The sound of distant gunfire reached Ryan’s ears and he paused, turning. Someone was in the shit, and it sounded like it was heading their way. He snapped his rifle to semi, raising it and orienting towards the sound of the gunfire.

“Gunfire to the rear, stand by. It sounds like they’re closing.”

No sooner had he spoken than things went hairy. Two men, clearly friendlies given their height, crashed through the undergrowth and barreled through his formation. Only his recognition of their sheer mass kept him from lighting them up. Ryan’s eyes went wide at the sight of the charging Viet Cong, and he responded with kind of immediacy that comes from 15 years and two theaters worth of experience, reaching out and snagging Hoffman by the radio and dragging him to the ground.

“Contact rear!” he bellowed, his parade-ground voice carrying over the nearing gunfire. Belly-crawling rapidly to a nearby log, he braced his rifle and let loose a 10-round burst of initial suppressing fire from his 20-round magazine, sweeping across the approaching enemy from left to right. He’d loaded with 18 to save the weak spring, and spent two on the initial attack at the Huey. That left one in the chamber, five in the mag. He switched to semi.

“Derricks, get that pig up! Suppressing fire on the right side, rapid rate! Dodgers, put a forty-mike just in front of them on the left flank!”

He saw two VC stagger and fall to his carefully-aimed rounds, then ejected his empty magazine and loaded a fresh one with practiced finesse. He worked methodically, remembering the old adage from grunt school so many years ago. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast, fumble and die.

He slapped out for Hoffman, dragging him bodily by the scruff of his fatigues up beside him at the log.

“I want controlled, aimed rounds on the center. Pick your targets and drop ‘em.”

Then he leaned over the log and grabbed the (slightly) smaller of the two by the sleeve, urging him to crawl over into cover.

“Get over here and engage!” he bellowed, pressing himself hurriedly back down into the dubious safety of the fallen log.

Ryan sighted back in himself, filled with the cold rage of combat that he was so familiar with. These troops were his boys, and as far as he knew were the last of the survivors. These VC were trying to kill them. They’d pay. He resumed firing, trusting to his men to follow his orders and do what they’d been trained to do.

Chris waved away hungry mosquitos and hummed softly to himself as they walked along, keeping his eyes on the landscape around him, dropping every few steps to check the ground. The popping sounds in the distance caught his attention, it might have been AKs but there was other gunfire mixed in.

“Shit,” he said, looking towards the tall figures scrambling towards them. Americans, obviously. He did not have time to react to what was chasing the men when he was yanked to the ground by Davis. The young man got his rifle up and ready, feeling the panic kick him in gut as the grass obscured the enemy but he could see the bursts of fire from their rifles among the vegetation. The two men looked beat up but were still able bodied as they crashed into their position. Chris raised his rifle as the M-60 started firing off to one side. The adrenaline kick started his heart, it felt like it wanted to punch through his chest, the thrill of fear racing down his spine. These were not the VC they were worried about coming to the crash site, that was another direction, these were even more. Fuck the hills around them were crawling with Charlie who obviously had nothing better to do than track down a handful of lost soldiers. Didn’t they have fucking water buffalo to take for a walk? Assholes.

Looking up sharply when Sergeant Davis grabbed his jacket and hauled him towards the log, Chris scrabbled forward, “Yeah, Sarge.”

He followed instruction, the habit ingrained in boot camp that was still fresh in his memory. Chris aimed at a conical hat bobbing and lowered it slightly, sighting the chest and fired. The urge to go full auto was strong but if the VC didn’t kill him, Davis would surely strangle him for wasting ammo. Instead, he took a deep breath, picking another man who was raising what looked like an American made Garand rifle and Chris shot at him, leading in as the man dashed towards the cover of a thorn bush.

Pop, pop, pop!

Closing his eyes instinctively as the bark flew up and hit him in the face, he was glad for once for the birth control glasses the Army forced him to wear. Turning his head, he spotted Charlie with the offending AK-47, shooting rapidly as the Cong ducked back down.

“Fuck!” he swore as the man returned fire, Chris could hear the snap of the bullet as it whizzed by his ear. Charlie was aiming right for him, personally trying to kill him. And it pissed the laid back surfer off. “Fuck that asshole!”

Squirming down, he fired over the log, risking Davis’ wrath by spraying the area he saw the shooter duck down in. It worked as he saw the flash of the AK stop and never start back up, he must have hit him. “Yeah, man, got him, Sarge.”

He had to pause and reload, glancing over at Bobby D as he pounded his position with the machine gun, Buck right there to feed the hungry pig. Chris rolled back over and took another few shots before the M-16 jammed.

“Damnit!”

A new rise of panic hit him, with his gun he was a god, without it he might as well have been a rabbit cowering. Chris fumbled with it, putting the safety on and yanking out the magazine as his hands shook while he tried to unjam it. He banged the mag against his helmet and slapped it back in, unclicked the safety and turned back to fire once more. It worked, his gun jumped back to life as he pulled the trigger.

"Muthafucka." There wasn't much time to pick a spot and get ready to hand Bobby more belts, but he made sure to find themselves a nice little mound in the ground to work from, because the one thing you wanted in combat was something to put your head behind if you had to. There were targets there, but nothing quite in range for his shotgun, and they were cut off, so wasting ammo wouldn't get him chewed out, it'd get him in deep shit if he wasn't careful.

The Sarge called for rapid suppressive fire, and the way the two of them worked was that Buck would spot them and call out how far to adjust the MG fire, because he was generally keeping eyes out for any threat to their actual position, as well as blowing away anything that got too close.

The AK had a distinctive sound compared to an M-16; a slower rattle of fire that you knew instantly as AK-47 fire once you'd heard it a couple of times. That shit was firing in their direction, followed by the impact of rounds nearby, "Ten-thirty left!" Barnes howled as they dropped behind the cover for a second, listening to the rounds thwack into the dirt berm they were making themselves small behind.

He was waiting now, his shotgun clutched in hand and him rolled over onto his side, ready to jump up and zap any Charlie that got too close when Bobby poked the pig out and started firing again.

Hiding behind cover, Bobby checked that the pig was still good. He checked the barrel for any signs of overheating. He'd heard stories about other MGs getting their sights warped from heat. So far Jack Johnson never had that problem. Motherfucker was as cool as James Brown sipping a milkshake in a snowstorm. Bobby heard the AK gunfire slow and looked at Buck. He gave him a cautious nod and Bobby checked that Jack Johnson's feed way was still loaded and the belt had enough ammo to last another round of fire. Locked and loaded, Bobby turned and aimed for where Charlie had been seconds before.

"Got something for your ass," Bobby said as he fired in three and four round bursts. "Got something for all you motherfuckers!"

He saw movement out the corner of his eye, black pajamas. He cursed and tried to turn Jack Johnson in time. But the fucker was in too close for him to properly turn and let into him.

"Nine o'clock," he yelled at Buck. "Get the motherfucker!"

He twisted, shotgun in line with his eyes, shouldered, to where Bobby said to swivel and he cut loose with the shotgun; basso boom, hard recoil, and a fast rack, but he kept it smooth. The man in black pajamas crumpled with a cry, though it wasn't as if the buck went right through the man he could see the flesh and blood from the messy wound the shotgun blast created. Army-issue #4 put a lot of pellets out, but it didn't have much penetrating power, which was sometimes frustrating. Some of the country boys could probably get more powerful ammo shipped out, like double ought buck, but what the fuck did his family, back in the Bronx, know about buckshot? Hell, he didn't know anything about shotguns until he got into this bitch.

"Black power!" It just sounded right, and it let Bobby know the threat was off his ass.

But he'd learned. By God, he'd fuckin' learned. Just like he learned to pop one more shell into the magazine while he had a moment to do that, even as he resumed his watch over the field so he could call the targets to Bobby.

Wyatt jumped out of the helicopter, which was going to make a crash landing nearby the jungle. There were only two parachutes on the helicopter and Wyatt grabbed one, as he was the most important person in the helicopter- besides the guy with the radio. He didn't know what happened next as he jumped out of the helicopter and soon opened his parachute up. Soon, he was stuck on top of the jungle trees as it got caught in the tree branches. He got used to the jungle by now, as he had been in this hellhole since the start of the war.

He soon grabbed his knife from his pocket and started to cut the ropes for the parachute. He got done cutting as soon as he fell towards the ground, of course he landed on his sides and breathed heavily as he felt the heat of the jungle. He put his knife back in his pocket as he tried to remember where the helicopter was going to land. He began to walk northward, thinking that was the way that the helicopter was going to land on. He kept on a moment until he almost stepped on one of those punji stakes, which he had weekly soldiers that had landed in the stakes. The stake wasn't camouflaged, which meant that the threat is nearby.

Before he could react to the trap, he was hit in the behind and soon landed on the ground near the stake. He began to walk around as he heard footsteps, not his own footsteps, and soon grabbed his pistol. Before he could get a grip on it, he was tackled by someone and soon they were on the ground. Wyatt punched the guy as many times as he could; but, he could just get the guy to let go as he soon was on top of Wyatt. He began to get punched as he tried to reach for his gun on the ground next to him. He got a hold of the gun and aimed the guy, which he fired and the bullet went right pass his arm.

The Charlie soon fell to the ground and began to shout something at Wyatt as he grabbed his pistol and rushed away from the guy. He soon was lost as more shouting was heard and then he decided to stop, thinking that it was pointless to run for them. He aimed his pistol and shout out loud, "You will never get me!". As soon as Wyatt saw a Huey rushing towards him, he fired and saw the guy dropped to the ground. Dead or not, he wasn't going to move anytime soon, as Wyatt began to shoot at the Charlies. Most of the time he would miss and sometimes he would hit him near the chest area. He wasn't waiting his time to aim at the head; but, he wanted them to get away from him. That didn't happened as Wyatt was tacked by two guys. His pistol was now gone within the darkness of the jungle, he was ready to surrender and accept his defeat.

"I surrender." Wyatt said shamefully and in an upset tone as he was kicked in the chest about eight times before the other Charlies made him stop. Wyatt knew that he got it coming from shooting at their 'friends' and he soon was punched in the face. They One of the Charlies was on top of Wyatt as he kept punching and punching until he lost sight in one of his eyes. The Charlies was clearly shouting and laughing as they beat Wyatt up. He decided to make a shout for help, thinking that the guys in the helicopter would in the jungle by now.

"I said I surrender, you slope eyed mo-" he tried to shout before he was punched in the face once more. They were laughing and one of them shoved the other in a joking matter. They made Wyatt sit on his knees and they were about to kick him once more; but, they began to drop dead as gunshots rang out. With one eye, he saw Tommy walking towards him and Wyatt gave him a bloody smile as he was helped up by Tommy. He walked over and grabbed his things as Tommy handed him a M16 replacement. It wasn't the same; but, it was a good gun to use in the jungle.

When Tommy tried to talk to Wyatt about the rest of the Charlie's occupants, he just shook his head. He was just trying to take in the damaged eye, which caused him to not speak for that second. And when it was all too peaceful, gunshots were heard once more. Before he could react, Tommy quickly grabbed him and ran for them. He didn't know what to do about him being dragged; but, a least his life was being saved again.

They were running for the Charlies, their bullets, and the shouting for what seem to be hours until they crashed into another person. Thankfully, he was an American. Then he was grabbed and pushed into cover by someone. It was too much it take in and he had been in Vietnam since the war started.

He dropped his M16 to try to breath for a bit until he turned his head to see the other Americans, fighting back against the Charlies. He had to fight aside them, so he got up and grabbed his M16. He walked towards Ryan and began to fire at the enemy with his damaged eye. He said to Chris as he was firing, “I want to help you guys kick their asses.”.

Thomas nearly ran into Sergeant Ryan and his men, nearly shouting out loud before he stopped, throwing himself into the undergrowth.

There was crossfire going everywhere, with the Americans firing at all directions towards the Charlies. Tommy loaded up his rifle, taking the safety off, and began to shot carefully at the men in conical hats.

"Sarge!" he shouted in his Irish accent, "What do you want me to do!?"

Thomas had to cover himself from all angles, and missed quite a few shots. This didn't deter him from attacking the VC, though.

“Derricks, get that pig up! Suppressing fire on the right side, rapid rate! Dodgers, put a forty-mike just in front of them on the left flank!”

“I want controlled, aimed rounds on the center. Pick your targets and drop ‘em.”

"Hooah," Dodgers said, peering through the haze of humidity underbrush and all the visual garbage. He could make out the black pajamas and conical coolie hats. Raising Thumper he sighted in the approximate range. One of the VC raised up and had began to charge out there on the left side. -You-. It was his only thought as Dodgers triggered the grenade launcher. It bucked slightly with it's customary th00mp! A forty millimeter grenade shot across the distance so fast that it was nigh invisible. Being directly behind it's flight path Dodge could see it though. It arced gently, rising a little, and then coming down to hit the VC in the chest. A bright orange-white flash of the explosion threw human hamburger in all directions, adding to the shrapnel with human bone fragments and teeth.

Two other VC went down, one of them with a spurt of blood from the neck, the next one over... blood leaking from his ears, a side effect of the pressure wave and concussion. Dead or dying? Dodge wasn't sure, maybe just got his eardrums ruptured, but still... The firing stopped for a few moments in surprise and shock, at least from the VC boys. The poor Cong had exploded like he'd been hit by an angry god.

Dodge simply slipped another grenade from his bandolier and put it in Thumper. "Ya want another Sarge, I only have four left, one in the tube," he said in between ripples of gunfire.

At the moment he was crouched down by a tree that was almost three feet thick. Had he had time to really marvel at it he would have. For the moment it was his shelter in the rain of metal death, but most of the fire hadn't been directed his way. Now though, bark began to explode off the sides of the tree, while the dirt rippled around, and the bush was torn up, some of it beginning to fall.

"Ya want another Sarge, I only have four left, one in the tube,”

Ryan scanned the enemy. The fire was slackening, Viet Cong diving for cover under the effective suppressing fire from Derricks and his beloved Jack Johnson. The grenade had done its work as well, shredding one Charlie and putting two others out of commission.

“Negative,” he called to Dodgers. “Save ‘em. Switch to your rifle, help Derricks pin ‘em down!”

He quickly evaluated the situation. The left flank had been decimated, most of the enemies near the grenade blast having scuttled towards the right side of the line. The Cong there were effectively pinned down. If he had more men and more ammunition, he’d have kept the squad in place and continued whittling away at the enemy, but he didn’t have that luxury. Their guns would run dry sooner rather than later, the M60 in particular, and that would spell disaster. It was time for a calculated risk.

Fire-and-maneuver was a mainstay of the US Army infantry, and something they drilled constantly in training. If they were to have any hope of seeing the World again, risk had to be weighed against reward. It would be dangerous, but if they were quick and vicious and used the trees as cover, they'd have a clear shot at the enemy from their unprotected right flank. Executed properly, it would be a close-range slaughter.

Ryan took a breath, fighting down the flutter of fear that twisted his gut, then quickly bear-crawled to his right. He hauled himself upright behind a thick, solid tree, then began calling commands.

“Hoffman! Stay put, keep picking targets! You, Doc!” he pointed at the tall medic, easily identifiable by the med-bag on his back. “Stay in cover, but start putting rounds down range. Help suppress them.”

He scanned his remaining men, then pointed at the other tall newcomer, the one with the Irish lilt.

“You, you’re with me. Pope, you too! Get over here to my position, we’re gonna flank these motherfuckers. Derricks, once we head off give us a five-count, then hit Charlie with a 40-round spray; I want full suppression! Then slow down and pick your targets, start spraying at individuals who poke their heads out. Barnes, you come with the flanking team. Let’s put that shotty to use. Move it out, gents, we need to end this now!”

Thumper was loaded, but Dodge transitioned to his M16. Selector was set to semi auto with the flick of a thumb and he sighted up, getting his sight picture. Edging around the right of his tree, he poked his barrel out and waited for Charlie to pop his head out. One did, the coolie hat popping up just enough for eyes to peer over the log. Giving a partial exhale, and feeling his pulse he waited just long enough to catch the space and squeezed on the trigger. The gun barked and bucked once, but not nearly as bad as some of the hunting rifles he'd shot back home.

His aim was for the brim of the hat. Aim small, miss small. Least that was what he had been taught. A dark spot appeared on the straw hat just above the brim, centerline just before it disappeared below the log. "Come on," he said quietly, his voice low, barely above a whisper. "Step out and meet Jesus..." he challenged Charlie across the wya though mostly he was talking to himself.

Just as he suspected another was bout to pop up for a pop shot, he squeezed the trigger again. Becca bucked against his shoulder, spitting a little bit of brass off to the side. Air was the only thing in the immediate vicinity tha he hit, but it might well make them keep their heads down.

Daniel maintained his position, squeezing off shots wherever he could at any Charlie he could see. These sons of bitches sure were everywhere, but they were going down faster than one could blink. The M60 definitely did a good job at suppressing these guys, which took a load of pressure off of everyone else squeezing off shots one-by-one from their M16s. It also definitely did people favors, if one of them jammed (which they inevitably will), they had time to clear the issue. The Sergeant had already situated himself behind a log, which was plenty good cover, considering it was about 3 feet thick. While everyone else was busy firing away, Daniel was simply popping controlled shots at anyone he could see. With every few shots he could see some Charlie fall. However, he didn't know if that was him, but he was damn sure he was at least contributing. The steady popping from his M16 allowed him to get into a rhythm, being able to recognize a target and firing on them almost immediately. It was pretty nice, knowing that they actually were holding off this swarm of Vietcong.

Before long though, he could hear First Sergeant Davis dishing out orders. As he dictated who did what, Daniel maintained a mental list and keeping track of who went where. As he heard his name called out, he looked over to where Davis was. He turned back to the firefight going on in front of him. He squeezed off a few more shots before backing away from his spot, moving over to where their leader was. He was ready to execute a flanking maneuver, eager to end this firefight as soon as possible.

Chris did as he was told, staying against the log and picking his targets. A hat bobbing up or a muzzle flash, a glimpse of black pajamas as one of the VC made a dash. He fired steadily, trying to make every shot count. He was not unaware that the amount of enemy in the jungle versus the time they might be out there was not in their favor, conserving ammo was going to be crucial.

As he searched the long grass he saw one man pop up with something clutched in his hand. "Fuckin' grenade!" he centered on the man’s chest as he stood to throw it and fired of several shots, hitting him in the center mass, the grenade dropping a few feet away with the limp throw. He ducked his head down as it blew up harmlessly, the only victim was the Chuck already dying from the M-16 rounds.

Chris licked the sweat from his lip and squinted, his glasses slipping down a little. He could hear Davis start his count and he focused on any movement in front of him. Once they moved, he laid down the fire to keep any VC ahead of them distracted and concerned with the barrage of bullets. He emptied the rest of the clip, snatching up another and slapped in place, raising his rifle in time to fire at Charlie taking shots at Derricks manning the machine gun.

He didn't like leaving Bobby back there and him up with the white boys, but that was the sergeant's orders, and sometimes you just had to hold your nose and follow orders. He off-loaded the belts for the pig, though, because Bobby was gonna need them, onto a GI towel to keep them from getting fouled and it was bad news to take the pig's ammo into a close assault type situation. He was tempted to take a drink of the canteen, but nixed the idea -- if he survived, he'd take down an entire canteen, giving Bobby half so they could both get some down without taking too much and cramping, because leaving it half-full meant it would slosh around, and the little shit...that's what counted. It was optimistic planning, figuring to survive the close assault, but he had to think positive out in this muthafucka. A canteen of water was something to look forward to.

He moved toward Ryan's position carefully, keeping his eyes peeled as he moved with one of the others, feeling strangely exposed without Bobby D nearby. He tried to pick out the cover ahead of time, figuring out where he could get on his belly in the dirt if the whole thing got bad and they had to advance under fire, all while his knees started doing their knock routine. In a normal situation, hitting like this made sense, but the problem in the back of Buck's skull was that they were cut off. There was no other squad. It was just them in this bad bush with black pajamas everywhere all around them. He knew that as soon as the fighting was done, down to the second, they'd have to di-di out of there and play cat and mouse with Charlie. Usually, US Army was doing the hunting, but this time, they were the meat and this was Charlie's back yard.

Tommy saw the Sergeant point at him, "You, you're with me." and began to ran over to him, ducking his head to avoid getting shot by the VC, or even his own side's crossfire. Halfway to him, Tommy tripped on the undergrowth, shouting out, "Shit!" as he scrambled to get back onto his feet.

Just as he got up, he saw a couple of Charlies, and aimed his gun at them. He aimed his sights right at one of their heads, and shot a couple of times, but missed. He lowered his aim to the chest, where he hit. He aimed at the other Charlie's chest, and got it after a couple of shots. He continued his journey over to the Sergeant, and ducked nearby. "What do you want?" he asked, breathing heavily from getting tripped up.

Colonel Le Cong Hung chomped casually on a thick Cuban cigar as he looked upon the slumped body of Han Chien.

"So my friend," Le said softly. "Here ends your legend."

The Colonel was a wiry, small man of sixty. Wisps of iron hair descended from a ragged French military cap. Half a dozen American dogtags swung from his neck. He had cold and calculating eyes, and it was often said he could see right through someone's intentions just by glancing at them. Though behind his aged, hardened exterior of a war hero who had seen ten too many battles, Colonel Hung was a kindly man.

"Have him and his men buried, I will not let the forest make mockery of their forms," Le said.

Captain Thuan gave the Colonel a crisp salute, in the western style. Colonel Hung let the gesture go, deciding not to make an issue of it. If there was one thing the Colonel disliked, it was his men mimicking the Americans - but Chien needed to be buried, and reprimands could wait until after his killers had been found.

"Americans, Americans," he grumbled, "always so troublesome. Why are you here? Why are you maiming and killing my people?"

As if to highlight his words, the front of the nearby crashed UH-1 burst into smoke and flame. Two of Hung's men flew backwards, their jungle-green BDUs torn and bloodied by shrapnel. Half the company threw themselves to the floor, thinking they'd been hit by a mortar. Colonel Hung just stood there, letting the smoke and anguished screams wash over him as if he'd seen it a thousand times before. Well, he had.

"Americans, Americans," he said, "always so resourceful."

Hero Company (although officially designated B Company, Lima Battalion), had arrived on the back of a dozen Urals - courtesy of Russia. Chien's flare had been spotted by the village a short time previous, and a local VC operative informed the Colonel of the sound of intense gunfire across the river.

Colonel Hung was a man renowned for his speed and efficiency; he could almost march his men through the jungle quicker than the Americans could fly over it, or so they said. Hung did not purport the foolishness of this belief, but he did not deny it either. The peoples needed a hero in these dark days of napalm bombs and massacres. He was it. With all of this in mind, his arrival from his nearby "fort" had been a swift affair. He knew the American choppers had crashed in the area, and knew there may have been survivors; his company was ready to move before Chien's flare was even spotted.

Even now, he could hear the distinctive rattle of American-borne weapons some distance off in the jungle. He figured they'd run into the VC platoon he'd ordered to the second downed UH-1. More than likely, they were out gunned, cut off and moments away from running out of ammo.

But Colonel Hung was not one for leaving things to chance. The Americans, for all their foulness and Imperialist intentions, were formidable warriors. Not like the French, who were impotent fools, no. Americans earned Hung's respect and hatred in equal measure.

"Company," Colonel Hung yelled out over the commotion of the recent grenade detonation. "Send the wounded back to the village, they are heroes. Treat them as such. Bury the dead. In half an hour, we'll find those responsible."

No cheer met the Colonel's words. He didn't like that kind of drama, and his men knew it.

Hero Company leapt into action.



The peasant soldiers of the VC platoon fought and died, as they often did, in the face of the Americans' superior tactics, training and fire power. Their left flank had been obliterated, and the centre was buckling. The right was not fairing any better. No matter how brave the Viet Cong may have been, they were still men, and they did not take to sticking their heads up into the path of streaming lead.

They fought sporadically, firing over their cover, or throwing grenades blindly - hoping to score a lucky hit.

The Americans' intentions were completely hidden from them. They believed themselves safe, so long as they could hold their ground long enough for another cell or allied formation in the area to come to their aid. Considering there wasn't one - save for Hero Company - for a a mile or so, this was unlikely.

Sergeant First Class Davis led his men swiftly but carefully through the jungle, keeping to heavy cover and navigating by the sound of the gunshots rather than direct sight. Pulling off a good flanking maneuver required a rapid, unseen approach, and was governed by the three rules of ambush tactics: speed, surprise, and violence of action.

They covered the yardage between their squad and the Viet Cong swiftly, and Ryan pulled his men up short just out of sight. He spoke quickly and quietly, laying out the basic plan of attack.

“Full-auto. Keep to cover, and use short, controlled bursts. No spray-and-pray. I want your sights on your target before you fire. Barnes, you take the ones closest to us, and hit ‘em hard and fast. I want you pumping that 12 like your dick after a dry spell. Everyone else, choose targets at the mid-to-far points and put ‘em down hard. No grenades; we may need those later. Let’s wrap this up.”

He waited, then heard Derricks cut loose with his suppressive blast and moved forward until the enemy was in sight. They cowered behind their cover, fully expose from his group’s angle, and Ryan raised his rifle.

“Take ‘em,” he growled, then opened fire on a man clinging desperately to an AK-47 about 20 yards away. The five-round burst caught the man in the side and chest, and he went down hard amidst a spray of crimson. The Cong soldiers yelped in terror, jabbering in their incomprehensible language as Ryan and his soldiers tore into them with brutal, accurate fire. After a few deafening seconds it was over, the black-clad forms lying slumped and broken.

“Cease fire, cease fire!” Ryan shouted, waiting for the rounds from the rest of his squad to taper off. He stood for a moment in the sudden silence, watching the bodies for any sign of movement.

“Alright gents, good work. Check the bodies for anything we can use; watch for survivors, and if you find one, put a bullet in him. I don’t want any last-minute martyrs taking one of us out. We’ve got two minutes to rearm, so move fast but smart. If you’re low on ammo, grab an AK and as many magazines as you can carry. These M-16s won’t last forever.”

Bobby laid off the pig while the rest of the squad rooted through the dead dink's shit. He heard the sarge say something about AK's and ammo and looked at his own supplies.

"Shit," he said when he saw what was left.

He wasn't down to nothing, but he couldn't be as free with the fire as he liked since there was no telling how many VC fucks lay between here and the next outpost of civilization. He and Buck would have to economize what was left and he would have to aim really carefully.

"Don't fire until you see the whites of their motherfucking eyes," he said to himself before yelling to the others gathered around the dinks. "Hey, somebody get me one of their weapons. I lost my goddamn pistol when the Huey went down."

Dodge only spent a few more rounds, really only taking shots at confirmed targets. He knew ammo was going to be a premium, and it always went wayyyy too fast... especially in the bush... especially with Charlie sniffing around.

When the element Sergeant Ryan had punched out to the side with opened up he doubled his rate of fire but only long enough to keep things nailed down. Finally, he clicked down on an empty chamber, the bolt kicked back and open. He'd known it was coming up. The last three shots had been tracers, sending golden rays of light over the heads of the dinks behind their cover.

The cease fire order had come through just in time, and he took the moment to reload. "Reloading," he called to his buddies from behind the tree he'd been using for a shield. A press of a button ejected the mag and a new one was slapped in place. The old one was put back. Leave nothing behind, avoid leaving sign if he could, that was the thought.

Standing up, he began to advance on the position of the downed VC fighters, watching the jungle floor for shine off of lines, matted places, and where he couldn't generally see the dirt. Besides tiger traps, there were punji traps and other dangers. Last thing he needed was for a cobra to latch onto his foot the minute he got cocky.

Once the distance had been crossed safely he began checking over the bodies. He came up with 7.62 ammo in several mags, as well as picking up an AK which he function-checked quickly. Seeing as it was in good order, he took the heavier rifle and slung it, then stashed two extra mags.

Soon after he began searching them for anything else that would be of use or would tell them anything. Intelligence they could use. Most of them had nothing but beans and rice, and extra bullets in the storage cord rolls. Reaching down he picked up another AK, pulling a hand grenade out, only to pull the pin, then working carefully, put the grenade under the rifle with the weapon holding the spoon in place. If it were disturbed or picked up, the VC would have another surprise.

Barnes was following orders, but he always took that extra second to place his shots. Sure, you could blast away in close quarters, but this was at a bit of range, and accuracy counted even with a shotgun. It wasn't sawed off and it had a limited spread. But he was there on the assault, the adrenaline surging through him; when he saw a Cong move, he swiveled and fired.

Fire, rack, fire, rack, fire, rack. There was something solid and reassuring about the way the shotgun chambered shells. He wasn't sure if he killed anything, he wasn't looking to see if the rounds hit, because he was too busy avoiding enemy fire after letting a round off.

That close, the Cong were taken off their feet, rattled by the intense sound of so many weapons firing at them, a withering amount of fire scything through the jungle foliage. Even if 5.56 and #4 buck weren't the most powerful of rounds, the volume of fire, and the accumulated noise were enough to put them off their movement; they'd caught them as they were trying to move and that was when any group was most vulnerable, as they tried to move to attack in one direction, only to be caught on the flank. They'd committed and were caught on the wrong foot.

There was a momentary lull in the fighting, or maybe it was just plain over that damn fast, but Barnes was already in cover behind a tree stump and putting rounds into the magazine; he knew his supply was becoming limited, and that was a concern -- he didn't have a backup weapon.

The yell for cease fire couldn't come soon enough, but then they moved forward to check the bodies. "Sarge, maybe we take the hats, blend in a bit. We can always get rid of them if friendlies get in the area, but right now it's our asses hangin' out in the goddamn breeze here." For his part, Barnes was grabbing a couple Cong grenades, and...

"Well, I'll be a sonofabitch." Some of the Cong were armed with AK and SKS's, but one of them were carrying what sort of looked like a grease gun, but wasn't. Still, it was light and handy enough to carry with his shotgun, and there were a couple ammo pouches for it. Buck wasn't looking to be carrying a huge pack of looted equipment through the jungle.

Mindful of Bobby's need, he stripped a revolver and a canteen off another dead Cong and found his way back, "Charlie's gun and charlie's water. Drink up, brotha," he told Bobby after he popped the cork and got some down his own throat.

He was tempted to light a newport, but there probably wouldn't be time to smoke it anyway.

The shout for ceasefire sounded far away, even in the barking voice of the Sarge, the sounds muffled in Chris' ringing ears. Giving his head a shake, he slowly rose, rifle still held tight in his hands. It was unreal, they had been unscathed in that hailstorm of bullets. He got to his feet, he had used up an entire magazine and half of another. That left three spares and hell of a lot of jungle between now and whenever they would reach the river and a possible LZ. He watched a few of the others strip weapons and ammo from the cluster of dead so he moved to join them. As he stepped over the log that had saved his ass, he heard a slight rustle and he snapped his head around. Among the underbrush he saw the sandaled foot of a VC pushing away, belly crawling from the scene. Chris glanced over but the Sarge was busy policing the bodies for ammo so he followed.

Chris pointed his weapon at the wounded man, he could see the leg of the Cong's black pajamas were soaked in blood as the man rolled over. He was well fucked, the white glisten of bone protruding from the man's shin and the odd twist of the lower leg proved that.

"Shit," the surfer muttered, pissed that he was still alive. They stared at each other, bright green eyes and dark slanted ones and Chris realized the man was more of a kid, probably about his age but it was hard to tell with the Vietnamese. He fingered the trigger of his M-16, thinking about Davis' orders to kill any wounded. This dude had to die, he thought, though it's not like he could run away with his leg broken in two. His hands trembled when he saw the guy reach up with his free hand toward his chest. Chris raised his gun but the VC shook his head and took out a chain that hung on his neck.

"What?" he asked when the dying man jabbered at him in his sing song language. "Shut up, come on, man. I don't want to see that."

Chris held the muzzle of the gun near the man's head as he held up a locket with a faded picture of a pretty girl, likely the dude's girlfriend and he thought of his girlfriend waiting back home. So this Chuck had a sweetheart, didn't they all? Gritting his teeth, he shook his head again, taking a deep breath as he put the muzzle of the rifle close. The wounded Cong reached up feebly as if his hand would stop the bullet. He could not leave him alive, broken leg or no. He could tell his backup where they went or maybe shoot at them. Who knew? Maybe he was the one that shot their chopper down and killed the pilots and crew, killed his buddies Jefferson and Anders. Chris had not allowed himself to think of them and he felt tears sting his eyes. Now was not the time. Glancing over the long grass he could hear the others getting ready to leave. He knew if he asked, the Sarge would do it for him but it was a coward's way out. And his dad at told him not to be a coward. For once he would do what his dad told him.

"Fuck it," he breathed out, "Sorry, Charlie."

Chris fired a single bullet into the man's forehead and he fell back, still clutching the photo. He left him there, picking up an AK 47 and two extra mags he found on another body. Rubbing his eyes under his glasses, he realized he had been crying and he flushed red with embarrassment. No one of the others seemed that upset. Chris covered it up, muttering about bark flying in his eyes as he rejoined them.

Spotting Davis, he ducked his head, watching where he stepped, "Good to go, Sarge. Prick didn't get touched."