P.O.W.: The only way to survive is to escape... (Vietnam Ground Zero Military Thrillers Book 2) by Eric Helm

Author:Eric Helm [Helm, Eric]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sapere Books
Published: 2020-12-08T20:00:00+00:00

Special Forces Staff Sergeant Sully Smith lay shivering in the darkness beneath the low, drooping limbs of a thicket of broad-leaved giant ferns and fought hard to slow the pounding of his heart and quiet the wheezing of his breathing. The night air had turned cool, chilling him as the almost undetectable breeze evaporated the perspiration from his skin and sweat-soaked fatigues. But he knew the trembling was more the result of the adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream than anything else.

Smith wasn’t afraid. Indeed, he’d felt a curious sense of calm detachment ever since he’d seen Kittredge die. The image was still clear. He’d glanced back to see where Steve was when he’d realized he wasn’t running beside him, and he’d seen the heavy weapons specialist standing calmly upright, as if he were trying to get a better view of the onrushing enemy, the handset of the PRC-10 radio still held to the side of his head. Then the next salvo of artillery had landed on the slope of the tiny knoll, and Kittredge had disappeared in a big geyser of mud, water and bodies. After that, it had seemed as though that entire region of swamp had started blowing up, and it had become a highly unhealthy neighborhood. There had been no point in going back. Steve Kittredge was dead. Smith hadn’t seen any point in compounding the situation with his own death.

There had been a brief, fierce firefight when he’d reached the tree line with four or five strikers and run smack into a VC squad. He remembered shooting a couple of VC. Then it had gone hand-to-hand and somebody had smacked him on the side of the head with a rifle butt. He thought that he’d killed the man with his knife, but he couldn’t remember for sure. Things had gotten pretty confusing after that. When his head had cleared, he’d been a few hundred meters away from the fight. He’d lost his rifle somewhere but had picked up one of the old heavy Garand M-1s and most of a bandolier of eight-round clips. Presumably he’d taken them from a dead striker. The strap of the bandolier had been cut, and he had the loose ends and his knife clenched in one hand, the semiautomatic rifle in the other. Two large demo bags were strapped over his shoulders. He’d also had a splitting headache, with occasional blinding flashes of white light before his eyes, and blood streaming down the right side of his face and neck.

Smith had spent most of the afternoon running as fast as he could. Several times he’d risked the few trails he’d come across, hoping that the better footing would allow him to put more distance between himself and the short-legged Viet Cong. Smith knew that at least some of the trails would be mined or booby-trapped, dap loi toe poppers if nothing else. But he’d taken to the trails when the sixth sense a soldier develops in combat told him that the

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