Submission Pre/Viewer

Blood Dripping from LeavesHartley Barnes     Vietnam war combat

Chop, chop, chopping the vegetation, inch, yard, mile. We stop for a break, then move again. Chop, chop, the point man stops and signals contact, contact. We all hit the deck. He low-crawls back to the main body.

“VC (Viet Cong) ahead of us,” whispers the point man, Corporal McPherson. “I damn near walked into them; they’re moving towards us, lieutenant.”

I shift into fourth gear, thinking, God, I hate these pre-battle jitters. I clutch the ground next to a nest of fire ants (my luck) and try to be invisible under the bright sun and dense foliage above me.

Commanded to form a hasty ambush, I crawl to my designated position to wait. The ambush is designed to catch the VC in a crossfire. It will not work. We can’t see each other, and we sure as hell won’t see them. No need to aim, just shoot. I might get lucky. Is that what the Viet Cong is thinking, too? The undergrowth is so compact we won’t see the targets. Shoot, and it's pot luck. How can I refer to killing as a gamble? We have to adjust.

“We are on the same track," the lieutenant says. "This ambush will not work. Damn, we don’t have a lot of time. Our choices are to backtrack, go east or west or stay and form a tight circle and somehow hope they’ll miss us.

Sergeant Morris jumps in. “The odds are against us, lieutenant. I say we stay.”

“I’m with you, Sergeant Morris. Let’s make it happen and hurry.”

“Roger that, lieutenant.”

These search-and-destroy missions can be a pain in the butt when contact is made before we reach our objective. It screws your day up.

“Lieutenant, the platoon is in a close 360.”


The VC should have been here by now — maybe they are. Wait, I spoke too soon. The rustling of bushes, the breaking of sticks and stepping on dried leaves intensify. My heart races in anticipation of the first shot. How close are they?

The air is heavy with moisture; it takes more effort to breathe. Clouds move over to block the sun. Sweat is running down my face; I can taste the salt, and I have an urge for a stack of White Castle hamburgers. Where did that come from? Food is not a part of this deal. They are close, close. O hell.

POP, POP, POP, POP, POP, POP

M14, M60, M203 are all talking,

AK-47 pushes back.

ZING! WOOSH! BOOM! Point at the sound, and I might hit the man behind it. Trees and bushes sing to a crescendo of flying bullets, and I shoot blindly. Emotionally, I disconnect, and the trigger is easier to pull.


Kill, kill, kill.

Abruptly, the shooting stops and footsteps hurriedly fade away. The quiet is excruciating.

“Everyone is accounted for, lieutenant," Sergeant Morries reports. "Spec-4 Wilson took a round in his leg.”

“How bad, Sergeant?”

“He’ll live, lieutenant. The medic is taking care of him and no need to medevac.”

“Expand the circle and search the area, sergeant. Let’s ensure the VCs are gone, then we get out of here.”

My adrenaline high is wearing off; my perception is returning to normal. The release is also a high. Has the VC left the area?

As we expanded the circle to search, I heard a faint cry: “Giùp đỡ (Help), giùp đỡ.” A teenage boy lies on his back gasping for life, an AK-47 beside him, coated with blood from his chest. A rice bowl is strapped to his waist. He smiles at me goodbye.

I see blood dripping from leaves, an eyeball hanging from a branch, hear bodies dragged away, scratching the jungle floor.

In the aftermath, we search for the bounty. For me, it’s easy; I cannot lay claim to the dead, and open eyes cannot make me responsible for what I cannot see. I feel no remorse for stepping into a created venue to hide where my conscience will be cleared. I wish it were so. Lying to myself is a fool’s joke. Preservation is the secret to self-deception. I’m guilty.

We’ll continue to our objective now. The next obstacle might not be so generous.