Prologue
Martin
Central Highlands, South of Da Nang, Vietnam
December 1969
By now, he should have been used to the smell and the heat and the endless green. Corporal Martin Carter shook his head, his mind wandering into the never-ending mystery of his surroundings. His eight-man reconnaissance patrol moved through the ferns and bamboo, breaking a path through the mist, watching intently for signs of the enemy and any deadly surprises they might have left. Only the whine of insects and the chittering of monkeys broke the silence. As exotic as the jungle looked, it was the smell that would still be there long after he returned home. A noxious soup of rotting plants, sulfurous mud, and dead and dying beasts rose from the swamp as they slogged their way foot after foot, mile after mile, back to home base outside of Chu La.
The line of soldiers moved slowly down the trail. Sweat dripped unabated out of Martin’s helmet, down his face, and under his collar. He didn’t bother to wipe it away since it was just followed by another rivulet. He’d ripped the sleeves off his jungle fatigues, but it barely helped in the humid sweatbox.
He’d been in-country sixteen months . . . longer than anyone in his unit. By now, Martin could stay on full alert while pondering weightier issues, like why the hell he was still in Vietnam and not home, as he should have been months ago. Goddamn Lieutenant Price. Haven’t got a fair shake from that guy since he showed up, Martin thought, slogging along the barely discernible trail. He can’t know I’ve been checking on him. Only Cowboy knows what I suspect.
Martin tried to focus on the mission. Left, right, left, right . . . the cadence hummed in his mind. It calmed him, but he shook his head to break out of the almost trance-like rhythm¾never good to lose awareness. He glared into the jungle, almost wishing to see a flash of black pajamas.
Shorty was up front. His helmet rose above the bamboo like a beacon for the troops. Word was that he was leading the march with an eight-foot python slung over his shoulders. Lieutenant Price would no doubt call him out for it. But Martin was in charge of this team, and he could ignore the boa addition to Shorty’s uniform to partake of the promised meat at dinner. The almost-six-foot-six soldier planned to open a BBQ pit back home in Tennessee after the war. They were just lucky he hadn’t stumbled on another cobra. That thing had been at least nine foot and damn poisonous. The python, though, that would be a great addition to tonight’s meal.
The chopper had dropped them upriver, close to the demilitarized zone (DMZ). They were to clear the way back to Chu La and their camp. They’d done this sweep two days ago. He hoped the VC didn’t figure out how often they were on this trail. It wasn’t safe to set a pattern. What the hell was HQ thinking? All was quiet for the moment. Martin shook his head as soon as he thought that. He’d think of his daughter instead. Adriana was now one. Suse says she has my green eyes and is already walking. Martin patted his breast pocket that held the small photo of Suse and a smiling infant. It was against regs to carry personal stuff on patrol, but he couldn’t leave the photo behind in his hooch.
They’d had a huge fight . . . he didn’t tell her until after he’d already enlisted. He justified his actions for the hundredth time. It was the timing of it, that’s all, what with her being pregnant. He still hadn’t seen her face to make sure she’d really forgiven him. Thinking of her and the young daughter he hadn’t met made him grin. He checked quickly to make sure no one saw him and then focused on the cami ruck in front of him. Left, right, left, right continued to beat in his head as the team moved closer to home base.
It was easy to drift to thoughts of his daughter. Haven’t met her, but I’ll bet she’ll know her old man, he thought. I’ve been over here almost as long as Suse and I’ve been married. Better finish that letter when I get back to camp. He shook his head again.
They’d been marching off and on for six hours. He was in the groove, his feet continued in the trained pattern . . . left, right . . . left, right . . . which let his mind wander to his recent promotion. The lieutenant must have had no choice. Price could continue to torment him as a corporal rather than send him home at the normal end of his tour.
Martin looked up just in time to avoid walking over the stiff soldier ahead of him. Bonzo Bennie was full stopped. He was the most uptight guy in camp. He’d transferred to Company A after his Huey crashed in a chemical drop just north of Chu La. He still had that death stare when spooked. His shoulders were hunched into his neck.
The entire line stopped . . . no one was breathing. The monkeys were no longer screaming in the canopy, and the birds and insects were mute. Shit, this couldn’t be good. Hopefully Trưởng and his family could get to the caves in time. Goddamn karma. He knew better than to take his eye off the jungle. Raising the M16 to his shoulder, Martin couldn’t tell where the enemy was, as the sweltering wilderness absorbed the sounds.
He heard the staccato punch of automatic fire, and the mist changed to smoke from grenades. The line of men broke, seeking cover. The sounds reverberated off the trees. His men cried out as high-velocity bullets punched through their protective gear. Running toward the heaviest noise, Martin saw Bennie folded up by the trail with his left leg twisted under and the right side of his face nothing but raw meat and bone. He yelled for Doc, the team’s medic, and kept pushing forward, trying to get to the front, trying to help his team.
Although he still hadn’t spotted the enemy, he fired toward what he believed was the primary source of the attack. He could see very little but the ever-changing green of the vegetation. The sulfur smell of gunpowder now clogged his nostrils, almost covering up the decay and rot of the swamp.
“Shit, shit, goddamn shit,” he swore as he glimpsed his team, fallen by the trail and into the slime. He pushed through a stand of bamboo, spraying forty-five rounds per minute from his M16, praying to catch at least a few of the enemy. He no longer was thinking¾only reacting, dropping the empty magazine and slapping in a full one.
Raising the rifle back to his shoulder, he felt a hard punch in his left side. He then heard the rifle shot, which sounded oddly like his M16. He didn’t see the soldier come in behind him, but he felt the bayonet slide between his ribs. He swung around, using his rifle as a club, but by that time, he was too slow. He thought one last time of Suse and Adriana as his knees collapsed, and he joined his teammates in the mud and slime.
