First Patrol by Jim Cooley "Our objective," the platoon sergeant said, "Is to deny the enemy—" I squatted with the rest and listened, knuckles white around the black stock of my M-16. I was the newbie, happy as hell I'd been assigned to headquarters squad. Isn't war like chess? Don't they always protect the king? I thought they did, felt more secure, second in file behind the RTO. I was under no illusions, though. I was just a PFC, a "pig-fucking chucklehead," this was a rough AO, no cover in the paddies, and we were going on a long, pool-table walk through Indian country. Nothing happened. We didn't see them, they didn't shoot at us. Just a three-day stroll in the park —provided you define stroll as 25 miles a day humping 70 pounds of ammo, explosives and camping gear in 105 degree heat and 100% humidity, ass deep in shit, leeches burrowing into your balls. All of which was fine by me, if I didn't get shot at, let alone shot. I'd take that stroll any day, plus 362 more to DEROS and a wake-up. We were almost home. The sergeant raised his arm, the column stopped. Far out across the paddies, a single Vietnamese walked behind a water buffalo, studiously ignoring us. I thought she was a woman. I don't know why. They all looked effeminate to me— short, slight, hairless. Their young soldiers even held hands on the streets of Saigon. The sergeant turned. "LT, ain't this a free fire zone?" LT turned to the RTO, and in his best game-show voice proclaimed, "The envelope, please." The radioman passed him the map. The lieutenant, rifle poised on one hip, shook the map open until it hung from his hand. Held it at arm's length, his wrist limp, looking for all the world like that bronze faggot in front of the Green Beret Museum at Ft. Bragg, minus the beret. The LT said, "Precisely, my dear Watson. You have apprised the sitrep perfectly." He couldn't read the map at that distance, but he was a good lieutenant, dying to please. They were fragging by then. He was short. All he wanted was to crap in peace—in ONE piece— until his own DEROS, only two weeks away. The sergeant smiled, gave a smart salute, flipped up his battle sights. "I'd say 800 meters," the LT said. "Yep," replied the sergeant, shouldering his weapon. He fired one shot. A second later the Vietnamese looked up, must have heard the crack as the bullet passed over, then turned suddenly toward us as the report reached her. A tiny splash appeared 200 meters beyond the target. "Hmm," the sergeant said. "Small dink." "Small buff," corrected the LT. Them art-school college boys get special training in the mysteries of perspective. The sergeant adjusted his sights. The small figure began to hurry the buffalo along. The sergeant fired a burst. The buffalo ran. Heavy weapons squad was right behind us. The first M-60 began to chug. Red 7.62x54 reached out in front of the fleeing animal. He turned, ran back the other way, knocked the Vietnamese down, just as the second M-60 and the rest of the platoon opened up. Why hump all that fucking ammo back to the firebase, anyway? There was plenty more where that came from. The buffalo went down. The Vietnamese disappeared as the paddy erupted into a thousand points of white. We didn't go over to check the kill. There wasn't any weapon to retrieve. The LT knew we'd already walked a long way. Why get fragged over a dead buff and a Swiss-cheese dink chick who may not be dead anyway? Who cares? We'd had our fun, and demonstrated, a platoon packing 35 automatic weapons, that we could shoot reasonably straight. When we got to the crest of the next paddy dike half a mile along, a funny look passed across the LT's face. Sergeant began to fidget, too. "Spread 'em out, keep your intervals," the NCO called. "Map, corporal," LT barked to the RTO. This time he didn't dangle it at arm's length. This time he studied it closely. "Compass!" he ordered, before realizing he had it in his pocket. All business now. From the top of that dike I could see the observation towers of our firebase to the north, a communications relay tower across the paddies to the east. The LT shot azimuths on both, penciled lines on the map. Did it again. Evidence unmistakable: The fucker was way off course. He paled a little, cleared his throat, said to the sergeant: "Uh ... looks like we're a little closer to home than I thought." No shit. Like maybe three miles closer. "Well," the sergeant said, "What are you going to do?" "What can we do?" the LT said. "At least there weren't any witnesses. Let's call it two dinks, 800 meters, Charlie with the weapon got away." He patted his binoculars. "That's why they give me these, right? So I can see things." "Move out!" the sergeant yelled, waving his arm. "Keep your intervals." As we jigged down the far slope of the dike, the LT paused, fished out his compass, stared at it, then chucked it into the shit-stinking muck. "Hey, sarge," he called, laughing now. "I think we've lost our compass." "Yes, sir," the sergeant yelled back. "An American tragedy. Must have got sucked into this quagmire." "Roger that," LT said. "Besides, what's the worst they can do? Send us to Vietnam?" © 2003 by Jim Cooley. All rights reserved. Home