May 9th, 1968 - Vietnam

  Sergeant Henry Thompson blearily blinked his eyes against the scorching sun pounding down on him as he sat up. He slapped the back of his neck to kill the mosquito that had lodged itself there, already dreading the itch bound to set in where it had bitten him. He’d been dozing in the aft of the patrol boat taking his squad downriver, and his head was pounding from sheer exhaustion on top of everything going to hell around him.

  Shaking his head wearily, he struggled to come fully alert. The now-familiar smell of diesel fuel mixed with the musty dank of the river was a poor substitute for waking up to the smell of coffee and bacon back home on the farm. Now more than ever, that life seemed like a dream compared to the nightmare he was now living.

  It had been days since he and his men had a full night’s sleep, and they were already on their way to another shitshow by the looks of it. The splash of the green river water against the hull of the boat, combined with the steady chug of the engine, did nothing to help his sour mood. He scratched at the stubble of his beard, hating the feeling.

  Not even time to shave nowadays, he thought mirthlessly.

  At twenty-one, he was young for a sergeant, but necessity and a cool head in combat situations had jumped him ahead of regular rank advancement.

  Guess if you stay alive long enough, they figure you know something, he thought wryly.

  Surveying his men, he took in their ragged, disheveled state. Arguing with the orders to ship out after just a few hours rest from their last mission had fallen on deaf ears, and here they were speeding toward more danger. These men were spent, and Henry felt he was holding them together by force a will and military discipline — but only just.

  Henry took stock of his team, pushing down the worry threatening to well up and paralyze him.

  These boys need me, he thought. Can’t afford weakness.

  Simms and Hester, his M60 gunner and gunner’s assistant, respectively, were wedged against the bulkhead together, inseparable as always. They appeared to be in a deep sleep, but Henry knew from experience that they’d be up and shooting within seconds should the need arise.

  By chance, the two were both from the Bronx and childhood friends. They worked together with a synchrony that bordered on uncanny. Even the reliable duo seemed close to collapse after days of poor rations and even worse sleep.

  Williams, their grenadier, was writing in a notebook as he so often did. The small, unassuming man seemed to be the only one who never seemed to tire or lose focus. While he didn’t say much, Henry was grateful for the steadying effect the calm man had on the fire team. He hadn’t met many Mormons, but if the rest were like Williams, he figured they weren’t too bad.

  Hell, I may even take a look at the farmland his pa is sellin’ out in Utah when I shipout, he thought bemusedly.

  Turning to consider the final member of his fire team, his good humor evaporated. The young man before him lay twitching in a fitful sleep. Henry was used to being the biggest and strongest, but this man had at least two inches on him.

  The way his body contorted in an almost childlike way that reminded Henry of a wounded animal — an impression that matched the look in the young man’s eyes when he was awake. The stark difference was ill-suited to the man’s imposing size, but Henry himself had been on the other side of that consternation a time or two.

  Miller was a last-minute addition to their team, and Henry knew almost nothing about him, except for one thing — his entire squad had been caught in a VC ambush, and he was the only one to make it out alive.

  Henry had been in ‘Nam long enough to recognize the look in the boy’s eyes. He was broken. It happened sometimes, more and more often by Henry’s estimation. Miller was a broken man, and Henry desperately wanted to help him while somehow prioritizing the lives of the rest of his men.

  While Henry grappled with the broken man’s fate and the protection of his men, he recalled the look he’d seen in Miller’s eyes. Henry thought of Miller as a boy, but as he’d searched his eyes, there was nothing childlike there. “Yes, sir,” and “no, sir” were the only things he’d heard from his mouth since he’d joined the fire team, but the man’s haunted gaze told Henry all he needed to know.

  A hand fell on Henry’s shoulder, and he turned to see Sergeant Ruiz, the sergeant over the other fire team on this mission. “We’re ten out, sarge,” he said, his tanned face showing the same fatigue Henry was feeling. “Best get your boys up and ready.”

  Henry nodded and turned to give Simms a nudge with his foot. Simms was instantly awake and woke Hester with a soft punch. They both dropped into a familiar routine of checking their gear even as they were still waking up. Their motions were as practiced and fluid as any master working his craft.

  Williams locked eyes with Henry, and the two exchanged a nod of understanding, no words needed as the young man packed up his notebook and began checking his gear.

  Taking a knee next to Miller, Henry reached out a hand and placed it gently on the young man’s arm. Miller’s eyes snapped open, and he gasped in a ragged breath as his small, beady eyes locked on Henry, barely contained panic showing there.

  Jesus Christ, this kid should not be in the field, he thought.

  “Sarge… I-I-I,” Miller stuttered. His eyes were wide with fear. Tears began to well in the terrified boy’s eyes, and Henry could sense an impending meltdown if he did nothing.

  Henry tightened his grip on Miller’s arm. “Private!” he said sternly, giving him a slight shake. “You need to lock it in.”

  He glanced at the others, who seemed to be purposefully ignoring the exchange. “Private Miller,” he said more softly. “These boys are depending on you, son,” he said, gesturing to the rest of the fire team. “On this fire team, we all have each other’s backs.”

  He patted Miller’s arm reassuringly. “I promise, I’ll be doing my damndest to get us all through in one piece, ya hear?”

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  Miller’s wild eyes roved, not fixing on anything in particular, desperate for a way out. “Do you copy, Private?” Henry said, invoking the same stern tone he used on the cows on the farm back home when they got surly.

  Finally, Miller’s eyes locked on Henry’s. Something solidified in his countenance, and he nodded slowly. “I-I copy, Sarge.”

  “Good man,” Henry replied, patting Miller’s arm calmingly as if he were a skittish animal. “Check your gear, Private.” He stood, intending to go and ready his own gear, when he felt Miller’s massive hand close on his wrist. Henry looked down, ready to yank out of his vice-like grip, but the private’s eyes made him hesitate. Fear mixed with something primal shown there.

  This man is on the edge of sanity, he thought. Maybe already gone.

  “Sarge… I don’t know if-”

  “I’ma stop you right there, Private,” Henry said sternly, yanking his arm out of Miller’s grip. Miller’s mouth clamped shut at Henry’s tone, and he fell into the routine drilled into him by his time in the army as he came to attention.

  “You focus on doing the job that’s in front of ya,” Henry said. “You follow my order to the t and I’ll get you through in one piece, son.”

  Miller nodded slowly. “Sure thing, Sarge.”

  Henry returned the nod and turned to prep his gear. Just do the job in front of ya, he told himself, doing his best to hide his uncertainty from his men.

  “Sarge!” Miller called, forcing Henry to turn his attention back to him. “I won’t let them win. These damn VCs will all burn in hell before I let that happen.” A feverish light that Henry didn’t much care for entered Miller’s eyes. His every instinct was screaming at him that this man was a danger to himself and those around him.

  “I won’t be dead weight to the team, Sarge,” Miller said, seeming to try and convince himself.

  Henry could only nod in return, trying to plaster a reassuring face to mask his underlying feeling that this man was a ticking bomb.

  The small fishing village that was their destination came into view as they rounded a bend in the wide, slow-moving river. While unassuming, intel indicated this village was a nexus of Viet Cong activity and communications.

  Under normal circumstances, an entire platoon would have been sent on this mission. It was telling just how thinly spread they were that only a single squad was sent to investigate. Henry and Ruiz shared a look and a nod before Ruiz turned to address the squad.

  “Alright, listen up!” Ruiz barked, his gravelly voice cutting through the hum of the engine. “Fire team Alpha’s gonna hit the ridge northeast of the village. We take it, we hold it, we spot anything that moves with a rifle and a bad attitude.”

  He looked around at the tired but attentive faces. “You see a runner, you call it. You see a civvie, you don’t shoot unless they shoot first. You see a VC, you let ’em know the U.S. Army came to play.” He spat over the side of the boat to emphasize his point.

  “Once we’re set, fire team Bravo moves in. That’s your cue, Thompson. Eyes open, heads down, clear and sweep.”

  Ruiz’s eyes met Henry’s. “We’re light on numbers, heavy on grit. You all done this before. Stick to the plan, trust your team, and we all make it back for hot chow and warm beer. Or warm chow and cold beer. I’m not picky.”

  The faintest of smirks passed his lips. “Alpha, mount up. We move in five.”

  “Fuckin’ fish,” Hester griped, his nose wrinkling at the pungent odor that seemed to permeate the entire village. Simms spat in agreement as his eyes keenly roved the small village around them. They moved cautiously toward the scattered array of huts and hovels, all five members of fire team Bravo alert and on the lookout for any signs of danger.

  Fire team Alpha had secured the ridge and was providing overwatch on the ridge above to their left. Ruiz had reported no signs of VC activity, but Henry knew from experience that meant almost nothing until they were already on top of you.

  Hester and Simms bickered about something inane while they moved forward carefully. Out of the corner of his eye, Henry noticed Miller twitching and swinging his gun toward every movement and noise.

  How am I supposed to focus on keeping my boys alive when the danger is walking right next to me, he thought exasperatedly.

  “Alright, tighten up,” he barked, silencing Hester and Simms’ arguing as they reached the first hut. “Hester, Simms, y’all are on sweep duty. Williams, you got our six. Miller keep an eye on our twelve o’clock as we move forward, got it?” The four other men replied in the affirmative and took position as Hester and Simms readied to breach the first hut.

  “Remember, nice and slow,” Henry said. “We’re thorough and we keep our eyes peeled.” He looked at each man in turn, confirming they understood. “Alright, breach.”

  Hester kicked in the door, and Simms ducked in, sweeping his M16 around the interior. Henry kept his eyes sweeping the surroundings as the search was conducted. “Clear!” Simms called before emerging from the dilapidated hut.

  “Next hut,” Henry said calmly, gesturing to the next hut in line. He glanced at Miller. The young man’s eyes were darting around, and he was swinging to point his gun at every minute movement. Henry stepped close to him.

  “Miller, take a deep breath, son. We-”

  “I swear I saw something, sarge,” Miller interrupted, his wild eyes never ceasing the frantic darting between the silent huts. The large man was sweating profusely — large droplets cascading down his face.

  Henry placed a hand carefully on his arm, noting his finger was on the trigger and his safety was off.

  “Ya probably did, and more n’ likely it’s just a villager,” he said soothingly. “Just keep it tight and the boys’ll have your back.”

  Henry returned his focus to the breaching of the next hut, unable to spare extra attention to Miller. Simms darted into the hut, eliciting several squawks of protest from whoever was inside. Henry tensed, but a moment later, Simms emerged, shaking his head.

  “Just some civvies in… uh, a compromising situation,” he said bemusedly. “This one’s clear, Sarge.”

  “On to the next, then,” Henry said, shaking his head.

  “Sarge, what if they’re not civvies?” Miller blurted. “What if they’re just pretending and will try to get the drop on us from behind?” He was gesticulating wildly, his gun pointing in all directions, including at his men.

  “Fall in, Private!” Henry barked. “Simms cleared it. Williams has our six. What is your goddamn job this op?”

  “I got our twelve,” he replied. “But, Sarge, I think-”

  “You’re not here to think, Private! You’re here to do what I say,” Henry gruffly interrupted while stepping forward and giving Miller a shove in the direction of the next hut. “Now fall in, or you can go sit in the boat, and we’ll run the op down a man.”

  Miller’s mouth worked noiselessly for a moment before he clenched his jaw and turned to stomp toward the next hut. Henry exchanged a glance with Williams, who tilted his head questioningly and looked at Simms meaningfully. Henry could only shrug and wave his team forward to the next hut.

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