THERE BE DRAGONS (8 page)

The look of embarrassment on Jacobs’s face was plain to see.

“Don’t worry about it. You have me here, just follow my suggestions if you get stuck,” added Stephens.

“What you put forth was not beyond my knowledge or skill. I’ve got to get myself in the game. I’ve got to think with speed but with clarity,” said Jacobs.

“You’ve gotta access all possibilities but within an instant. Analyze, consider all variables, and then formulate the best plan, the safest course of action. It takes practice. Who knows, maybe you’ll get to be as good as me one day.” Stephens sneered.

They followed the sergeant’s suggestion.

Maxwell took pictures of the pit before, during, and after the Willie Pete was thrown in.

• • • • •

The platoon pushed on, Diaz back at point, Stephens behind him, then the rest in line formation.

Maxwell walked to Jacobs’s side again. “So what did you talk about with Stephens?” he whispered.

“Just how stupid the order I’d given was,” said Jacobs.

“Oh.”

“I don’t like Stephens, even if he knows his stuff. Which is without a doubt useful. But I don’t like his cocky attitude and his views and opinions of what it’s really like in Nam. I can sense he could create trouble down the line. Maybe challenge my authority. What are my orders to a man who thinks himself a god?”

“I see your reason for concern. It does appear to be justified,” said Maxwell.

“I’m not even certain if Stephens would be a good man to have on my side in a firefight,” said Jacobs. “Sure he would relish shooting the enemy into little bitty pieces, but he seems like the type to stomp his annoyances into a pulp, no matter whose side they’re on. Like he’d take any opportunity to do it too.

“The confusion of a battle would be an opportunity, the perfect opportunity. I’m worried Stephens wouldn’t think twice about taking out one of his own platoon, if they had caused him enough grief. He could pass it off as the enemy’s handiwork, just another dead body to ship home.

“Maybe that’s what happened to the last LT?” Jacobs shook his head. “I’m considering too many maybes. The possible outcomes, of all the possible scenarios, are giving me a headache. I can feel the pain behind my eyes. I’ve got to stop casting suspicions on Stephens. The man has done nothing wrong, yet.”

“Yet?” asked Maxwell.

“You’re right, I’m presuming he will do something wrong.”

“You know what they say about presumption?” said Maxwell.

“No,” answered Jacobs.

“It’s the mother of all …”

“The mother of all what?” asked Jacobs.

“It’s a curse word followed by the word, ups.”

“Oh.” Jacobs walked in silence for a second before he continued. “I’ve got to accept that people have different worldviews than my own. Just because they don’t fall in line with my views doesn’t make them guilty of a future atrocity. I’ve got to stop judging Stephens on his words. I’ve got to judge him on his actions, on his ability to function as a soldier, on his value as a member of this platoon.” Jacobs looked down to his feet and concentrated on his steps for a moment. “My grandfather told me a poem once. I can still remember one of the lines; you’re not what you did or should have done. You are what you are doing, son. You see what I’m getting at?” he asked Maxwell.

“I do. I still say be cautious of him, though,” replied the reporter.

They pushed on.

• • • • •

They crossed a stream, waist deep, with their weapons held above their heads.

Jacobs pulled a leech from his chest.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” asked Maxwell.

“Yeah. They don’t seem to be bothering the other men though,” said Jacobs. He winced.

“They’ve grown accustomed to the pain. It’s a trivial matter now.”

“You think I should hide the fact the bloodsuckers are hurting me?” asked Jacobs.

“I think you’re thinking too much,” said Maxwell through a proud smile.

“You remind me of a friend.”

“He must be a smart guy.”

“That’s debatable.” Jacobs smiled.

• • • • •

Once across the stream, they climbed a small rocky hillside, and entered more of the thick jungle.

“Maxwell, I’ll be honest, if I didn’t have my map, I’d be lost. No way to get back to the LZ. Every section of the landscape looks the same. The stream has so far been the only distinguishable landmark cutting up the blanket of trees.”

“We’d all be lost if you didn’t have your map. No pressure.”

“I know you’re joking … but don’t,” Jacobs said.

“Sorry, Ethan.”

Diaz signaled them all to stop again.

The platoon hunkered down and Jacobs and Stephens moved to the point, keeping low.

Once there, they both took a knee and Diaz pointed forward with his chin to a formation of growth. “That’s outta place just ever so slightly with its surroundings,” said Diaz. “Those palm logs are formed in an irregular shape.”

“A bunker,” whispered Jacobs.

Jacobs looked to Stephens, who took that as an order to move forward.

Stephens tapped Diaz on the shoulder, pointed him to a position of cover on the left flank, a rocky section of land that would give him a clear line of fire through the window slit. Stephens then started to duck-walk towards the rear of the bunker, towards its entrance and exit.

Jacobs motioned for Buttons to join him. “We’ll have to call this discovery in,” he said, his voice a whisper. “Not yet though. Silence is needed now.”

Buttons nodded.

Jacobs saw Stephens check the bunker’s entrance for tripwires then enter, Stephens’s eyes never leaving the sight of his rifle.

Stephens exited. He still kept low as he looked to Diaz and signaled that the bunker was empty.

Diaz gestured to Stephens’s right; his rifle was also tucked to his shoulder, ready to fire.

Stephens saw the cause of Diaz’s concern. He turned back to Jacobs and pointed at a row of four more bunkers dotted along a clearing. A trench ran through that clearing joining the bunkers together.

Stephens and Diaz waved the rest of the platoon forward and Jacobs led them into the ghost town.

• • • • •

NVA uniforms swayed on a jungle-clothesline. A picture of Ho Chi Minh was pinned to a tree. Maxwell’s camera clicked away.

“You two,” said Jacobs. “I want Teacher on the left flank, Smith on the right. Keep your eyes open for Charlie.”

The two soldiers did as ordered.

“Everyone, be careful, don’t touch anything. There might be booby traps. Buttons, over here,” ordered Jacobs.

Buttons joined him and Jacobs radioed command.

Jackson peered into one of the bunkers, “We got stacks of AK-47 ammo here, LT,” he shouted.

“Plus RPD machine guns, ChiCom grenades, claymores, even an RPG launcher.”

Jacobs informed command of Jackson’s find.

• • • • •

Stephens was standing with Cage and Teacher. The sergeant and Cage had rested the butts of their rifles on their hips. Teacher was smoking.

“I think the new LT is getting the hang of this stuff,” said Cage.

“We’ll see how he copes once he comes under fire. You get the true measure of a man then,” Stephens said, as he looked up to the trees that surrounded them. He saw a bamboo platform. “Sniper’s nest.”

“Yeah, looks like it,” said Cage.

“Sergeant!” came the shout from Cook.

Stephens, Cage, and Teacher joined him.

“I got a hole here.” Cook had lifted up a thatched cover to a hole that led underground.

“I hope you checked that thatched door for tripwires before you opened it, Private?” asked Stephens.

“Of course,” said Cook.

“They’re like rats. Their tunnels might as well be sewers. Pure vermin, every damned last one of them,” said Stephens. “Cook, gimme your flashlight. Cage, tie the rope around me, you hold the rope, you feel me tug on it two times and you pull me up.”

“Same routine as ever, Sergeant,” said Cage.

“I’m just checking. I don’t want you getting sloppy on me, Corporal.”

“You want me to get the .45 from the LT?”

“No, the CAR-15 will do.” Stephens patted the weapon.

“That’s risky,” said Cage.

“Why?” asked Teacher.

“Explain, Cage.”

“Cuz holding the rifle and flash in the same hand will give the enemy a target. A target Stephens is behind.”

“If I used the .45 I could hold the flashlight to the left of my body so the first slant-eyed shot would miss,” added Stephens.

“But you ain’t a sissy, right?” Teacher said. “No zipper-head scares Stephens. You’re a badass mofo, ain’t you?”

“You and Cage know, more so than the other men, that I’ve grown somewhat numb to the war. I need new ways to get my heart beating faster. I need new ways to feel … alive.”

“Killing ain’t enough, Sarge?”

“Killing used to be enough to remind me I still walked on the same … mortal realm as other men,” he said. “It reminded me how easily my own life could be taken and that was enough, for a short time, enough to keep me on edge. But now the numbness has started to take over. It’s spread through my mind,” he pointed to his forehead, “and life like a cancer. Any resemblance of the man I was before the war, gone. That’s why I’m on my third tour. That’s why I’m about to duck-walk through an NVA tunnel, heading straight towards the depths of hell.”

Stephens took the cigarette from Teacher’s mouth. He had a drag then gave it back. “I wonder when Jacobs will go through the change, or if he will?” he said.

“The change?” asked Teacher.

“I liken the change into an evolved warrior god, to that of a caterpillar … fresh meat, entering a cocoon … Nam, and then being born a butterfly … a soldier. A butterfly with wings inked by blood. I remember when I saw the transformation in you, Teacher. I saw when you began to relish your kills. Like a hunter will hang the heads of his game above his fireplace. I also remember men who have been flown in and didn’t make the change. I remember zipping up their body bags.”

“So, I’m a butterfly? It sounds kinda homosexual,” said Teacher.

Stephens rolled his eyes. “Get Jacobs and Buttons to radio command. Let them know someone is going underground. You can have that job, Cook.”

Cook left and Cage tied the green rope around Stephens’s waist. “Okay, Sergeant, we’re good to go.”

“Let’s kill some gooky-rats.” Stephens winked.

• • • • •

Stephens duck-walked forward in the tunnel, holding the flashlight in his left hand. He used that same hand to hold the barrel of his rifle. His right hand’s finger was a hair from the trigger, but relaxed.

He could feel soft mud ground below his boots. Water too. He kept his steps as controlled as possible to make sure anyone who might be ahead wouldn’t be able hear the splash of water.

Ahead of him, lit by the flashlight, lay what seemed like a never ending tunnel.

He reached a turn with only one direction to travel. He took it, light and rifle still leading his way. Cobwebs hit his face. Rats scurried around his feet. “Damn vermin.”

He felt a gust of air on his weathered, leathered face and saw some light flicker into the tunnel ahead of him, the light coming from the ceiling of the tunnel.

He turned off the flash and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Then he slowly pushed his head, shoulders, and rifle through the hole.

• • • • •

The dirt of Nam gave birth to Stephens as his upper body exited the hole and entered the NVA room.

The first thing he saw was a Vietcong looking at documents on a bamboo table.

Stephens fired off three shots. All hit target.

Puffs of black material shot from the enemy’s pajama-like clothes, blood right behind them. The lifeless body bounced off the table with a creak and hit the muddy floor.

Stephens pushed with his legs and entered the room fully.

He was still on his knees as he let his rifle and eyes scan left to right, making sure no one else lurked. No one did.

He tugged on the rope once to let Cage know he was good.

The room was square and large. To the left of it, the opposite side to where the recently departed now lay, were rows of dark green NVA jungle hammocks. Some beds looked occupied and had trails of blood leading to them.

The wall next to the beds had shelves full of bottles of saline solution, glucose, plasma, and others Stephens didn’t recognize. Some had labels in Chinese, Russian, and German.

Stephens stood and approached the hammocks, his rifle at the ready.

He reached the first one to find a dead NVA soldier full of shrapnel, his body a mangled bloodied mess.