Trickles of sweat rolled down my face. It was humid, even at night. I told myself sweating meant I was alive, was proof I hadn’t died and slipped into the great dark abyss. I assumed I wouldn’t have been sweating after I died; would I? I didn’t think so. I didn’t know.
I heard a noise, a scratching sound, and I grabbed the handle of my Ka-Bar. I thought maybe it was one of Kenny’s rats, big as a cat. Even with my eyes now adjusted, I couldn’t see past the rim of the sandbags surrounding our foxhole. I heard the scratching again. Then a click. Leaves rustled but there was no wind. A pop, a bright white light flashed, and the night came alive in a brilliant burst. Another pop. Another flash. More light. Claymores were being detonated.
Charlie.
I heard the rattle of machine gun fire and heard and felt the explosions.
Kenny struggled to free himself from his poncho. He’d become entangled in the plastic and started to scream in frustration. I reached down and helped pull the poncho off him as additional bursts of M-16 gunfire rattled overhead and red tracers flew in every direction. Red is friendly fire. Green is Charlie.
I was uncertain what to do. The sound was deafening and disorienting.
Kenny wasn’t uncertain. Freed from his poncho, he grabbed his M-16, and despite Cruz’s warning, he crawled atop the sandbags and started shooting, at what, I had no idea. I stuck my head up. Red trails crisscrossed the firebase. Illumination flares continued to light up the ground.
I aimed at the razor wire and fired a burst with my M-16 on semiautomatic. A mortar detonated. The ground shook, dirt clods rained down on my foxhole.
I was certain we were about to be overrun by NVA. I was going to look up and see Charlie dropping down on top of me, sticking me with a bayonet. That was my perception of war. Those were the movies I watched as a kid.
I heard Kenny firing on fully automatic. He slapped in a new magazine. I still had no idea what he was shooting at. Now he was snapping off bursts. He didn’t spray. He was deliberate. Hunting. I imagined just like he hunted in the hills of Kentucky.
My ass quivered. My butt cheeks shook. I couldn’t control them. I couldn’t keep them from shaking.
The fighting ended as suddenly as it began. Five minutes, just like Cruz had said, but it felt like five hours.
I heard shouting. “Cease fire. Cease fire, you assholes.” Cruz. The corporal came down the line yelling obscenities. I stayed in our foxhole, listening. Waiting. Cruz came up behind us, like a ghost in the glare from the illumination. He nearly gave me a heart attack.
“Penny,” he said.
“What?”
“Penny, Shutter. Penny.”
I didn’t know what he was talking about. Then I remembered. “Lane,” I said. “Lane.”
“You good?” he asked.
“I’m good,” I said, but he didn’t wait before he turned to Kenny. “Haybale, you good?”
Kenny didn’t answer.
“Haybale?”
Cruz went to Haybale, shook him, then swore. “Shit.” He yelled, “Corpsman!” in a loud voice. “Corpsman!”
A navy corpsman is attached to our platoon. The company actually has four because we are light artillery. It is not something I like to think about.
I checked my clothing. I didn’t feel blood. Did I get hit? Was I dying?
Guys rushed forward, boots pounding the ground. The corpsman, a pudgy twenty-year-old named Hayes, dropped beside Kenny. He’s not a doctor. He received eight weeks of training in battlefield injuries. I thought, Just like you’re not a photographer.
I watched, paralyzed, unable to look away. Cruz spoke to me, but I couldn’t hear him. His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear his voice. My ass continued to shake. I tried to stop it, to not look so scared. But I was scared. I was having these weird thoughts, flashbacks of my life, thinking I got hit, that I was dead, and I just didn’t know it yet. They say that happens. They say when you die, you don’t know you’re dead, not right away. You walk the earth wondering why nobody pays any attention to you.
I think again of The Wizard of Oz, of Dorothy talking to Toto, the little black dog that started all her damn problems.
Like Dorothy, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.
Nor Kentucky, Haybale.
I’m thinking Dorothy should have shot Toto.
She should have just shot the damn dog.
Maybe then she could have just stayed home.
Chapter 6
October 23, 2015
Football season Beau’s senior year meant Friday nights playing under the lights. We had sent Beau to Serra after much debate. From my own experience, there were things about the school I had not liked, but Serra had changed in the intervening years. It had improved its academics, worked hard to change the culture from a “jock” school, and collaborated with the all-girls schools to have classes and other nondating events together. Unlike me, Beau would meet girls in normal high school settings and, hopefully, make friends. Beau’s best friend, Chris Carpenter, also chose to attend Serra, which more or less sealed the deal.