoon leader could see only a hint of Lieutenant Peters' rolled-back eyes through the narrow slit of his eyelids and the wounded officer's head lolled to one side as if his neck were broken. Peters' lips parted, releasing a small stream of dark red blood down his jawline. Goldman was having a hard time believing the injured man could possibly still be alive, but held on to the hope that Anderson had not been mistaken.

"He's still breathing, Sir," the medic replied, not breaking his concentration from his patient, "but I don't see how. This bullet looks like it went straight to his lungs." Matsuda's white gauze turned a dripping crimson red within seconds of being applied to the open wound. Spec4 Matsuda looked at the platoon leader. "Sir, if we're going save him, we have to call in for a closer dustoff. I know there's no clearing around here, but humping back two or more hours to our LZ, and the lieutenant isn't going to have a chance."

Danny Percell was clearing the thicket, the RTO strewn across his back, with Baker and the radio close behind. "Hey, Sarge," Danny called. "This guy got a name?"

Lieutenant Goldman gave the staff sergeant a startled look. The bluntness of Percell's inquiry caught the officer off-guard as he suddenly realized he had never been advised of, nor did he ask for, the radio telephone operator's name. It had not crossed his mind, as all of his concentration had been given to the fallen lieutenant. An abrupt wave of guilt surged through Goldman's heart as he thought of Private Greene's mother. Dear Mrs. Greene...your son, Jimmy, died today...

None of the soldiers in the squad took notice of their platoon leader's grievous reaction. They were watching Sergeant Anderson, who was pulling from his shirt the RTO's dog tag. "His name is Private Steven Thomas," the sergeant advised, absently running his thumb across the imprint of the metal before again securing the tag in his pocket. Without further regard, Anderson prompted Lieutenant Goldman for orders. "LT, what do you want to do?"

The officer ran his towel across his face and licked his heat-chapped lips. "Get the hell out of here."

*************** Continued Part 3***************