Fields of Fire (7 page)

4

Ogre was bleeding right outside the hole. Lying there, inching through the dust, grinning for a fat man's ass.

Not supposed to be grinning.

I'll bet that mother's stoned again, fretted Snake. Then he doubted himself. Been out on the listening post for five hours, now. Wouldn't smoke on no LP. Not out here. Not even Ogre. Then he double-doubted himself. Maybe Ogre would. Crazy fucker. He peered across an eternity of dust that began abruptly at the edge of his fighting hole. Ogre was fifteen feet away. Ogre peered back, the ugly square face grinning, yes grinning, behind the droopy moustache.

“Hey-y-y-y, Snake. You seen Baby Cakes?”

Came from the bomb crater. That's close, mused Snake. But they won't get any closer. Too late for them. We got 'em stopped.

An illumination flare popped in front of him and floated down on its parachute, brightening the distant treeline. It swung lazily, a phosphorescent pendulum. Snake peeped the crater in the flare's dim light. Fifty feet away, maybe. The flare flickered once, twice, and was out. Another grenade exploded in front of the hole. Ogre screamed again. He was maybe two feet closer.

“Snake. Heyyyy, man. Where's Baby Cakes?”

Machine gun from the treeline again. The rounds ripped through the perimeter like a daisy chain of cherry bombs. Got to find Phony. Snake bolted to the next hole, a quick crabwalk.

“Phony!”

Phony grinned earnestly, chewing C-rat gum, as if he were expecting some insane or at least irresponsible request from Snake, and grooving on it. “What's Ogre doing, man?”

Snake shrugged impatiently, his eyes on the crater. “Looking for Baby Cakes. Listen. See that crater?” Phony nodded. “There's four, maybe five gooks in it. We been keeping 'em down but we can't put any rounds out now. Might hit the LP Christ knows where they are, with Ogre back here. Chuck a couple in the crater. OK?” Phony nodded again, still grinning, but concentratedly now. “And don't throw too hard. LP's somewhere on the other side. Hear?” Phony nodded yet again, apparently unconcerned. He was the only member of the squad with the accuracy to pull it off.

Another illumination round popped behind the tree-line and Phony raised his head six inches out of his hole and peeped the crater. He gestured to Snake, popping his gum crazily. No sweat. He prepared two grenades. Snake crawled quickly back to his own hole. AK-47 bullets followed him. They raised dust near Ogre, too. But they were fired from the treeline, two hundred yards away, and most of them went high, into the center of the perimeter. Ogre screamed again. He was another foot closer.

“Where's Baby Cakes?”

Phony arched a grenade expertly, like a free throw. Boom. It was harvest time, the ground was brick hard, and shrapnel saturated the crater. There was a frantic, sibilant chattering inside it. Boom. The second grenade impacted, and the crater was suddenly silent. Snake smiled grimly. What the hell did they expect, snooping up so close? They're in the hurt locker now.

“Hey-y-y-y, Snake!”

Ogre. The flare went out and it was dark again, not even a moon. That's why we're in trouble, Snake remembered. Beware the no-moon night. He paused for a moment and then jumped out of his hole and stood nakedly in the black, pulling Ogre by the arms. Ogre screamed. It hurt.

“Shut up.”

Another group of enemy opened up from just across a narrow, scraggly field, behind a paddy dike. The sound of bullets was terrifying but the rounds went high again. Snake pulled hard. In the next hole Cannonball fired his grenade launcher steadily, a smooth rhythm of blooper balls exploding near the dike. On the other side, Cat Man's team laid down a steady base of small arms fire. No sweat. Snake jumped back into his fighting hole and rolled Ogre over the top of him.

“Where you hit?”

Ogre grinned confidingly. “I'm O.K., man. Yeah.” He looked around, the ugly face relaxed. “Now. Where's Baby Cakes?”

Ogre's trouser legs were soaked. Snake ripped one of them apart. Long gashes, deep, pulsing holes covered Ogre's thighs. Snake screamed up the hill, toward the command post. “Corpsman up!”

Doc Rabbit was already in Cat Man's hole. He crawled heavily to Snake. Pop. Another illum flare burst. Doc climbed into the hole with Snake and started to dress Ogre's legs. Ogre continued the amused, chiding grin. “Hey-y-y-y, Doc. I'm O.K. Go take care of Vitelli, man. He is all fucked up.”

Baby Cakes sprinted the fifteen meters from Cat Man's hole, holding his helmet on his head with one hand, staying very low. He was a thick-necked, powerful shadow that belly-slid up to Ogre when more rounds went off. He drawled out abruptly: “What you want, Ogre?”

Ogre warmed to Baby Cakes. He seemed to be enjoying the mystery he had provoked. “Baby Cakes. There you are, man! Vitelli wants you, man. He just keeps saying, ‘Go get Baby Cakes,’ you know every five seconds. ‘Go get Baby Cakes, go get Baby Cakes.’ So finally I said, ‘All right, motherfucker, I'll go get Baby Cakes.’ Hey. Vitelli is all fucked up, man. So is Homicide. Hey, Doc. I'm O.K. You go help Vitelli and Homicide, man. They are all fucked up.”

Artillery on the treeline. Crrrunch. Crrrunch. Round after round. A battery, six cannons, unloading on the tree-line, from distant places like An Hoa and the Bridge and Hill 65. They all crouched, watching tautly, silently. Get some, artillery.

The low drone of a propeller-driven airplane emanated from the direction of Da Nang, so far west and north that it was from another world. Snake listened carefully. Will it be Spooky or Basketball? He hoped it would be Spooky. We need the gatling guns, he decided again. Don't need no Basketball flares.

Baby Cakes stared out into the dark at where the LP was. Snake scrutinized him. Don't do nothing stupid, Baby Cakes. Friends are friends, but… Baby Cakes took off at a dead run, out into the black. The near paddy dike erupted with AK-47s again. Baby Cakes hit the dirt. One hole down, Cat Man's team poured a steady stream of red into the dike. Further away, second platoon's lines were firing, too.

Ogre put his head up lazily when he heard the rounds go off. He had a shot of morphine in him now. “Where's Baby Cakes?”

Snake pushed his head back to the dirt and held it. “Shut up.”

In the treeline there was a steady thunk of mortars igniting inside their tubes. Snake got tight inside his hole. Where's Baby Cakes? Near paddy dike opened up again. Must be ten gooks firing now, he decided. Cannonball retaliated with the grenade launcher. ThunkBoom. ThunkBoom. The blooper balls exploded flatly and the firing grew less intense.

The mortars that began in the treeline landed, walking their way quickly through the middle of the perimeter. Someone at the command post just up the hill from Snake screamed. Two people. Maybe more. When the mortars stopped Cat Man's people put more rounds on the paddy dike.

The plane arrived. It was a Basketball. Figures, thought Snake ironically. Just what we need with Baby Cakes out there. The droning monster dropped out huge flares that lit the perimeter like a stadium. Then Basketball shifted its orbit and a flight of Phantom jets streaked into the far treeline, dropping bombs and napalm.

The big machine gun in the treeline turned onto the Phantom. Huge balls of tracers reached toward the jets as they approached the treeline. Snake laughed to himself, almost enjoying the thought of a “wing-wipe” being shot at. Shoot at them awhile, you gook bastards. And I hope you run outa ammo.

More screams from the command post. Maybe three. Snake saw him move then, a hesitation in a fighting hole who thought once, twice, about it, then bolted across the scarred hill in a half-lope toward the command post. A torrent of tracers flew from the dike and they nailed him in the middle of a stride. He fell forward, landing on the back of his head and one shoulder, crumpling like a dropped deer. Snake shook his head knowledgeably. Who'd you think you were, Superman?

It's Marston, Snake noted. Only a new dude would do that. Not even here long enough to be named yet. Marston rolled once in the deadly bright of Basketball and looked bleakly to Snake, imploring him. Finally he grunted painfully.

“Snake. Snake.”

Snake peered at Marston, sizing up his wound. Marston was just up the hill from him, twenty feet away. “Where you hit, Marston?”

Marston held the middle of his flak jacket. “In here. Ohhh shit it hurts.”

Snake looked for Doc. Doc was gone, over with Pierson's squad. He crawled out of his hole then, and scooted up to Marston. Powder of the hill poured through his fingers as he pushed it. More rounds now, all around them: they were lighted targets. B-40 rocket boomed. Another.

“Marston, you're an ass.”

“CP's all fucked up, man. Can't you hear 'em?”

“Fat lot of help you are. Now you're gonna get my ass blown away.”

Marston was hit in the lung. He gurgled. “I'm sorry, Snake.”

Snake was still five feet away. He stopped crawling and listened expertly to Marston's gurgles. “Roll onto the side that hurts.”

Marston tried, and screamed. “Ohhhh! Jesus ChristMy God!”

Snake crawled back toward his hole. In the far tree-line a new series of artillery rounds succeeded the departed Phantom jets. Marston called to him as he moved down the hill. “Don't leave me up here, Snake!” Marston tried to crawl and screamed again. Snake reached his fighting hole, grabbed a poncho, and crawled back to Marston. Marston was whimpering.

“Marston, you're a goddamned girl. Shut up. You did this to yourself.” Snake laid the poncho out beside Marston, then grabbed his legs and flipped him lifeguard-style onto the poncho. Marston screamed. More AK bullets sprayed the hill.

“Shut up or I'll leave you here.”

“It hurts.”

“It's s'posed to hurt.”

Snake dragged Marston down the hill. Marston screamed each time Snake jerked the poncho. Snake reached his hole again and called for Doc. No Doc. He screamed again. Still no Doc. He despaired of Doc and pulled the lone battle dressing off his own helmet, hating Marston for leaving his up the hill. He reached in and felt the hole. Marston screamed as if in torture when Snake's fingers slid along the slick wet inside of it.

The hole gurgled like a stopped-up drain. Snake put the inside of the plastic battle-dressing cover over the hole, and pulled the dressing supertight over that. Marston had given over to weak groans, too exhausted to scream any longer.

“Now. Lay on it till Doc gets here.”

“Ohhh. It hurts too much.”

“Don't give me any of your shit, Marston. You wanna die? Lay on it.” He looked spitefully at Marston, then grinned encouragingly. “You tough, Marston? Hold on to it, then. You gonna be O.K.”

The Basketball flares twinkled and died, one by one, like huge candles spending their wicks. It became quiet but for sniper rounds. In the far distance, maybe a mile away, a speaker droned. Some gook promising Australia vacations to anyone who surrendered. Something like that. No one listened. The company's 60-millimeter mortar section fired a perfunctory mission in the speaker's direction, nine or ten casually aimed rounds, as if to acknowledge its absurdity. No effect. Speaker continued. Sounds funny, thought Snake. Stupid gooks.

Baby Cakes. He was a shadow to the front of them, silhouetted by a low illumination flare from another part of the perimeter. He carried Vitelli over his shoulder, butt up in the air. The near paddy dike opened up again, quite suddenly, and Baby Cakes fell hard to the ground.

Snake's whole squad returned fire anxiously. Baby Cakes struggled up, still carrying Vitelli, and pointed his M-16 absently at the near dike, shooting a few rounds with one arm. He called to the lines.

“Marine coming in!”

Snake stared admiringly at the muscled figure that labored into the lines. You crazy bastard, Baby Cakes. With balls like that, how can you walk?

Baby Cakes dumped Vitelli next to Cat Man's hole. “Doc! Doc!” He turned to Snake, shouting frantically. “Goddamn it, where's Doc?”

Doc Rabbit trundled over, done with Pierson's squad for the moment. Rabbit was having a busy night. He was almost out of battle dressings.

He squatted over Vitelli. Vitelli was unconscious. He had a shrapnel hole clear through his chest, up high where the arteries were, and about five pieces in his face and head. Doc wiped his forehead and spoke somberly. “Nothing I can do, except call him an Emergency. Can't shoot him up with morphine, not when he's already out. Might kill him.”

Baby Cakes was on his knees, looking pleadingly at Rabbit. “Doc. Doc. Do something, man!”

Snake noticed the blood welling up around Baby Cakes’ neck. “You hit, Baby Cakes?”

“Got me just a minute ago.”

Rabbit stripped off the flak jacket. There was a gouge out of Baby Cakes’ upper back, a deep trough where the bullet dug. Priority medevac, mused Snake, categorizing. Rabbit laid Baby Cakes down on his stomach and shot him up. Baby Cakes continued to resist.

“Don't worry 'bout me, Doc. Help Vitelli, man.”

Snake crawled over to Baby Cakes when Rabbit was finished. “Where's Homicide and Bagger? They O.K.?”

Baby Cakes grinned as if he were remembering a joke. The morphine was hitting him good. “Ah, they're O.K. Homicide has a ding up the side of his head. They caught about five grenades out there before Phony cooled that crater. But Bagger's O.K. Don't let him bullshit you.”

“Where are they?”

Baby Cakes smiled again. Feeling no pain, Snake noted. “Oh. Yeah. They're in an old fighting hole somebody dug out there by the near dike. Radio's torn to shit. That's how Bagger came out O.K. He was wearing the radio.”

“But they're O.K.?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. They said tell you they'll be in at first light.” Baby Cakes drifted smilingly into the land of Nod. “Yeah. They're laying chilly out there. Wouldn't come back with me. Skating mothers …”

QUIET again. In the distance the loudspeaker droned occasionally. No one listened. Spooky had at last arrived and he circled, pouring down a steady stream of tracers at anything that dared to shoot or move, like a distant fire hose spraying narrow wavy streams of iridescent red water. Spooky's angry gatling guns had a way of calming things. Snake sat down at the edge of his fighting hole, his feet inside it, and took a long swig from his canteen. He scratched a new mosquito bite, then another. He swore and took the squeezebottle of insect repellent from the band around his helmet and spread new bugjuice over his arms and face. It tingled as it ate its way into his pores.