Ghost Soldiers: A Novel of the Vietnam War by Steven Hardesty

Author:Steven Hardesty
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Stevens & Marlin Publishing, LLC
Published: 2011-10-16T23:00:00+00:00

7.

At midmorning with the sun well up and their fatigues stained black with sweat, Fruitcake stopped just shy of a Chuck trail and signaled for Waldo and The Bee to squat in the brush. They went down smoothly to one knee, weapons ready, the brush around them not moving and their clothing not scraping it. They squatted alert and unmoving for many minutes, their eyes moving in slow sweeps through the jungle, cutting it into sections, peering through the gentle breeze-drawn tug of leaves and the skittering motion of lizards on tree trunks, looking for that larger irregular motion that marked the movement of men.

Fruitcake loped uptrail, measuring the width of the enemy trail, looking for cast-off bits of equipment, torn fragments of cloth, and finding, instead, the marks still wet where men had stepped out of the column to urinate against trees. This was Chuck’s valley and he moved boldly here, in big units carrying heavy packs and big weapons. He was not afraid here. Fruitcake squatted by the trail, listening into the south, and was satisfied that, despite the fresh urine marks, the column had moved quickly and was now far away. He slid back to the others. “How many you figure?” asked The Bee.

“Thirty-fifty movin’ fast,” said Fruitcake. “From some blazes on tree branches, I’d say they’ve got them some 82s with them.”

“Movin’ south,” said The Bee.

“Company must be down that way,” said Fruitcake. “They’re going after Bravo.”

“We’ll keep moving south ourselves,” Waldo said, “but we’ll cut trail from here at right angles to this one, swing out west and then drop down. Wherever Bravo may be, we know that the guy from the downed chopper is down there and we want to get to him before the Chucks do.” He tuned his radio to the Bravo freak and spoke softly into it, trying to raise the company. “No go,” he said at last. “Battery’s weak or the mountains here won’t let us commo.” He tuned to the grunt battalion headquarters frequency and reported the enemy trail and direction but there was no reply. “We’ll move out on skirmish line,” said Waldo. “No machete work. Backtrack if we must but we leave no trail.”

They moved out abreast, five meters between, each virtually lost to the others save for an alert hand signal, a cluck or the sight of a black plastic rifle in the jungle greenery. They went due west, stepping over the enemy trail without disturbing its marks, and leaving no boobytraps to raise questions in Chuck minds. They marched through the heat of the day when the birds, lizards, insects drowse in their treetops and the snakes crawl away into the mushy earth. They came to the edge of that piece of forest and drew back from the bright sunlight beyond. They chose a hard bit of ground with stones and fallen logs for a rest stop. Two drowsed against their packs while one watched. They ate what little they had that could be eaten without the noisy work of a P-36 can opener.

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