The procession of Marines stumbled and slid down the mountainside under their heavy loads, arriving at 1st Platoon’s level breathless and back-weary. They placed the two bodies apart from the Chief, and Lieutenant Diehl gave them a cursory inspection. His jaw tightened, setting his facial muscles rippling. This wasn’t the first time he had lost men under his command, but it always hit him as a personal failure. The prospect of dying in combat was an accepted risk among the troops, but being responsible for men who died in combat took some time and practice to reconcile. The idea that these deaths were caused by one of his own seemed to question the quality of his leadership and his ability to judge the character of the men he led, and as he looked down on the Chief’s blood-streaked face, he couldn’t see how he had made such an error. He couldn’t believe he had been that wrong. “What can you tell me, Doc?” the lieutenant asked Brede, who was wiping the Chief’s bloodstained face with a damp wad of gauze.
“Not much, sir. Blunt force to the head above the right ear.” The corpsman slipped a hand under the battle dressing. “There’s damage—a depression and a sharp ridge of bone. He definitely has a skull fracture. If he was conscious I might have some idea—slurred speech, confusion, even vomiting—but all I’m seeing is shallow breathing and weak pupil response.” The corpsman took the point of a safety pin and pushed it into the Chief’s arm above the wrist, getting no reaction. “It ain’t good, and he’s been unconscious for a long time. I can’t find cerebrospinal fluid leaking from his ears, nose, or mouth and there’s no blood in his eyes, but that doesn’t mean there’s no intracranial hemorrhage.”
The lieutenant looked up to the web of branches supporting the jungle canopy. “Can he be cable-lifted out of here on a jungle penetrator?”
Doc Brede looked at Doc Garver, who scrunched up his nose as though he’d just caught a whiff of something foul. “I wouldn’t do that, sir,” he said. “That’s a rough ride, and I’m guessing the inside of his skull isn’t smooth anymore. He gets jarred around enough and sharp bone could cut into his brain causing a hemorrhage. He could have a stroke. It could kill him.”
“So we need to get him to an LZ, ASAP,” the lieutenant said as Sergeant Blackwell handed him the damaged M16. He turned the weapon over in his hands, then squatted down beside Brede. “Do you think a smack on the head with this Mattie Mattel piece of plastic could cause all that damage?” he said with his voice lowered so the suspicion wouldn’t spread into the platoon.
“I don’t know. I suppose so,” Brede said. “I never saw anybody get hit with one. But like I told Blackwell, I don’t think the Chief did Tanner and the new guy. He’s a hard case, but he’s not a mental case.”
Bronsky stood just behind the lieutenant, waiting for the inevitable order to make the call for a medevac. He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Look where we are, Doc. We’re all mental cases,” he said.
“Speak for yourself, Bronsky,” the sergeant said.
The doc gave Bronsky a sour look. “I don’t think geography can be held responsible for your unfortunate mental status,” he said.
Bronsky stifled the urge to defend himself. He knew the corpsmen were sometimes all that stood between a Marine and a trip to graves registration, and he liked to think that if the situation presented itself and he needed their help, they would be motivated to do their best work.
The lieutenant unfolded his map and searched the terrain east of their position. “Sergeant, get out your map,” he said.
Sergeant Blackwell pulled out his plastic-coated map and held it next to the lieutenant’s. Grease pencil notations spotted the face, and small crosses were marked in strategic spots in a seemingly random pattern.
The lieutenant jabbed his own map with a finger. “This is the closest spot with enough open ground for a chopper,” he said. “Take 2nd Squad and get the Chief and . . . the other two . . . down there.”
The sergeant compared the maps and made a quick mark in the area indicated. “That could take some time. It’s well over a mile.”
“Don’t worry about it,” the lieutenant said. “It’s mostly downhill. I’ll get the chopper in the air, and I have to let Five know what the situation is here.”
Blackwell scratched at the back of his neck. “Do we have to involve the exec? You know how he is. He just might fly out here.”
“I doubt it. But there’s got to be security for the Chief, and he’ll want to know why.”
A solid policy of covering your own ass was familiar to all sergeants, and Blackwell knew that the lieutenant could do no less. But once Diehl got the executive officer on the horn, the Chief would be plunged into the bureaucratic maze of the military justice system, and the full weight of command would land on him like a B-52 payload. His future looked grim. On the bright side, though, the Chief might get lucky and die in transit.
“Bronsky,” the lieutenant said, “go with the sergeant and keep me apprised of the Chief’s condition.”
“Shit,” Bronsky said, seeing the chance to rest his aching back fade away.
“What was that, Marine?”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant. I said, ‘Yes, sir.’” Bronsky turned and followed Sergeant Blackwell in search of Middleton and 2nd Squad.
The team swept Binh’s limp body along at a jogger’s pace, easily following the path blazed by the main unit. Binh’s limbs dangled loosely, and the wound in his side, a dry, ugly gash, seemed to have discharged all the blood it was capable of losing. Sau sent the remaining sentry, the only one with a firearm, ahead of the group as security.
After a while the sentry stopped suddenly and raised his long-barreled machine gun to his shoulder. The men carrying Binh stopped and let him slump to the ground without ceremony. Ahead, one of the main unit’s weapon bearers stood with a short-handled shovel and waved them on. He had a white cloth draped over one shoulder and pointed with the shovel to a spot just off of the trail.
The sentry lowered his weapon and looked at Sau. “Binh is home,” he said, indicating the man ahead on the trail. The others raised their heads tentatively, their breaths coming in hoarse gasps.
Sau nodded without speaking, and they got Binh aloft again and followed the digger to a spot a few meters downgrade where a mound of fresh soil was piled beside a shallow grave. The grave walls were studded with roots that had been cleaved away to make room for the new resident. As they lay Binh beside the hole, Sau’s deep breaths took in the rich aroma of the newly turned soil. It was pungent and dank and filled with the fertile promise of growth. Sau looked around as though committing the spot to memory, but he knew that it would be anonymous in a few days and impossible to find in a week.
The digger could see that the group was nearly spent, so he knelt and pressed a hand to the side of Binh’s neck and lowered his ear to the center of his chest. He looked at Sau and the others, then just looked away. It was not news. It was simply a confirmation of what they all had known since their last stop. It was clear that they were no longer hurrying to save Binh’s life, only to save his body.
The white cloth was spread on the ground, and Co and Duong lifted Binh into the center of it while the digger handed a small bag and a coin to Sau. Sau took the offerings, wiping the sweat from his face with the back of a forearm. As the others wrapped the cloth around Binh’s body, Sau knelt by his head. The digger handed Sau a saucer of water from his canteen, and Sau poured it over Binh’s face and wiped away some of the dirt-encrusted blood. The rest of the group stood silently while Sau opened Binh’s mouth. Death was beginning to claim the muscles, and Sau had to use some force. He took as much rice from the little bag as a pinch of his fingers could hold and let the bits fall through Binh’s teeth, then he dropped in the coin. He could leave this world now with proof that he wanted for nothing and had no hunger. Sau stood as Duong draped the folds of the cloth over Binh’s face.
“His old name will not do in his new place. He will now be known as Trung, the faithful and true, and a more fitting name could not be imagined,” Sau said.
The digger looked to the path, and Sau knew that their mourning period was over. They lowered Binh into the trench and with shovel and hands covered the shroud-wrapped body until only a slight bulge marked the grave. In time, joss would be burned and prayers offered, but for now, the need was to rejoin their unit. Sau placed a hand on the mound. He was sure Trung would understand.