Bullets screamed past his ear and splintered the bamboo beside him. Sergeant Wolf Foster dove to the jungle floor and tried to determine the direction it came from. It was the first indication his platoon had crossed into hostile territory.
"Not today, you bastards -- you won't be bagging 'The Wolf' today," Sergeant Foster snarled, and suppressed the maniacal urge to stand and howl, as he swiftly lay down an answering barrage of gunfire.
He wasn't fast enough. Torres took two in the chest.
Sgt. Foster heard the wet, sucking noises of Torres drowning in his blood, and cursed the good ole U.S. of A's fruitless war against communism. The brass would give Torres a shiny posthumous medal for his heroism, ship him home in a body bag, and forget Torres ever existed.
Foster wouldn't forget; he mourned all his pack. His body spent every night in sweat drenched remembrance, no matter how much he polluted it. Nothing took away the guilt over a lost man -- or an innocent killed. He no longer prayed for respite from this land of death; God never answered anyway.
Foster's fingers subconsciously touched the shirt pocket holding the photo of his son. The one thing left in his world, clean and unsullied. He needed the reminder of why he wouldn't give the Viet Cong the satisfaction of dying.
The platoon scrambled to cover their asses and hurried to join him in strafing the undergrowth. Flashes from the enemy's muzzles gave the Viet Cong's position away. Guided by the microbursts, the men tossed grenades, and the ground roared and erupted.
Foster pulled the pin on his grenade with his teeth, counted to three, and lobbed the explosive in the first sniper's general direction. "For Torres." Foster thought, as moments later hell opened up, and dragged the rat bastard into its depths.
He hand-signaled the ceasefire to his corporal, and gave orders to regroup. The platoon held their gunfire and immediately changed formation. They spread into an inverted V, with Sergeant Foster at point, and waited for his signal to advance up the hill.
At the first volley of gunfire Turner, the platoon radioman, had called base to relay coordinates for air support. Their timing was perfect. The men moved forward while the jets swooped in from above.
Together, they rained hellfire and lead on the hill.
Bombs and mortar churned the earth; napalm burned whatever it touched. Bullets picked off any 'rats' who popped up from the tunnel system that Foster knew, sure as
shit, existed under this hill.
At the halfway point, the sergeant called for another halt. He held up his utility tool, and tapped his eye. A signal for the pack to be on the alert for booby traps. Everyone scanned the area in front them for trip wires and nooses hung from the vines. Again at the sergeant's signal, they continued to sweep the area..
Determined not to lose another of his men, Foster set a careful pace. They located some tunnels, dropped grenades first and tear gas second, and picked off the 'rats' who tried to escape.
Adrenaline fueled the platoon as they relentlessly pushed on. Anything on two legs didn't get past them. Snipers took some shots. One creased Johnson's neck, and Dearborn took one in the arm, but the only other fatalities the 'Cong vermin caused was their own.
Dinged and dented, Sergeant Foster's 'Wolf Pack' eventually arrived at high ground, and surveyed the area. A miasma of smoke and cordite, combined with the stink of blood and sweat, surrounded the exhausted men. The damn hill had finally fallen -- score one for Uncle Sam.
Mission accomplished. Hooah.
*All concrit and discussion welcome.
**Written in memory of my Pop.
