The Ghosts of My Lai by JC Braswell

Author:JC Braswell [Braswell, JC]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Magothy Publishing
Published: 2017-04-19T16:00:00+00:00

TWENTY

Williams sat in silence, furthest from the fire. Cold. Everything felt cold. But he didn’t care. Its image remained etched in memory as a solitary picture. The faceless glare, its bite that did not swallow, and the way it ended—exploding into nothingness, a ghost in its own right. The deeper they traveled, the more secrets the jungle revealed.

As much as he tried to make sense of the past twenty-four hours, he couldn’t reconcile with what he’d witnessed. Williams wished he could write everything down: the initial assault on My Lai; how they were shot down over a jungle that wasn’t supposed to exist; the way Anuska and the others were murdered; the tiger that tracked them; the snake that disappeared into nothingness; and the VC they held prisoner. If he could only memorialize everything, then at least the outside world would understand their struggles, the way they survived, and their final hours.

The others gathered around the dwindling flames, all too tired to stoke the heat. Soldiers who dared to light a fire in the jungle often found themselves at end of a rifle before having their teeth blown down their throats. But what did it matter? Hypothermia would claim another victim if they remained in wet clothing. The specially designed army clothes were quick to dry, but only if there was ample heat.

Each man held a somber look about him: helmet removed, boots unlaced, hope for survival drained as they watched their numbers cut in half. Williams had failed them, just like he’d failed Anuska and McEvoy.

“I’m down to two magazines,” Donovan sighed as he fastened the precious ammo to his belt.

“Four here,” Simmons answered.

“Me too,” Jackson followed, his voice delirious with fatigue, mirroring the others. They were words no waylaid soldier wanted to hear. They were down to their final rounds.

“Save your ammo,” Williams said, sliding the spoon into his last can of rations. His mouthful of peaches tasted of thick sugar as he passed it on to Jackson. “Keep your knife close. We all learned how to use them, right?”

“What’s it matter anyway?” Harris sat cross-legged, rocking on his bottom as he squeezed his heels together. He’d degenerated the fastest, mumbling to himself at times. “It’s like, what’s that saying, running uphill on a two-sided mountain.”

“What are you talking about? That ain’t an expression,” Donovan said, studying Harris with a disapproving frown.

“Oh,” Harris stopped rocking. His head drooped down.

The only other one who didn’t enjoy the campfire’s warmth was the VC, who sat a few feet behind Jackson, his arms bound behind his back. His eyes flickered in the flames with a soulless gaze that cursed the group. He shivered and occasionally spoke in a soft tongue Williams couldn’t understand, waiting like a coyote for the sick to fall. He’d run as soon as he had the chance.

“How’s Garcia?” Jackson asked.

“Still quiet, sleeping.” Williams grabbed Garcia’s arm to see if his body still held heat. The medic’s chest rose a little then fell. His face remained wet, his black hair sculpted to his head.

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