It was just another formless mountaintop that would be this night’s NDP, an easy climb from a narrow, stream-cut valley they had worked for a few klicks without incident. To Singer, it seemed they were miles from any NVA and had been looking in the wrong place for weeks already. He had just started digging in with little enthusiasm when Sergeant Royce, holding a string of canteens, came up to Trip, who had just gotten out his entrenching tool. Singer stopped digging to listen.
“Send a couple Cherries,” Trip said.
“I’m sending you,” Sergeant Royce said, his voice rising until it cracked.
“What about the hole?”
“You can dig in when you get back. Right now, you and Singer go fill canteens.”
“Fucking army.” Trip threw down his entrenching tool. “In the Cav choppers brought our waters and Cherries pulled the details.”
Singer stepped from the beginning of the hole and came and took the string of empty canteens.
“No sweat, we got it,” Singer said, looking at Trip.
With his M16 in his right hand and canteens in his left, he started back toward the stream they’d crossed a short distance back. In truth, he was nearly as irritated as Trip at being sent out after just starting to dig in. There was no trail, just the occasional bootprint or bent twig from their earlier climb. The descent was easy on the gradual slope and Singer focused all his attention on where he stepped and keeping a straight line, confident Trip wasn’t far behind him. He wanted to do this fast and get back before it got dark. He would find the stream, fill the canteens, then reverse directions and take a direct course back to the perimeter. It grew darker as he descended. The sun was low behind him and the hill cast a long shadow over the canopy, increasing the dimness in the shallow valley. Fronds bent down toward him, like giant hands threatening to grab him. The canteens jangled softly against each other with each step, despite his efforts to keep them still.
Singer drew up sharply, halted by the sense that something was wrong. The canteens were quiet. The leaves gave no indication of even the slightest breath of air. The sounds of digging that he’d heard behind him as he first started out were swallowed by the distance and the vegetation. Ahead was the whisper of flowing water. Still, something wasn’t right. He turned his head to check with Trip, but there were only the trees, a weave of limbs and branches amidst the shadows. His gaze raced up the slope, searching for Trip’s form beside a tree trunk, a silhouette camouflaged by brush. Nothing. No human form. Not even the soft pad of steps of Trip catching up. He was utterly alone. A lightness fluttered in his chest and the vertical lines that held the canopy shifted back and forth, threatening to spin. He blinked and felt the sting of sweat. With care not to lose his orientation of the stream and the direction back to the platoon, he turned in a circle, trying to conjure up Trip. There were only shadows and his craving for company.
He was drifting in space, untethered to anything. His mouth was just opening when he caught himself, closing it forcefully, biting down so he wouldn’t call out. He saw himself tearing uphill with all his energy until he was in the comfort of the company of the others, but his legs wouldn’t move. Beyond the pounding of his heart was the gurgle of water moving over rocks. He was nearly there. If he went back now he would only have to return again through even darker shadows. He had his rifle and could do this if he could just control his fear.
The water was a welcome sight, swirling about rocks, small patches of white foam bubbling up and quickly being carried away. The bottom was a mosaic of stones, tans and browns set in red clay. It would take just a few minutes to fill the canteens and then a few minutes more to return to the guys. He slipped up to the stream edge, nearly distracted by the magic of moving water, but then Singer saw him.
The canteens clunked and rattled when he dropped them on the rocks. He fumbled to bring up his gun.
A few meters down the stream, the man looked up, still holding his hand and something in the water. He lifted his hand to show a canteen encased in dark canvas. Water spilled off the canteen, darkening his sleeve and dribbling back into the stream. He rose slowly from his crouch. His black hair was matted against his head and his face glistened with water as if he’d just washed it. He wore a dark green uniform of a North Vietnamese soldier and had an olive-colored bandolier hung across his chest. He continued to hold the canteen out, as if to offer a drink. His other hand hung loose and empty at his side.
Singer brought his rifle to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel.
A gold tooth sat dully in the man’s weak smile. His eyes were dark and soft, like his skin, and grew wider with a silent pleading that Singer clearly heard. Still, he lined the muzzle on the man’s chest and felt the smoothness of the trigger on his finger. It would only take a touch. His first kill.
The corners of the man’s smile sagged and he took a step back, as though that might make a difference. His head bowed, a greeting or surrender to his fate.
* * * * *
“I’m coming in, I’m coming in,” Singer said, hoping none of the new guys would shoot him.
Inside the perimeter he rushed at Trip and threw the canteens at his feet, then shoved him with his free hand.
“Where the hell were you? You’re supposed to have my back.”
“Why didn’t you wait?”
“You prick, you let me go alone.”
“When I looked, you were gone. It was more dangerous for both of us to go look for you. You’re all right, aren’t you?”
“No thanks to you.”
“Stop the yelling before you get us all killed,” Sergeant Royce said from somewhere in the twilight behind them.
“There’s the fucking canteens. I’m not doing that again,” Singer said. He kicked the canteens and walked away.
He knew he should warn them, but couldn’t. How could he tell them he saw an NVA soldier without having to explain why he never fired? No one would understand, least of all Sergeant Royce or all the other second-tour vets. Rhymes might, but even with him, Singer wasn’t sure. None of them would forgive him. They’d all seen too much and become hardened by it all.
He was unsure now what was his bigger crime: not killing the man or not telling anyone.
He just couldn’t shoot the guy. Even though the man was an enemy soldier, he was unarmed. At least, there’d been no weapon Singer could see. Who could shoot an unarmed man? It was different than with a deer or duck, where he’d never had a problem. He saw the man’s extended arm of offering and the pleading in his eyes. He sighted down the barrel and saw himself. Next time he’d do better. Next time he would shoot.