The heat had lulled me into a semi-transparent fog, the smells of cattle manure and muddy water taking my attention away from the job at hand. I was on the right flank, walking through the uneven ground of a shallow creek bed when the firing started. High priority targets taken out first, just what they were supposed to do. The officer went down, as did his radioman and one of the machine gunners. The snipers were just waiting for the column to stand up and present choice targets. A 30-meter advance brought a hailstorm of sniper fire. The men got up slowly, groaning under their load of food, water and ammo. With his field survey complete, the officer tucked his binoculars away and signaled the platoon to move forward. All in all, the type of situation nobody likes to see happen. That means some poor sap will have to drag his ass out there to get them, while his pals are laying down cover fire. But they have to be brought back into safety first. And casualty’s mean wounded men lying in an open field needing medical help. When your enemies are professional soldiers, they will inflict casualties. Ambushes are sprung when a lot of chumps are in the open. That’s usually when the sh*t starts flying. Infantrymen were never comfortable in the open. They’d rather be moving than presenting fat targets for every rat with a rifle or mortar. Trigger fingers flicked in and out of the trigger guards in anticipation. Squinting, he zeroed in on the ground ahead, checking the smoky shadows and dim highlights, looking for his opponent to show his hand: a glint off a rifle barrel, a slight movement in a shadow, any telltale sign of human intrusion in the forest ahead.Įvery man’s eyes drilled ahead, waiting. The platoon leader pulled out his binoculars. Where there was no cover available, men knelt or flopped on their bellies to scan ahead. We used what cover was available tree trunks, shallow holes, anything that could deflect a bullet. The line slowed as we approached yesterday’s ambush area. Nobody was smoking-too much of a distraction. Grenades hung from their packs like lethal apples, green but deadly. Machine gunners looked back to make sure their assistants were close with extra ammo ready to use. Weapons were held ready to fire, safeties off. Plastic rifle stocks were slick with sweat.Įach man carried his load differently. Their eyes were red and squinting in the white light of the day. They moved like veterans of previous conflicts, confident but careful, knowing full well the kind of hell that could strike them down in the blink of a muzzle flash. The men moved slowly, eyes scanning treetops and ground, left and right. They all knew the enemy soldiers were still around, probably estimating the exact time to open fire at them again. There wasn’t much cover, so apprehension was high. Casualties were light, but they were forced to fall back and regroup that night, then hit it again this morning. They had moved across this same area of operations yesterday, receiving serious sniper and machine gun fire from the tree line one hundred yards ahead. Wisps of water vapor rising from the heated soil mixed with the smoke, turning the horizon line soft like the color of cooking caramel.Ī line of infantrymen trudged across the dusty ground, the heat and humidity already staining their clothes dark with perspiration. Smoke from the battle the day before was still hanging in the rifts and shell craters, the air too still to dissipate it. The heat pounded down in shimmering waves, and along with the cloying humidity made the simple act of breathing a chore. It was only three hours after dawn, and the sun was already battering the earth.
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