By Ken Smits
Sergeant Billings calls the team together. We were in a fix with no radio and eighty percent of our grenades gone. Eight hundred rounds of 5.56 mm and one thousand rounds of 7.62 mm have been fired up. Still, the team’s morale is excellent. We’re ready to continue with the mission.
We move out leaving the VC and NVA bodies next to the trail. The location of the dead is marked on our maps. Since we don’t want to carry the extra weight, Smitty uses a half-pound of plastic explosives to destroy the enemy weapons. Billings instructs us to leave nothing for the Dinks.
After twenty minutes we’re finally cleared of the ambush sight. The atmosphere was once again incredibly pure. The odor of fresh leaves, the acrid smell of humus, and the sweet aroma of wild, exotic flowers blend to create a refreshing jungle fragrance.
I force myself not to scratch the throbbing ant bites. Without thinking, I’ve ripped the tops off many of the festered welts.
Off in the distance, a woodpecker taps busily. Several small black monkeys with flesh-colored faces and white beards scurry from limb to limb. My pulse has returned to normal, relieved the jungle sounds have returned.
But … something’s wrong.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I stop, putting up my clenched fist. Everyone goes to their knees searching the jungle on both sides of the path.
“What’s wrong, Clint?” Billings asks in a soft whisper.
“I’m not sure, Sarge.” I glance at him for just a second before shifting my eyes back to the jungle. “Something doesn’t feel right. I don’t know, maybe it’s nothin’.”
Blackbirds with bright yellow stripes sit chirping in the brush. Enormous cypress trees with mottled gray trunks line both sides of the path. The area between them is packed with thorn-covered vines and stalks of tan, brown, and green bamboo. Four tiny blue and green birds fly by several times as if playing follow the leader. Nothing appears out of place.
“Maybe it’s the Big Bad Wolf,” I whisper.
“Well, let’s hope he’s not eating Little Red Riding Hood,” Billings smiles and slaps me on the helmet.
As we begin to move on, a single muffled gunshot rings out. Billings and I return to a one-knee position, our weapons pointing toward the sound.
Ka! Ka! Ka!
The monkeys screech and scurry away. We watch and listen for a minute or two.
“Take two guys and check it out,” Billings commands in a whisper. He grabs my arm. “And for God’s sake, be careful.”
“Roger that, Sarge.” I wave at Tex and Stoney, pointing towards the area the sound came from. Cautiously, we work our way through the thorn vines and bamboo.
My body tenses. For the first time, I notice the jungle has become distressingly quiet. The monkeys and birds seem to have moved to a safer place. The barbed vines slash at my ant bites and snag my fatigues and equipment. Blood trickles down my arm, dripping crimson dots that stain our way. Fifteen feet into the jungle, I observe a clearing with a huge gray rock formation sitting in the middle.
Stoney stops, raising a clenched fist. I push aside some four-foot ferns with the barrel of my rifle. Two VC guerrillas lie next to the gray, moss-covered rock. We suspiciously approach them, weapons at the ready. It’s clear they’re dead.
The stench practically chokes me.
I push his lifeless mass into a sitting position, pressing it against the rock. A pistol lies on the ground between his legs. Self-inflicted. I allow the body to fall back across his legs.
We grab up weapons and anything that could be used as intel. I remove the four second delay from one of my grenades. I place the grenade on the lap of the VC, slumped by the rock, covering the spoon with his hand. I carefully slide the pin out.
We move back to the trail leaving what’s left to the jungle creatures.