This story is rated R for violence and language

TOUR OF DUTY: BUDDY SYSTEM PART 3

241 men were awarded the Medal of Honor for combat actions during the Vietnam War.

"Roger, Six. Two-one, out." Lieutenant Goldman handed the radio headset to the red-haired private standing next to him. "We're going to need a new battery," he informed Miller. "This one's about dead." Private Miller looked nervously at the officer, unsure of how to respond. When the private failed to react, the lieutenant clarified the request. "Private, replace the battery in the radio with one of the spares before we wind up stranded out here."

Miller shrugged his shoulders and replied, "Sir, I don't have any spare batteries. Horn must've had them in his rucksack and he only threw the radio out to me. Not the gear."

Lieutenant Goldman rolled his eyes. "That's just perfect," he sighed. "Fine. We'll use the battery from Peters' radio if we have to."

The officer turned his attention to his map, and began looking for the coordinates that had just been given for the new pickup zone. He could feel his body swaying back and forth like a bamboo tree caught in a breeze and was accutely aware of the slight tremor in his hand that made reading the map difficult. Goldman tried to ignore the painful throbbing in his head as he raised his eyes to locate Sergeant Anderson. He could feel the blood furiously pumping through his body and vaguely worried that he might have a heart attack.

Private Miller had a similar concern and reflexively reached out and grabbed Goldman's arm to steady the officer. "Sir, you don't look so great," the boy offered, noting the clammy feel of the platoon leader's pallid skin.

"I'm fine, Private," Goldman replied, not unkindly. He squinted against the misery induced by the act of speaking and attempted a thin, reassuring smile. "Nothing a drink of water can't cure, anyway," he added, reaching for his canteen, this time, without pressure from his staff sergeant.

Anderson had approached the two men and was observing Goldman warily. The officer's face had lost its color, turning a sickly ashen-grey, and the healthy elasticity of his skin had been replaced with deep, unsightly furrows, out of place on such a young man. Goldman's vacant eyes seemed to have settled further into their cavernous sockets and a fragile look shadowed his normally strong features. The officer's breathing was especially labored and Sergeant Anderson could see that his flesh was dry, even though the day had grown more sweltering. "LT, you're not sweating anymore," the NCO observed. "This is getting serious."

No sooner had the words left the sergeant's mouth when an excruciating pain shot through Goldman's brain. He fell to his knees, fiercely pressing his thumbs to his temples in a vain attempt to push back the agony behind his eyes. Goldman's body involuntarily curled in on itself as his abdomen tightened in an explosion of nausea. He was helpless to control the violence of his vomiting as his protesting stomach released the unwelcome liquid he had just introduced to it. Even when the water was extracted, the lieutenant's stomach continued to heave heavy streams of bile into the dirt.

"Dammit, LT!" the exasperated Sergeant Anderson scolded. "We just got that stuff in you and now you're watering the jungle with it!"

When the vomiting ended, Goldman shifted his body away from the disgusting puddle and lowered himself to rest his weight on his elbows. He again pushed his fists into his temples, hoping pressure would alleviate the pounding in his head as the blood raged through his brain. As the depleted officer allowed another fit of nausea to pass, he weakly replied to Anderson's criticism, with not just a little sarcasm seeping into his voice, "Yeah. Well. Sorry," and attempted the formidable task of getting himself into an upright position.

With even the slightest movement attacking his senses, the suffering platoon leader yielded his efforts and fell forward with a force that snapped twigs and branches like brittle bones under the weight of his body. He was unaware of the rock that unexpectedly collided with the front of his helmet, casting him into the dark world of unconsciousness. In his debilitated condition, even the solid material covering the officer's head could not resist the blow enough to protect him. His eyes rolled back, not unlike Lieutenant Peters', and the map Goldman had been clutching popped out of his hand the instant his arm hit the earth.

Sergeant Anderson and Private Miller nearly collided as each of them dove to their platoon leader's aid. Knowing the importance of the map, Anderson paused to snatch the paper off the ground and shoved it into his belt before attending to the fallen officer. "LT! LT! Wake up!," the sergeant demanded, rolling Goldman onto his back. "Damn him!" Anderson cursed as he leaned back on his heels and searched for the medic. "Doc! Doc! Get over here! Move it!"

Having been preoccupied with Lieutenant Peters, the medic had not seen Goldman collapse. He was stunned to find the lieutenant lying on the ground as Private Miller gently stroked the officer's hair like a worried mother tending to her sick child. Bill Miller had lifted the platoon leader's head onto his lap and had removed both of their helmets. He poured a substantial amount of water from Goldman's canteen onto the officer's forehead and was offering words of encouragement that Myron could not hear. "It's okay, Sir. Doc's here. He'll fix you up."

Miller didn't change his posture as Sergeant Anderson backed away to allow Doc Matsuda room to examine the lieutenant. The medic checked Goldman's neck for the strong, racing pulse that beat through his arteries and instructed Miller to lower LT's head back to the ground and go raise his feet instead. The private quickly complied while Matsuda began removing Goldman's gear and loosening his soggy fatigues. "Sarge," the medic advised, "He's definitely overheated and dehydrated. Could be heat stroke." The information was not surprising to the perceptive staff sergeant.

Having stripped Goldman's torso down to his green undershirt, Doc stood up and confided to the NCO that he did not have a saline IV with which to rehydrate the officer. "I only had three," Doc carefully explained, "And one of them sprung a leak. I used the other two on Lieutenant Peters." As if to verify his claims, the medic glanced at the empty IV bag lying on the ground next to the one currently dripping the clear liquid into the arm of his other patient. "It's not impossible to rehydrate LT without saline," Matsuda continued, "but it is harder. We're going to have to cool him off and get some water and salt into him." With a hint of regret flickering in his voice, Doc asked, "Sarge...can you handle this?"

"Yeah, sure," Anderson agreed, understanding Matsuda's concern for the more critically injured officer a few meters away. "Go take care of Peters."

"Roger, Sarge," the medic answered gratefully. Before going back to tend to Lieutenant Peters, Doc rifled through his pack and produced a can of c-rations, handing it to Anderson. "Here, when he wakes up, get him to eat this."

The sergeant grimaced as he took note of the contents of the can. "Uh, Doc," he warned, "First of all, LT is Jewish. He ain't gonna eat this stuff. Second, it's ham'n'chokers...I wouldn't eat this this stuff."

Specialist Matsuda stared at the sergeant. "Listen, Sarge," he said matter-of-factly. "This stuff is loaded with salt. He either chokes it down or he's going to die." The medic slung his pack over his shoulder. "I'm telling you, get him cooled off and conscious and then get him to eat something. And make him drink. I don't care how sick he is to his stomach. He needs water. If he doesn't rehydrate..."

"Wilco, Doc," the staff sergeant interrupted, taking the can of c-rats. Anderson looked around to the other soldiers who were waiting for orders as Doc Matsuda hastily made his way back to Lieutenant Peters. "Okay you guys," the staff sergeant summoned. "We need some water. Anyone got some to spare?"

Marcus Taylor was the first to offer his canteen. Sergeant Anderson gave the private a lopsided grin, to which Taylor responded, "Forget it, Sarge. It don't mean nothin'."

"'Course not," the sergeant allowed, accepting the water and pouring a considerable amount onto Goldman's towel. He wiped the saturated cloth across the officer's cadaverous face, around his neck and down his arms, hoping the water would quickly cool the platoon leader's exposed flesh. Anderson then wrung the towel over Goldman's chest, soaking the man's clothing, and poured the remaining liquid from the canteen over the lieutenant's head.

Sergeant Anderson knew the attempt to get Goldman's body temperature under control would take much longer, and much more water than they could afford. The quiet of the jungle concerned him since he knew their sniper was more than likely still in the vicinity. Without interruption to his slow process of cooling the unconscious officer, Anderson directed the squad to spread out and check the perimeter. "Take the empty canteens and see if you can't find a creek or a stream or something to fill them up. If all you find is mud, that'd be okay, too." As the squad scattered, Anderson instructed the red-haired private to stay behind. "Miller, give me the horn and take over here."

Bill Miller was excited at the chance to be of service. He quickly lowered the officer's legs to the ground and scrambled to take the sergeant's place by Goldman's side. Sliding the ponderous radio from his back, the private handed it to Anderson and took the dripping towel in exchange, prepared to mirror the process he had been watching the sergeant perform.

While Miller tended to Lieutenant Goldman, the staff sergeant carried the radio a few paces away and picked up the receiver to call in the situation to Firebase Ladybird. Goldman had collapsed before conveying the new LZ coordinates and Anderson worried that even when the lieutenant regained consciousness, he might not remember the numbers.

The NCO never had the chance to begin the call as the sniper's keen aim violently blew the receiver out of Anderson's grip. The surprised sergeant looked at his empty hand in amazement for only a heartbeat before lunging for his rifle and joining the squad in blasting the surroundings.

Private Miller instinctively threw his body on top of the fallen platoon leader, protecting him from the enemy attack. The firefight was short-lived as Anderson called for the men to hold their fire. As seemed to be the sniper's custom, only the single shot was fired before the gunman disappeared into the jungle. For the third time that day, Charlie found his mark and issued a major blow to second platoon's third squad.

Sergeant Anderson stared incredulously at the only casualty from this round of gunplay. "Damn," he murmured, frantically searching for the second PCR 77. Finding Peters' radio in a nearby clump of weeds, Anderson disconnected the headset and quickly pieced it together with the otherwise working device. When he had secured the wires in place, Anderson slammed the phone to his ear and attempted the call to Firebase Ladybird. He was greeted with an obscene silence. "What the hell?" he huffed, realizing a split second later that the battery was dead.

The sergeant again reached for Lieutenant Peters' broken radio and opened the compartment that housed the battery. It was empty. "Shit!" he spat, flinging the remains of the machine aside. "He must've tossed it to make the damned thing lighter to carry. "Sonofabitch!"

The frustrated NCO kicked the heavy field radio hard enough to send it bouncing back toward Lieutenant Goldman and his self-appointed protector. Private Miller had scuttled off the platoon leader's chest and had resumed wiping Goldman's arms with the wet towel when he felt the impact of the radio as it hit the ground near the lieutenant's legs. With a start, Miller turned to see the staff sergeant come up beside him, lowering himself to one knee. "Come on, LT," Anderson pleaded, the urgency rising in his voice. "Get up. This is not at all a good time for this."

As if on demand, Lieutenant Goldman's eyelids fluttered and finally opened as the officer struggled to focus his confused mind. He blinked hard several times before recognizing the two sets of eyes staring down at him. Private Miller's emerald-green eyes sparked with relief. Sergeant Anderson's deep blue eyes stared at the lieutenant with profound concern. "LT, you with us?" the sergeant asked doubtfully.

Carefully pulling himself to a sitting position, the lieutenant rubbed his temples as the throbbing resumed at its rapid pace. "I'll have to get back to you on that one, Zeke," he choked, fairly sure that the answer would be a resounding "No."

The thought of putting anything into his stomach made Goldman queasy, but he recognized his own symptoms well enough to know that if he didn't replenish his dehydrated body, he risked losing consciousness permanently. Seeing someone's canteen lying on the ground, the lieutenant took it and swallowed a tentative sip before pouring a small amount of the warm liquid over his already dripping hair. Private Miller handed Lieutenant Goldman his towel and the officer gratefully blotted his face before throwing the still soaked cloth across his shoulders. He welcomed the feel of the water as it trickled down his T-shirt and cooled his back.

Handing the officer Doc Matsuda's can of ham and lima beans, Sergeant Anderson instructed Goldman to consume its contents along with another drink of the water. With a grimace, the platoon leader refused to take the can, but when he tried to verbally object, the NCO cut him off. "I don't have time to argue with you, Sir. You're going to eat this stuff if I have to force-feed you ." Anderson used his churchkey to open the can and stuffed it into the officer's hand. "Now, LT."

Scowling at the realization that he would eventually lose the argument anyway, Goldman used his finger to scrape a small amount of the provisions from the can and swiped it across his teeth. He nearly gagged as the loathsome conconcotion made its way over his tongue and down his throat. The lieutenant feared his stomach would reject this offering, regardless of its nutritional value, and stuck his tongue out in a childish expression of revulsion. Sergeant Anderson hid his amusement behind a stern look of determination, prompting Goldman to take another bite.

The staff sergeant's concern for the lieutenant was surpassed only by his concern for getting his squad and the dying Lieutenant Peters out of the jungle. "Sir, if you're going to live, we need to di di out of here," Anderson proposed. "Which way are we headed? You got the coordinates?"

Goldman reached to his waist where his holster should have been and froze when he realized both the holster and the map were missing. He licked his lips and shot a troubled look at the staff sergeant before frantically scanning the area for the crucial piece of paper. Spying his shirt lying nearby in the grass, he stretched his arm and grabbed it, desperately searching for their directions out of there.

"Looking for this, Sir?" Anderson asked, pulling the crumpled map from his own waistband. The sergeant seemed a bit too entertained for Goldman's liking and was awarded with a disgusted scowl. The lieutenant ignored the blast of pain in his forehead as he stood up too quickly and snatched the map from the platoon sergeant's hand. Putting his amusement aside, Anderson again asked Goldman, "Sir, you do have the coordinates for the LZ?"

The platoon leader was staring at the map with a look of disconcertion crossing his brow. The heat exhaustion had clouded his thinking enough, but combined with the blow to his head, Goldman could barely read the map, let alone remember the coordinates. "Crap," he spat, rubbing his temple with his thumb. "No. I don't remember. Where's the horn. I'll call it in again. Miller?"

Before the private could respond, Sergeant Anderson picked up the damaged earpiece that was lying on the ground near his boots and held it out for the lieutenant to inspect. Goldman's jaw dropped when he realized that the mangled headset was not attached to the radio that was laying on its side several meters away. Refusing to believe what his eyes were telling his intellect, the officer cocked his head and gaped at his staff sergeant. "What the hell happened, Anderson? Please tell me the radio is not fragged."

"Well, Sir," the NCO replied, "I reckon I could tell you that but you'll find out sooner or later that it is. Our sniper-buddy got it while you were out. I tried piecing the two horns together, but the battery's dead and we don't have a spare."

The pounding in Goldman's head grew steadily worse as his stress fused with his illness. "Goddammit!" he swore, unable to control his frustration. The lieutenant licked his chapped lips several times, not realizing that his nervous habit was drying them out even more and would leave his mouth raw and irritated for days to come.

"All right, Sergeant," Goldman began, searching for a viable solution to their problem. "I don't remember the exact coordinates but I have a pretty good idea which way we need to head." He stepped over to where the NCO was standing so that they could examine the map together. "There should be a clearing a few klicks, maybe five or six, west of here. We'll have to leave the path and work our way through the jungle, but once we get past it, we should see these mountains." He pointed to a location on the map. "The valley will be between us and them. Once we're clear of the trees, hopefully we'll be able to spot the choppers and pop smoke to draw their attention."

Sergeant Anderson studied the map for a few moments, mentally charting the details of Goldman's proposal. "Roger that," he finally agreed, accepting the plan as being feasible. The staff sergeant studied the still-afflicted officer and, looking Goldman squarely in the eyes, asked with absolute sincerity, "Sir, do we need to carry you out of here?"

The lieutenant paused a moment before answering in all honesty, "No, Zeke. Not yet, anyway." With a grimace, he threw another finger-full of the c-ration into his mouth and took a small drink of water. Collecting his gear and plopping his helmet back onto his head, Goldman let the sergeant know he was ready. "All right, Sergeant. Let's go."

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

Sergeant Anderson summoned his men and, after determining that no fresh water supply had been located, briefly outlined their objective. Specialist Johnson was again ordered on point and reminded that leaving the path would make spotting mines and traps even more difficult. As vital as it was for the squad to make decent time through the dense jungle, it was even more important that caution be maintained in scouting the area. Anderson assigned Marcus Taylor to follow Johnson on slack, hoping that, together, the two most experienced soldiers in the squad would get them all through safely.

Scott Baker carried the lifeless body of Private Thomas and Danny Percell assisted Doc Matsuda in transporting the stretcher bearing the gravely wounded Lieutenant Peters. Private Bill Miller wore one of the broken radios on his back and carried the other, shifting it from arm to arm as he tried to ignore the considerable weight. Sergeant Anderson insisted on staying close behind his platoon leader, in case Lieutenant Goldman again succumbed to his weakened condition, and Alberto Ruiz, with his M60 machine gun set on full automatic, brought up the rear.

Very slowly, second platoon's first squad headed for home.

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

Considering that the sniper was already aware of the squad's movement, Goldman and Anderson allowed for quiet conversation among the men, as long as they kept their eyes focused and their pace steady. The lieutenant forced himself to take small sips of water every few minutes and, after finally choking down the last of the ham'n'motherfuckers, slowly began feeling some relief. His stomach no longer objected to the tepid liquid and the pounding in his head was reduced to a dull throb. Within an hour, he could feel the perspiration beading on his forehead, indicating that he was successfully replenishing his body's fluids.

Eventually, Goldman felt comfortable enough to allow his focus to wander to other matters of concern. "Sergeant," he called back to the NCO, slowing his pace enough to allow Anderson to catch up. "What do you think happened to Peters and his RTO...Private Thomas?" The lieutenant shifted the weight of his rifle and subconsciously checked his waistband for the map and his CEOI. "Why were they so far away from the LZ? And why was Peters carrying Thomas? It doesn't make a whole lot of sense. Even if Peters was trying to outrun the sniper, why didn't he leave the RTO behind. He should have known we'd come back for them."

Anderson didn't need to think long before offering his opinion. "LT, I'm not so sure he did know that." The sergeant paused a moment to scan the squad before finishing his thought. "I don't know how long Peters has been in-country, but I'd wager he's seen enough to know he wouldn't be the first guy lost in the field. Could be he was trying to avoid becoming MIA and was heading back to Ladybird."

"To Ladybird?" Goldman asked in disbelief. "They are nowhere near Ladybird and he was heading in the wrong direction even if they were."

Anderson stopped walking for a moment and waited for Goldman to notice and stop with him. "Sir," the more experienced sergeant explained, "You've never been out here, alone, at night, with no one to talk to but the bugs. You get pretty disoriented. And Charlie hovering over you like a vulture...it's enough to make you crazy. Or at least make you do crazy things." The staff sergeant started walking again, unconsciously bypassing the officer. Without remark, Goldman followed. "Lieutenant Peters had it worse than that even," Anderson continued. "He had a corpse to look after. He must've cared an awful lot for his RTO to carry him as far as he did." The sergeant shook his head and, suddenly aware that he had switched positions with the officer, slowed his pace so that he could drop back in line behind Goldman. "If Thomas risked his life to save his lieutenant's butt the way Miller jumped on your belly back there to save yours, I reckon that would explain why Peters did what he did."

Lieutenant Goldman shot a look back at his sergeant, catching a glimpse of Private Miller who was still fumbling with the heavy radio. The officer noticed the private's red hair matted to his forehead and realized that the boy had left his helmet behind somewhere. It was not uncommon for soldiers not to wear a helmet in Vietnam--Anderson rarely wore one--but Goldman would have felt a lot better if this particular young man had not lost his.

Turning his attention back to Anderson's comment, the lieutenant demanded further explanation. "What do you mean, 'the way Miller jumped on my belly'? What the hell happened back there, Zeke?"

"Just what I said, LT," the sergeant expounded. "You were out cold. Charlie opened fire and Private Miller there covered your ass until it was over." Glancing back at the oblivious private, he added "Literally." When he turned his focus back to Goldman, the sergeant saw the confusion on his platoon leader's face and, Goldman to fully understand, interpreted the meaning behind Private Miller's actions. "You see, Sir, even if the sniper did only fire the one shot that fragged the radio, Billy there didn't know that. I guess you could say the kid's a hero, LT."

Myron Goldman did not know how to respond, so he allowed the conversation to end as his emotions welled inside him. The officer tried to make sense of the risk that the freckle-faced boy had taken on his behalf. For the second time in two days, a kid, who probably shouldn't even be over here, put his life on the line to save my butt. Why?

Feeling inexplicably guilty, Goldman again looked back at the naive private who, this time, noticed the officer's attention. Believing he must have done something wrong, Miller sheepishly averted his eyes, fidgeting with the radio as if it required his full concentration. Lieutenant Goldman caught his staff sergeant studying him and, sharing Miller's discomfort, turned around and watched the backs of the soldiers who walked ahead of him.

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

The line traveled in silence for several hours as the soldiers struggled with every step through the tangle of Vietnamese terrain. Without a path to follow, progress was slow, as most of the men were burdened with some kind of substantial load.

The platoon leader had already finished the water from his canteen. He knew that if they did not hit the valley soon and locate the approximate location of the LZ, the heat exhaustion would return with a vengeance. And with water running low between the squad, recovery would be difficult, if not impossible. Lieutenant Goldman raised is left arm and called out for the men in front of him to stop the line.

Sergeant Anderson jogged forward. "Sir? What's wrong? You losing it again?" the NCO queried with sincere concern.

"No, Sergeant. I'm fine," the officer assured before raising his voice loud enough to be heard by the rest of the squad. "Take five, you guys." Goldman turned to face the sergeant, handing Anderson the folded map. Myron was all but certain the clearing should be making itself visible, and hoped his staff sergeant could confirm the assessment. "Zeke," he said in a hushed voice, so as not to be overheard by the men. "I'm not so sure we're headed in the right direction. I would have thought we'd be out of the jungle by now."

Anderson ignored the map, instead focusing on the surroundings. He peered through the dense trees enveloping the squad, as Lieutenant Goldman wondered what the sergeant might be searching for. "Anderson, what is it?" the officer demanded, raising his binoculars to get a better look. "Did you hear something?" The lieutenant felt the adrenaline rush as he allowed the binoculars to fall heavily against the strap securing them to his shoulders and pulled his rifle forward, mentally preparing for another sniper attack.

"Relax. LT," Anderson suggested, pointing in the direction they had been headed. "See that? The trees are getting thinner. If you look far enough, you can see sunlight getting through the canopy. See the shadows?" The staff sergeant recognized the doubt in Goldman's eyes and provided further clarification for the unseasoned officer. "Look behind us. See how close together the trees are? Not a lick of sunlight getting through that mess. And haven't you noticed it's getting easier to move the further we go?" Anderson handed the lieutenant back his map. "You got us going the right way, Sir."

Lieutenant Goldman allowed a brief smile to cross his lips as he inserted the map back into it's place inside his waistband. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and ran his towel across his face. "Okay, Sergeant," Goldman conceded. "Let's get moving then." Impulsively, and without justification, Goldman added, "Why don't you switch places with Miller now?"

The staff sergeant made no comment as he fell back in line, taking a place just in front of the machine gunner.

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

Private Miller followed the platoon leader, still wondering if he had done something wrong. He pondered the idea that he was in trouble for leaving his helmet behind and worried at what kind of punishment such an infraction might hold. The private was grateful that he was walking behind Lieutenant Goldman, where he could pretend to be less conspicuous as he struggled with the heavy field radio. Miller's muscles were beginning to ache and he felt himself hunching forward under the weight of the gear on his back. When he switched the instrument he was carrying from one hand to the other, the incline of his body caused his M16 to slip off his shoulder and down his arm. He spontaneously reached to grab the rifle, and promptly dropped the field radio on top of a patch of leafy vines.

Lieutenant Goldman looked to check out the commotion and was met with Private Miller's mortified green eyes. The boy was obviously terrified that his clumsiness would be met with a reprimand from the demanding officer. He had seen Goldman's temper and knew that the radio, even in its reduced condition, was a vital instrument to survival. Miller opened his mouth as if he were about to apologize, but then suddenly closed it without uttering a word.

The lieutenant instinctively moved to help the soldier, mindful of the fact that Sergeant Anderson was already fast approaching the scene. "It's all right, Sergeant," Goldman said, waving the NCO back. "I got it." Anderson nodded, knowing that it was not the officer's duty to carry the burden of a radio, but understanding it was necessary for Myron Goldman to support his young RTO.

Goldman lifted the radio off the ground and opened the battery compartment, tossing the useless power supply to the ground. "It'll be lighter without the battery," he explained to the confused private. Goldman slung the strap over his shoulder, allowing it to dangle loosely on his hip. "I got it," the lieutenant offered. "Get a drink and keep moving." That was all the platoon leader said, but it sparked an admiring grin from the appreciative boy. Without remark, Goldman turned and resumed his forward progress to the edge of the jungle.

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

The platoon leader and his sergeant saw the purple silhouette of the mountains through the thinning treeline at the same time. Goldman glanced back at Sergeant Anderson and the two exchanged a satisfied grin. Specialist Johnson had no doubt also taken in the sight, but did not comment as he quickened his pace to advance the squad.

Within the half hour, Lieutenant Goldman's abused squad was making its approach to the fringe of the jungle. They could clearly see the lush valley, with its high elephant grass and clear pathways rolling up to the mountain range off in the distance. The soldiers squinted as their eyes worked to make the adjustment from the shadows of the jungle's canopy into blazing sunlight. Lieutenant Goldman raised his binoculars to his eyes and peered to the sky in search of the choppers he was foolishly sure would be waiting on them.

With only a few hundred meters left of the tangled vegetation, the men seemed to lose control of their caution and the line began to fall apart. Sergeant Anderson recognized the danger and called out for the squad to halt. "Everyone stop! Don't take another step!" the NCO ordered. Goldman looked at the sergeant curiously. "What are you guys doing?" Anderson demanded, eyeing Goldman directly. "Get back in line. Slow down. And follow Johnson." The sergeant peered intently at his platoon leader. "Sir, we made it this far. We don't need a stupid mistake now."

Lieutenant Goldman realized the truth in the sergeant's words. He remained silent as the line tightened and the squad again moved toward the valley. With Miller close behind, Goldman again looked through his binoculars and silently prayed that the two specks he thought he was seeing through the glare of the setting sun were Hueys coming for the extraction.

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

Just as the squad reached the edge of the treeline and Lieutenant Goldman was growing more certain that two choppers were in fact approaching from the South, an explosion of gunfire rattled the jungle. Unlike their previous assaults from the sniper, the bombardment came at the steady rapid pace of an angry machine gun. The startled soldiers threw themselves into the vegetation, returning fire into the area from which they had just come, blindly shooting at their unseen adversary. Dropping the broken radio to join in the defense of the squad, Lieutenant Goldman was alarmed by the frenzy of the firefight. He wanted to believe that more than just the single sniper had targeted his squad. If it was in fact a solitary man shooting at them, he was either extremely well hidden or extremely lucky, since Goldman's troops were failing to extinguish the enemy fire.

Looks like Charlie doesn't want us leaving the jungle, Goldman silently accused, removing the empty cartridge from his rifle and quickly replacing it with a full magazine. He must have enjoyed his game of cat and mouse and doesn't want it to end.

Bright flashes shot out from the darkness of the jungle, but with the thick vegetation surrounding him, the sniper remained well protected. Saplings were cut in half by bullets ricocheting across the underbrush, but the enemy soldier stubbornly endured, continuing his deadly onslaught.

Although he was vehemently firing his weapon, Lieutenant Goldman felt utterly useless against the lethal assailant hiding in the shadows. The platoon leader remembered the valuable lesson his sergeant had taught him the very first time they had engaged the enemy during his inaugural mission, and longed for the radio to be operational so that artillery could be called in to terminate this barrage of hostile gunfire.

The radio.

Thoughts of the radio effected the sudden and urgent need for Goldman to check on young Private Miller, who had been right behind him before the battle began, but who was no longer anywhere to be seen. Keeping his head low, the lieutenant searched the area and called out over the pandemonium, ordering Miller to respond. When no reply came, Goldman ignored the bullets raging past him and, lowering himself as far as he could, crawled in the direction he believed the private to be.

The platoon leader's heart skipped a beat when his hand sank into a puddle of blood on the ground where Private Miller should have been. Goldman gaped at the sticky red-brown clay as it oozed through his fingers. Unable to accept the possibility that the private had met with a violent end, the officer spontaneously jumped to his feet and, disregarding his own safety, maneuvered to follow the fresh trail of blood The journey was short. Through the grass and vines, Goldman could see the wounded soldier, crumpled on the ground like a rag doll, blood expanding around his prone body.

With a wild and uncontrollable rage, the distressed officer abruptly turned and fired his rifle into the jungle, his rapidly beating heart keeping pace with the automatic weapon's lethal volley. His body jerked violently with each round fired as he pummeled the sniper's territory. Feeling the tears of fury welling in his eyes, Lieutenant Goldman let out a rabid scream. "You bastard! He's just a kid, you son-of-a-bitch! He's just a goddam kid!"

Suddenly, rational thought invaded the officer's wrath as he realized that the casualty needed to be moved to a more secure location. Goldman stopped firing his weapon and struggled to control his anger. Observing the wounded soldier, the desperate officer unhesitatingly moved across the fireswept terrain to his injured comrade. He swiftly checked for a pulse and rendered what little medical assistance he could before preparing to move Private Miller to some area of relative safety. With the battle still raging around him, the platoon leader lowered himself to one knee and began to pull Miller onto his shoulder.

Just as Goldman was about to lift the private's body, the enemy sniper left his concealed position and, without warning, hurled a hand grenade which landed near the officer and the wounded private. Instantly shouting an alert to the squad, Goldman released Private Miller and fearlessly threw himself upon the lethal explosive device to protect his men from the deadly blast.

Hearing the officer's alarm, Sergeant Anderson bolted around in time to see Goldman drop to the ground. The NCO had seen Charlie throw the grenade and knew in an instant that the lieutenant was imperiling himself for the sake of his men. Helpless to prevent Goldman's sacrifice, the staff sergeant raised his M16 and fired into the thicket where he had seen the sniper dart after the grenade had found its mark. The enemy assault abruptly ceased as the gunman fell, confirming that he was alone in his brutal attack. Sergeant Anderson lowered his rifle and stared at Lieutenant Goldman in horror.

After a seemingly interminable, terrifying moment, Goldman realized the grenade had failed to detonate, and quickly clambered from his dangerous position. When he got himself standing, he impulsively reached down and grabbed the dud, acrimoniously flinging it back to the dead enemy soldier. He gasped in air as his heart beat wildly, barely comprehending what had just happened or the consequences that should have followed. Pushing his anxiety aside, the officer resolutely continued his determined efforts in treating the injured private.

Sergeant Anderson had seen Goldman survive the hand grenade and hastily turned his attention to checking the men for casualties. Finding that no one else was injured in the attack, he ordered Private First Class Percell and Private Ruiz to go confirm that the enemy sniper was KIA while the rest of the squad headed for the clearing. Although the staff sergeant was managing to maintain conrol of the squad, his thoughts lingered on the selfless actions of his platoon leader.

Lieutenant Goldman carried the wounded Bill Miller into the clearing and handed him over to Doc Matsuda who gently lowered the boy onto a soft patch of low-lying grass. A vacant look crossed the lieutenant's face as he studied the aftermath of the firefight. Goldman could hear the roar of the dustoff and, fearful that the helicopters would not see them and fly past the squad, called for the sergeant to pop smoke. "Anderson, red smoke," he ordered, without enthusiasm. "Get those birds over here."

While the staff sergeant quickly complied with the order, Goldman returned his focus to the casualties being attended to by the medic. "Doc," he tentatively asked, "How's Lieutenant Peters doing?"

Spec4 Matsuda regarded the officer. "Sir, he didn't make it," Doc somberly advised. Goldman looked over to the stretcher and saw that Peters' face had been conscientiously covered by the medic. The surviving officer lowered his head and heaved a long, mournful sigh. The mission had been a failure. He was not only unsuccessful in bringing Lieutenant Peters home alive, but he had also suffered two casualties from his own platoon in the miserable attempt.

Sensing the lieutenant's grief, Doc Matsuda tendered some encouragement. "But I think Billy here will be fine," he said with a reassuring grin. "The bullet's lodged in there somewhere, but it looks like it missed all of his vital organs." The medic continued wrapping the long white bandage around Miller's waist to protect the wound in the private's side. "I wouldn't be surprised if he gets a Purple Heart and a ticket on the next flight back to The World, LT."

Lieutenant Goldman gave the medic a halfhearted smile as the whirlwind of air generated by the landing Hueys cooled his fevered skin. "He should've never left The World to begin with, Doc," the officer lamented as he watched Sergeant Anderson organize the extraction. "Maybe none of us should have."

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

Myron Goldman lifted the whiskey bottle to his lips and, savoring the bitter flavor, allowed the smooth, amber liquor to slowly trickle down his throat. He was sitting on his footlocker with his elbows resting on his lap, finishing off the remaining drops of whiskey he had left in the bottle so many hours before. The young officer felt much older that evening as the events of the past two days weighed heavily on his mind. Lieutenant Goldman was chasing the alcohol with a long drink of water from the tin cup he was holding in his other hand, when he heard a knock at the entrance of his hootch.

"Come," he called. The interruption that came in the form of Zeke Anderson was not unwelcome and the officer eagerly invited the sergeant to join him.

The staff sergeant hesitantly entered, afraid he would be met with the disastrous mess the tent had been in earlier that morning. Instead, he was surprised to see the officer's hootch in a condition that would have made even the biggest bastard of a drill sergeant proud. Lieutenant Goldman must have spent his evening policing the area instead of getting some much needed rest. Anderson told himself he would say his piece and get out of there as quickly as possible to allow Goldman his sleep.

"Sir," the NCO began, "after you left the AAR, I stayed behind to talk to Captain Wallace about what you did out there." Goldman's eyes narrowed as he studied the sergeant skeptically. After a brief moment, Anderson continued, "He wants to recommend you for the Medal of Honor for jumping on that grenade like you did." The sergeant's smile faded as he saw a contemptuous look invade Goldman's features. Baffled, Anderson shrugged his shoulders and queried the officer, "You don't want the Medal of Honor, LT?"

Lieutenant Goldman stood and placed the empty bottle and the cup he had been holding on the field desk, next to a stack of paper and the pen he had used to write to Jimmy Greene's mother. He moved a hand to his head and rubbed his temples, grimacing at the thoughts that whirled through his memory. Anderson remained silent, giving the officer the necessary time to formulate his response. Avoiding the sergeant's confused look, Goldman tried to put his feelings into words.

"No, Zeke," he fumbled. "Not like this. What happened out there means absolutely nothing. Greene is dead. Thomas is dead. Peters is dead. Horn is wounded. Miller is wounded." Goldman hesitated as visions of each of these men blazed through his conscience. He lifted the water glass to his mouth and took a drink. "Five casualties in two days, Sergeant." The lieutenant finally turned and met Anderson's gaze. "Five."

Another meaningful pause passed between them, before Goldman could continue. "Medals of Honor should go to those five guys, Zeke. Not me."

Sergeant Anderson tried to understand his lieutenant's feelings, but did not want the man to lose sight of his own heroic actions. "LT, listen to me," Zeke cajoled, "What you did out there today did not go unnoticed by these guys. Your concern for their welfare inspires the hell out of me, that's for damn-sure. Don't you think the guys know that grenade could have gone off just as easily as it didn't?" When the officer turned away with embarrassment, Anderson gently tugged on Goldman's arm to retrieve his attention. "Your devotion to your duty, and to your men, is in the finest tradition of This Man's Army, Myron. And don't you ever forget it."

Lieutenant Goldman was unable to reply to the sergeant's statements. He was honored by the words, but was steadfast in his desire not to accept a recommendation for the Medal of Honor by Captain Wallace. He knew he could never be comfortable in its ownership, knowing that he had been helpless to save three American lives and that Private Miller, the boy with the brilliant green eyes, would carry the scars of battle with him for the rest of his life. To Sergeant Anderson, he admitted his regret. "For the second time in two days, I'm sending an FNG home before he got through the first week of his tour."

Anderson could not help but smile. "Yeah, LT. But Billy's going home alive."

Goldman did not respond.

In a final attempt to intervene in his platoon leader's continued grief, Anderson broke the silence. "Sir, I respect your feelings on this. But, even if you reject that medal, the nine guys that were out there with you today will never forget what you did." The NCO prepared to exit the hootch. "You know," he added, turning back to the lieutenant, "I don't know if your Buddy System is worth a damn, LT. But I know young Private Miller would say it is." He smiled and added, "Hell, it wouldn't surprise me if even Taylor thinks so." With that, Sergeant Anderson took a step back, tossing a reverent salute to the officer. "Good night, Sir. And get some sleep."

Myron Goldman returned the salute and the sergeant walked away.

Good ol' Zeke Anderson.

************end************