The Legionnaire by Barry Sadler

Author:Barry Sadler [Sadler, Barry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B00J0U5182
Published: 2014-03-14T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Adjusting his body behind the Tokarev rifle, he waited for the Viets following the Montagnard scout to enter the clearing. Five, ten, eleven counting the Montagnard. Take it easy, give them time, he thought; as he sighted on the Montagnard. Soon now, just as he reaches the spot where I left the trail and squatted down to check it out.

The damp ground made the Montagnard's job of tracking easy. Even with the rags around his feet Langer 's weight made easy signs to follow for one raised in the jungle. He was near the spot. The sun was directly overhead, its rays beating down on the damp earth as heat waves rose over the field between him and the trail. To check the wind, he traversed the scope until the heat waves moved straight up with no lateral motion. That meant there wasn't enough wind for him to worry about making any compensation for his shot. It was straight on. He brought the scope over until the body of the Montagnard filled the sight picture. Gently, steadily, he began to take up the slack on the trigger.

Raising his hand with the crossbow in it, the Montagnard signaled for the men behind him to halt. The trail had stopped. That meant his quarry had jumped off the trail, either to the left or right. Taking his time, he looked both ways then moved to where the grass began. Squatting on his haunches on the right side of the trail, he looked at the grass. The path Langer had taken was invisible to the untrained eyes of the Viets, but to those of the savage the way was clear. The manner in which small patches of damp grass bent in a different direction than the rest told the story. His eyes followed the trail across the field to the trees. A brief flicker of light from the shadows at the tree line brought a grunt of satisfaction. At the same moment his heart was exploded inside of him by a 7.63 mm bullet, knocking him flat on his back across the trail.

Langer held his sight for just long enough to make certain of his strike, then moved down the line. The Viets had hit the deck on both sides of the trail. A hand rose above the ground and began to point across the field in his direction. Someone was giving orders. That would be his next hit. Shifting his body for the new target, he focused on the place where the arm had risen up. Following the sight down, he brought into the picture the shape of a homemade Viet pith helmet. The face was hidden by grass. Calculating the distance, he aimed where he thought the chin should be. Even if he was off a bit he would be close enough to make the man get up; when he did he'd have him. Taking a breath, he took up the slack in the trigger once more then let loose his breath to its normal point of exhalation and squeezed off his shot.

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