Six Faces of War
History Through Fiction, USA:, 1967-2017, USA and Vietnam
3: Assignment
A climbing sun burned through morning drizzle as the UH-1H Iroquois helicopter churned whump, whump, whump, whump, whump at an insane decibel level.
Joe ducked his head as he jumped from the Huey’s open cargo hatch and landed in a crouch, the helmet’s chinstrap grabbing flesh under his jaw, his eyelids squeezed shut against coarse grit swirling around his face.
The slick’s shirtless shotgunner yelled in a high-pitched voice, “Incoming, sir! Duck and run!”
Joe squinted at the Huey, already higher than when he had jumped out, as if it was bouncing off the ground in slow motion. The shotgun rider had a wide-toothed grin, and their eyes met for an instant as Joe followed the M-60 barrel swinging to the next hill and the enemy.
The slick disappeared in a raucous interplay of metallic clanks ripping through the tumult of rotor blades smashing humid air. Hot brass shell casings bounced off Joe’s helmet and shoulders, joining a host of others plopping into the mud like the first large drops of a summer thunderstorm. Rotor wash flogged mud puddles into a dirt-filled spray that soaked his greenies with a dull-red haze.
Through the whirlwind, Joe saw a bunker entrance and ran for it with his duffel, managing clumsy hops over puddles, stumbling, and slipping across the sodden ground until he ducked to slide into the shelter’s dark interior. His vision couldn’t adjust fast enough to see what was inside, so he looked out the entry toward the landing area. A line of four bullet impacts in the mud, filling slowly with mucky ooze, traced his route.
A sharp crack pierced his ears from the bunker’s depths.
“Zapped ’im,” said a calm voice, which sounded like it came out of a hunting camp back home in Pennsylvania.