Fucking Murphy's Law...
You go out into the wilderness on a patrol to find, kill/capture Vietnamese getting too close to Firebase, find nothing, start your way back, and every fricking Vietcong in the world seems to rain down on you. They hadn't seen 'em, of course, because they were lying in wait, and damn good at it too. The going theory in Elliot's head right now was that they'd waited for the team to go out - all serious-like - hellbent and loaded for bear, and then when they got little or no contact, THAT was when they opened up. So, Ego was flapping his lip, and of course he wasn't paying attention as some of their assailants rose out of a gully and opened up, shutting him up. There was a shout of "Down!" from multple voices, including himself, and he'd chucked a grenade as he did so. Last one, bit of a Hail Mary, but he made it. There was a sound of panic and a BOOM, but not silence because Friend Charlie was in a double act, his back-up singers stationed up the hill and working on a crossfire. Elliot got moving, he saw Dwight moving, Mel was...he didn't know, and he thought he heard the Sarge groan.
No idea where Grace was in all this.
She didn't think like other people, or if she did...it was somewhere between survival instinct, his training her, and the Vietnamese themselves. She'd been here for a long time, all on her own. Elliot didn't think Grace had been hit, but...he worried about her, sometimes. He was making his way for the gully. It'd been obscured by brush, and now it was good cover that he was crawling to. The Corporal smiled when he heard the single shot of a rifle, followed by a brief silence. They found one wounded out of three that'd been too close to the grenade to get out in time. He was gashed up. Elliot silently finished him. No time to be shitting around. They'd been had, and good, but this wasn't over yet. The next burst of gunfire was meant for Grace, trying to take her out, and then there was another few bursts that weren't aimed around their positions at all. Elliot looked over at Private Dwight - younger man, nervous in a healthy cautious way - with his eyebrow raised, but then they heard it.
"Filthy Bastards. That'll teach 'em. Alright! All clear!"
It was english, and it wasn't just parroting it. The speaker wasn't garbled or sounding like he was reading from a book.
"All clear!"
But the accent was a bit heavy, the tone about as disingenuous as how nice it would be to have been rescued by a convenient patrol. Elliot didn't buy it, and he shook his head at Dwight, just in case he did. Grace wouldn't pop out unless he called her in. Sometimes, she didn't even take Sergeant Rupert's orders without a nod from him. Pissed him off... Elliot waited.
"Come out, Joe."
That was the end of the speaker's patience, it seemed. It was getting to be a fairly-regular thing. Happened in the last war too. Open up on the enemy, then go quiet or pretend you've been driven off. Then, when they least expect it, speak up in their language, getting them to come out. When they poke their heads up, shoot 'em off. Being perfectly honest, he'd asked Grace to do it herself, since she spoke Vietnamese and rather well. Enemy soldiers were trained to speak a few phrases in english to draw out the unwary, but they were also instructed not to wait too long for an answer. The men who'd come down a little from the hill between the trees still got one, though it wasn't the ones they expected. They were braced for gunfire, and they got it, but it was just a couple pistol shots from their left, which they opened up on. Grace was, in all likelyhood, behind a tree when this happened. Elliot and Dwight rose up and opened fire while they fired, plugging them where they stood. Dwight let out a breath.
"I'll be thanking my lucky stars for having her around a while."
"Yeah, fine, good. Go check up on the others, will ya?"
"Right, gotcha."
He scanned around, M60 ready to sound off again. No sign of movement, not even Grace. He didn't expect to hear much. She was almost always quiet. After a moment of Dwight mumbling, he asked.
"Well, how's our jabbering idiot?"
"Not much left of his face."
"Mel?"
There was a pause, then "Dead. Fuck...", which caused Elliot to shake his head. Mel - Private Melissa Jones - was their radio operator, main map reader, and a decent soldier. She'd also been standing closest to Ego and got herself riddled with bullets. Dwight liked her and they'd shacked up a few times. He moved on from her motionless form to the Sarge, whom he reported was still breathing.
"He won't be seeing action in a hurry, but if we get him back-"
"No one's around now, Elliot."
Enter Private Hart, AKA Grace. She got around quietly in a crawl, practiced shallow breathing daily, kept her ears open and her mouth shut 90% of the time, even in safer places. The one disadvantage she had, which made her extra certain to exercise as much stealth as possible, was that she was Albino and therefore had curiously white hair. Nevertheless, as she slid into the gully with him now, it wasn't obvious she was coming apart from subtle sounds of motion and her head poking out of the brush.
"Alright, thank you, Grace. Dwight, get Mel's radio, report in and tell Ember base where to clean up...all this. Then, you and me are gonna haul the Sergeant back and get 'im fixed up."
"...I dunno. I think we should take-"
"The Sarge, who's alive. I know you liked 'er, man, but it's done. Let's get our man back to base. I'll buy you a drink."
"Can I have a cigarette?"
"I'll think about it."
The two men would haul the Sergeant up to his feet, hauling him back to Firebase Ember. Grace would be on watch, since she wasn't a strong case for lifting heavy weights like their current boss-man. The war will probably be over for him for a while, if he lived. IF that was the case, the three remaining here would probably get reassigned. Well, that was for later. First thing's first, right?
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