CHAPTER 7
Ambush
Daybreak came with a mist that made Rick ache for warmth. But he settled for the smoke of his first cigarette, which lulled him into a second. He was still crouched against a tree, puffing away, when Russo's signal to “saddle up” caught him off guard. He quickly tossed on his gear and crushed out his half-smoked butt.
He knew Russo was feeling impatient about reaching their destination today…today, the day this patrol stood for, the day that was going to end with a night ambush.
They moved through the bush at a steady pace, being especially careful not to make any unnecessary noise to ensure the secrecy of their presence and the element of surprise necessary for a successful ambush.
They reached their destination early. So early, in fact, that this extra time threatened to give their position away with the smoke of too many cigarettes, with the sound of cellophane wrappers, and with the smell of dehydrated food. But these activities were as necessary for their survival as the strain of silence.
Rick caught himself staring at the top of his boots long after he ate. But he shook himself out of his trance with another cigarette as Russo approached him with his own canteen and a smoke. He plunked himself on the ground next to him.
“You take Bearcat, Kafka, and Mormon on the right,” he whispered. “Til take the left.”
“Okay,” Rick said.
“There's no indication in what general direction they're traveling. I guess it doesn't make any difference.”
“Probably not.”
“Don't open fire until I say so…no matter what direction they come from.” Rick began to protest. “Unless, of course, you don't have a choice. Then do what you have to do.” Rick lit another cigarette. “I want you to check every inch of the kill zone.”
“You know I will.”
Rick went down to the trail after their meeting was over and visually scanned its length in both directions as he thought about the absurd nature of its importance. Bearcat approached him.
“Not much of a trail, is it?” Bearcat said.
“Not much at all.”
“Don't want to set up the claymores too soon.”
“They don't start movement until dusk anyway,” Rick agreed.
“The worst part is the waiting.”
“Yeah.”
Bearcat shuffled off the trail and up the slope toward their bivouac.
Rick trained his eyes eastward up the trail and followed the narrow incline until it reached a point: infinitely to the eye where his thoughts drifted into the past, into a juvenile concern over high school grades, girls and dates, money, cars…even a career. He wanted those things to be important, again. But he knew something in him had changed, forever.
He trained his eyes westward down the trail and allowed his gaze to travel the line that broke in a curve along the trail until it also came to a point. Then he relaxed his gaze on infinity again and drifted into a stoic trance: the kind that didn't hurt because it didn't remind him of yesterday.
“What the hell are you doing?” Russo growled, startling him from his trance.
“Wise ass,” Rick snapped.
Russo was pleased with his little practical joke. “Start setting up those claymore mines.”
Rick lit a cigarette. And when he turned to signal Mormon and Kafka to give him a hand, he noticed they were already laying the wire. He was glad he was working with professionals in an unprofessional war.
Once the darkness began to descend upon them, Russo hurried through one last check. Their preparation was thorough, yet simple, and that was good. Then Russo got into his position on the firing line. He peered in both directions: everything was ready on the right, ready on the left. Then he looked down at the trail just a few meters below them: nothing could get past their deadly line of fire. From this point on, maintaining silence was going to be their hardest job.
Each man created his own little world of readiness: drinking water, grenades, rifle, magazines, and M57 claymore firing devices—all within easy reach. From now on, there would be two focal points in their lives: the ambush trail below and the first explosion from Russo's claymore. There was nothing left to do but wait.