Pilate's 7 by J Alexander Greenwood

Author:J Alexander Greenwood [Greenwood, J Alexander]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780988320185
Publisher: Caroline Street Press
Published: 2015-07-31T22:00:00+00:00

Keep An Eye Out

His body was exhausted from the trembling. Just lying there, trembling.

He lay there for an eternity of three days, if he had not lost count. His head was positioned where he fell at the bottom of the shell crater. The back of his head was submerged in a pool of muddy, bloody water that threatened to drown him as blood from the dead NVA soldier lying across him trickled into the filthy muck beneath them both.

His legs were tucked under the NVA soldier's body, out of sight. He had barely moved them since his M-16 blew up in his face during the firefight. His weapon, his friend--his offense and defense--had turned on him, shattering his eye socket and knocking him unconscious.

The next thing he remembered was hearing the muffled calls of "Di di! di di mao!" from the Charlies. His face throbbed, and he couldn't see out of his right eye. Through the left, he saw blurry shapes of Charlies on the edge of the field, picking through the smoldering chaos, bayoneting wounded G.I.s and stripping grenades and ammunition from the bodies.

His body trembled so much he thought he would freeze to death in the tropical heat.

Shock and fear.

His legs were numb, his body weak and his options deathly limited. His rifle was a ruined wreck; the only thing within reach was the body of the dead North Vietnamese solder.

The NVA soldier's throat was half gone, his eyes wide and staring lifelessly, impassively at Private First Class Peter Trevathan.

PFC Trevathan, who only had one good eye to look back with now and perhaps had a few minutes before one of his crater-mate's buddies would amble over and gut him with a bayonet, had one last idea. A last ditch idea in a ditch.

Trevathan inhaled deeply, gagging on the smell of rot, gasoline and gun smoke. He tested his arms for strength. His right shoulder had some shrapnel in it, from the hot, dirty M16 exploding in his face.

Thanks a lot, Colt, and fuck you Bob McNamara for not issuing a goddamned cleaning kit for the fucking worthless cocksucking useless thing.

He could move both arms, though, however painfully, and he took one more look towards the soldiers heading his way.

Now or never.

Trevathan reached over, his shoulder crying out in agony as he grabbed the Vietnamese soldier by his bloody shirtsleeve and pulled him over as if he were a reluctant date in the backseat at the drive-in.

Ever so slowly, he moved the dead body over on top of him. Trevathan stopped as he heard the soldiers approaching closer, talking amongst themselves. He heard the groan of a fellow G.I. getting stabbed a few yards away.

Trevathan lay still, willing his ruse to either succeed or be found out; either way was fine, just let it happen quickly. He was racked with pain, dying for water and angry. Angry at the Vietnamese who slaughtered his buddies, angry at the Army and their shitty low-bid weapons, angry at that son of a bitch LBJ and epically pissed that he was now blind in one eye.

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