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Written by Ken Smits A slight breeze sweeps across the valley of swaying grass in a relaxing tempo. The rhythm broken only by the sounds of crickets chirping and the lizards that sound like they’re screaming, “Fuck you!” back and forth at each other. My foxhole companion is a quiet
Smitty and I move cautiously along the pipeline toward the laughing. The knee-deep water and muddy bottom make our movement laborious. We can see what appears to be two men not more than twenty-five feet ahead. One figure crawls over the large pipe delivering fuel to Phu Cat Air Base. The other is holding a rifle, an antiquated bolt action weapon that looks like a pre-World War II model.
I watch the lone shadowy figure clad in black garments cross the third fence. He’s less than thirtyfive feet from our position. He has now entered our kill zone according to the guidelines from Control. “Waste him,” Sergeant Adams whispers. “What?” I flinch, turning towards him. “Why me?” I freeze, my mind suddenly blank. Sergeant Adam’s sarcastic whisper rings in my ears, “Cause it’s your turn, Newbee.”
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