One Night

February 1971. This is the spookiest it’s been since I arrived in Vietnam. Every day we find evidence of NVA activity: food caches, footprints on roads and trails, fleeting light after dark, movement. Bravo Company was ambushed not long ago. So was a patrol from my company. I’ve been in the field less than a month and don’t really know what I am doing. I mainly just follow the guy in front of me and try not to act scared. I expect the world around me to explode any moment now.

I am laying on my air mattress in the dark. Nothing to do but try to sleep until it’s my turn for watch and hope to God we don’t get hit tonight. So far nothing’s happened. I can’t believe I’ve been so lucky. Nor can I believe that my luck will hold much longer. I mean, this is a real fucking war. All this weaponry that I carry–my rifle, bullets, grenades, claymore mine–is the proverbial gun in the first act of a play. Sooner or later, someone will die. I don’t want that someone to be me but there’s really nothing I can do one way or the other except keep my head down and try not to fuck up.

The night is pitch black. I can’t even see the guys next to me. I am wrapped in my poncho liner. It’s not cold or anything but somehow the cover comforts me. I try to think about what my life used to be, about what it will be when I go home. I try not to think about now or tomorrow. Reality these days offers little hope or consolation. I guess the fact that I am still alive after three weeks in the field is something. But it’s a long, long way to December when my tour will be complete. Way too much can happen before then.

A sound! Rustling brush in front of me. Must be my imagination. I hear it again. It’s real. Holy Jesus Fuck! It’s closer. Someone’s coming toward the perimeter. I think. Not sure. I mean, he would have to have gotten past the trip flares in front of our claymores. Hard to imagine but I remember the demonstration of a sapper crawling through what seemed to be an impossible tangle of concertina wire. Getting over a single trip wire would be no difficulty. I tell myself it’s a small animal but am petrified with fear.

That sound again. I grab my rifle. I should alert the guys only a few meters away on either side of my position but it’s probably nothing. I keep quiet. I don’t want everyone to think I’m a flake. I am a new guy which is bad enough but a false alarm would just cement my reputation as fuck up. Closer now. Finger on my trigger, looking down rifle sights. I can almost see someone slowly crawling toward me. Almost, but not really. I want to open up on the dark, to blast whoever this is into eternity. I hold my fire, straining to see what’s out there, to find a definite target in the dark. The last thing I want is to open up on nothing. Everyone will know for sure that I am a flake.

The sound moves closer. A pause, then closer again. Will I be too scared to fire when I see him? I should shoot now. Light that fucker up. But where is he? I still can’t see anything. My head is pounding with fear. I imagine a body leaping toward me, hoping I can get a shot off before he plunges a bayonet into me. If I just fire now, I’ll throw him off, maybe even kill him. Unless there’s really nothing there. Nobody else seems to hear anything. No one’s given me a heads up, so it must be nothing. Yeah, right.

Now I don’t hear anything at all. The silence screams into my brain, “SHOOT! SHOOT! God dammit!” Just pull that fucking trigger! Why the fuck didn’t I alert anyone. When the shit hits the fan, they’ll know I’m a fuck up.

But wait. I hear it again, this time moving away? Really? I listen hard. Maybe, maybe. Hope, hope. It’s definitely not closer. Yes! Yes! It is moving away. Most likely a small animal. Maybe an NVA just fucking with us. Probably not, though.

I lay awake, looking down my rifle sights into the blackness for what seems like an eternity before relaxing my grip. Even then, I am alert, waiting for the slightest sound. Silence. Nothing.

Morning dawns. I wake up cradling my rifle. No sign of anything. I didn’t fuck up. Did I?