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Legs Orlasky |
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The Listening Post You hate it out on the listening post. It is dark and scary and dangerous. You have two months left in country and you are afraid you are going to die out here all by yourself. Dying is bad any way, but if you have to go you don't want it to be that way, all alone. You sit in the small pit with your back against the earthen wall. Every few minutes you get to your knees and take a look around the position. Your eyes have adjusted now, after two hours of dense darkness. Sometimes you see what looks to be a lump on the ground between your position and the tree line. If you look at it long enough it seems to move. You reach over and find the trigger box in the dark. A time or two you had been so convinced you have uncovered the flip switches. If they come at the wire in a rush you will give them a dose of bouncers if it is the last thing you ever do. If they rush the wire, it likely will be. You sit back again, your hoser across your lap. You look at the glowing hands of your watch. Two a.m. Two more fucking hours. Christ. At least it isn't raining like last time you stood LP. It was too much, the strain of that. The pounding rain covered up sounds. You could imagine Charlie crawling through that mud with a knife between his teeth, slithering into the hole and slitting your throat before you knew what was happening. You have learned a little trick from Rosco. You keep a grenade wired to your belt. You see the logic to that. Tit for tat. Besides, it's better to go in a flash than bleed out sucking for air in a stinking hole. You don't want to die, but of all the ways to die you don't want it to be from a slashed throat. You've seen men cut like that, the look of horror locked on their faces, the look that comes from knowing death is certain and imminent. It is very unpleasant, that look. You want a cigarette so bad you can taste it. You always get that intense craving when you are in a position where smoking is impossible. That is why you left your smokes back inside the wire; the temptation is too great. Smoking has become a reflex, a reaching for the pack and lighter without even thinking about it. Out here, that could get a man killed quickly. But sitting in the hole you can feel the weight of the Zippo in your pocket and you think of spinning that wheel and lighting the tip of a Camel. The fire from a good, solid lighter, inscribed with "Death before Dishonor." It is something you believe in, that inscription. Most men in war believe it, even cowards. Nobody wants to die, but most would before risking the embarrassment of living when they ought to have risked death. That is what makes men slide down into tunnels, walk the point. Not heroics, just fear of embarrassment. It is okay to be a coward in your heart, but it is not okay to display that cowardice to others. You think of your woman back home. She has not been writing as much lately and you wonder . . . has she hooked up with someone? Is she fucking some man right now while you hunkered down in a hole, surrounded by people who want more than anything in the world to kill you? There is no way of knowing that and it is just as well. You remember Jamison and his Dear John letter a couple months before. Jamison was a large and muscular black corporal from Louisville, a tough dude. He was a good man to have covering your back because if he was ever afraid, it did not show. He was fearless in battle and he had a kind heart as well. But after the letter, he became careless. You remember one skirmish a few days later when your patrol steps into Shit City. Two men go down, the point man and the RTO behind the lieutenant, both shot dead. Everybody else scrambles for the bush -- everybody but Jamison. He advances into the grass ahead, firing his weapon from the hip full rock and roll. He kills six VC before the rest scattered and break off the firefight and he does not get a scratch. Jamison is like some kind of untouchable soul, as if no way can the enemy get him. "Don't none of this shit matter," Jamison says after the smoke clears. "Ain't none of us gonna get outta here alive. If we do, we gonna die anyhow. It's all a bunch of shit and we just more turds for fertilizer." His luck runs out, though. A month later, he is sitting on the edge of a bunker, smoking weed, when a sniper puts his lights out. One round through the side of the head and that is it. Jamison is mortal, you understand. What amazes you most is how white the skull is under Jamison's dark scalp. That which is not covered in red stains gleams like polished ivory beneath the baking sun. Jamison's eyes stare blankly into nothing. Or maybe into peace and tranquility. Or maybe Hell. You shudder. It is not smart to think such things in your current predicament. Some psychological type would no doubt recommend pleasant thoughts. Close your eyes and dream of Hawaii, or some other tropical isle. Let the warm zephyr wash over you, feel the sunight touch your skin. Bullshit. You look at the watch again. Ten more minutes. What the fuck can happen in ten minutes? More than you want to think about. A man in as much need as you are can get a piece of ass in ten minutes. A squad of gooks can cut some wire and crawl a far piece in ten minutes. A spotter can line up a knee mortar fairly well in ten minutes. Six now and you look over the backside of the hole. Relief should be on the way soon. You can get a couple hours sleep before sunrise, before the heat builds to smothering levels. You can clean your gear, down some chow and get ready for night patrol. Maybe you will have mail today; maybe the woman will write some sweet and sexy stuff that lets you know she still loves you. You know better than to bet the farm on that. "Hey shit head." The sound startles you. "Don't shoot me goddammit, I'm comin' in." It's Drake, bellying up to the hole. Your relief. You have never been happier to see the ugly bastard. For a moment you don't even mind that he's a Yankee who likes to rub the Southern boys the wrong way. He is like Jesus now, salvation coming up on his belly through the mud. "What's shakin'?" he says, dropping into the hole. "Any action?" "Naw, it's quiet, haven't seen a thing." Drake pulls out his pack and fumbles for his lighter. You put a hand out. "Hold that shit until I'm gone," you say. "You wanna get yourself lit up, cool. Don't fuckin' mix me up with it." "You sit out here all this time without a smoke? Fuck that noise, not me. I keep it covered, no target." "Fuck it, give me a couple minutes then do whatever you want." You are over the lip and staying low, but not belly low. Next thing you know you are back near the first bunker and a voice is asking, "What it is?" "Big red apple," you say. "Bring your ass on through," comes the disembodied voice from the dark. It's Clausen, the FNG who took Jamison's place. "Anything shakin'?" "Not a leaf." Back in your bunker you light up. That first drag is like heaven. You find a couple of the hot Blue Ribbons you have stashed in your bag and pop one. Smoke and beer always taste like heaven, even in the midst of Hell. You burn another smoke and finish the last beer before crashing on the rack, dead to the world. Next morning you learn how lucky you are. Drake did not come in at daybreak as expected. A crew went out and found him gutted in the hole. The Cong even took his lighter and smokes, along with his balls. Maybe he enjoyed that last smoke, you figure. It cost him enough. |