SIP part 2 (read previous post first)

*****

“Damn it,” Ben blanched at the idea of patrolling the village. He had gone into plenty of villages before with little incident, and they had actually been to this particular one on several occasions. The Vietnamese there didn’t seem to mind their presence - they just carried on with their normal routines. Why this sudden fear? Ben had woken up that morning and was keenly aware of everything. He noticed a discoloration on his right thumb that looked surprisingly like a sickle when he bent it at the knuckle. “How long has that been there?” he thought. This morning was the first time he could distinguish one bird call from another. He spat out his coffee in disgust even though he had had the same nasty brew day in and day out for the past year.

When his orders came, Ben Olson read them as if it was the final draft of his own will. The encroaching dread culminated in a sudden shower of bad eggs and coffee.

“Hey, Beowulf, you all right?” a tall, bookish soldier whispered to him as Ben wiped his mouth. The soldier was Mort Jenkins, a born bookworm if there ever was one. What he was doing halfway across the world with an assault rifle in his hands was lost on everyone except Mort. He had been studying literature for his undergrad, but jumped at the chance to “be a hero.” Typical academic. To Mort, war was an intellectual exercise, purely mental. He had dubbed Ben, whom he had taken a liking to, “Beowulf” after his favorite old-English hero. Ben’s likeness to the epic hero was undeniable, and the fact that Ben’s initials were B.E.O. seemed only to solidify the nickname. As much as Ben and the other men made fun of “Book,” as they called him, his marathon recitations of classic literature did at least provide some measure of distraction from the cold, the ants, and the always lurking horror.

“What, is the mighty Beowulf afraid?” Book not only called Ben by this heroic moniker, he also treated him as if he was the Geatish lord himself.

“That’s funny, Book,” Ben said as he removed his leaden head from between his knees, “I don’t remember reading any stories about your exploits. I always seem to come out of your stories okay. Intellect and recitation won’t save you out here, you better be watching your own ass instead.” Ben spoke with a cocky grin, trying not to let on that yes, he was afraid. He was more afraid than he had been since his arrival. Something had gripped hold of his nerve and refused to let go.

The heat and humidity weighed heavily on the small patrol. Hours later they arrived at the village, a shoddy little conglomeration of crudely roofed huts and fences that looked like they might have sprouted out of the ground. An old lady with more fingers than teeth was weaving a hat out of straw, happy, filthy children were running half-naked in the streets chasing chickens. Everything was normal, but with each step Ben’s panic grew until he was dripping with perspiration. He clicked the safety off his rifle.

“You all right, sir?” asked Jimmy Mitchell, a pale, freckly private who emphatically claimed that he was eighteen. Ben didn’t answer, but took off his helmet and cleared his forehead. Ben swore as the fear began to seep through his last reserve of resistance. Everything became heavy, he felt every ounce of his helmet. Holding his rifle made his arms ache, he could no longer carry it, let alone shoot it.

Ben reluctantly shouldered his rifle and donned the helmet again. He felt like his head would cave in under the weight. They continued to walk through the village, but each sudden movement, each loud noise arrested all of Ben’s attention. A Vietnamese Fireback trilled from the nearby jungle, and Ben felt all the blood rush to his head as his hand found his pistol.

“Those birds are noisy as hell,” Ben said as he tried to shake off the encroaching terror. Claustrophobia set in, and he had to stop, close his eyes, and kneel to regain his equilibrium. He dropped his helmet to the earthen floor and used his shirt to wick the sweat away from his face. The patrol stopped, but Ben waved for them continued ahead of him. “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,” he repeated to himself. He slowly opened his eyes, and his focus returned. Not one hundred yards away from him, someone was running at full speed out of the dense jungle toward the rest of his patrol. He tried to yell for the person to stop, but choked on his words. He couldn’t get out a warning to the rest of his men either. The heaviness vanished as he instinctively drew his pistol and fired two shots in the direction of the running figure. One met its target square in the chest. It was an exceptional shot, especially from that distance. The impact caused the person to snap back like he was dropped from the gallows. Ben couldn’t hear anything now, save his now steady breathing and the ringing from the percussion. His vision focused solely on the limp body seventy yards in front of him. Ben got to his feet and ran, only to be stopped dead in his tracks by the grisly scene of his making.

It was a child, no older than eight or ten. He lay on the ground covered in an ever increasing amount of blood. He had no shirt on, and Ben could see the little boy’s heart and lungs pulsating through his thin chest. Ben had seen bullet wounds before, and had always been surprised at how small they looked. He had always imagined that bullets would leave big ragged holes, not the small symmetrical ones actually left by the hot metal. Not here though, O God, not here. On this little child, the hole was gaping and hideous. The boy began to cry, his cries caused more blood to throb out of the wound as his heart worked even harder to compensate for the growing loss of blood. The child had no explosives. The VC often had children walk around with explosives strapped to their little tan bodies. They would approach a group of Americans and detonate, taking the soldiers with them. This child was not one of them. The child had no explosives.

Ben fell to his knees and grabbed the trembling body in his own steady arms. His hand grasped the exit wound in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. The child’s slight body shook violently as blood gurgled forth from his cracked mouth. He clutched at Ben in an effort to keep his life from slipping away. his eyes bore into Ben’s own, looking for some trace of comfort. Soon the trembling stopped. Ben sat, still clutching the little child. Another bird chirped in the jungle. Ben stared into the eyes of the boy, as he gently laid him down. The look on the boy’s face was one of terror, his faced contorted into a grotesque monument of his last moments. Ben looked down at the boy’s hand and noticed it was tightly grasping a small metallic ring. Ben grasped his vest, feeling for the grenade that was missing its pin. He half-heartedly fumbled with his vest, waiting, almost hoping, for the inevitable explosion. He somehow managed to drop his grenade vest behind him and lay next to the fallen boy. He closed his eyes as the flash of light and the nauseating smell of phosphorus and scorched flesh filled his nostrils.