Keeping Watch by Laurie R. King Page B

of the breathing space of peace that past experience led everyone to expect, the celebrations set off a paroxysm of violence that ran from the delta to the demilitarized zone. VC and NVA alike rose up from one end of the country to the other, even in areas assumed to be secure. Saigon in the south came within a hair’s breadth of falling, the Marines in Hue to the east were awash in blood, battalions near the DMZ came close to being overrun. The grunts hunkered down and met the enemy, and it was a close thing, but by the end of February, it was apparent that the Tet offensive had stalled. Westmoreland claimed a victory on his way out the door, but when Walter Cronkite came to see for himself, he declared to the American people that the war was lost. The men on the ground figured both authorities were right; at the same time, they knew it would be a long time before anyone recognized it.
    In early March, Allen’s platoon lifted out for five days of turnaround time near the coast, hot food, cold beer, real bunks, and above all, someone else to stand guard. The five days passed in a welter of fistfights and fucking and they returned to their part of the jungle more tired than when they’d left.
    Still, it had been a change, and had let them take a small step away from the craziness.

    And then there was what was called “friendly fire”: Artillery was given wrong coordinates, overheated guns misfired by one or two degrees, gunships laying down white phosphorus were given incomplete information or failed to see the smoke markers. Whoever came up with the phrase no doubt did not intend its flavor of bitter irony—that came from the victims.
    Late March; raining. First and Second Platoons had been out for the better part of a week, slopping through the deluge, trying to keep their M16s dry, looking like mud men, the noise of the rain on their steel hats deafening them. The point man in the next squad up had his bush hat on, no protection from flying steel but it kept the rain out of his eyes and gave him a chance to hear something other than pounding rain. Still, not even he heard the gunship coming up the turgid, red-brown stream. Allen’s squad was picking its way through the waist-deep water, rifles over their heads, when the Slick came upon them. The gunship had taken ground fire in this same place three times the previous day and its crew was antsy; when it swooped around a curve in the stream and saw heavily draped men carrying burdens, the gunner opened fire.
    The Huey had turned and was taking a return pass before one of the men in Alpha Squad managed to free a smoke canister and set it going. Fortunately it was one of the yellow ones, visible even in the half-light of the rain and the streambed, because the helicopter bearing down on them abruptly pulled up and sailed past; the gunner stared down appalled at his handiwork, like a god who has mistakenly summoned lightning against his own priests.
    Of the twelve men caught crossing the stream, four were down, two trapped underwater by sixty pounds of equipment. Allen flung his rifle in the direction of the bank and splashed after the nearest spread-eagled figure. He grabbed the man’s foot, then his own boot went out from under him and he went down, bouncing along the stream bottom until he fought clear of pack, grenades, bandoliers, and flak jacket, staggering upright, gagging and coughing as he tried to shout for help, but when he dashed the water out of his eyes, all he saw was the downed man in the fast-moving center of the stream, gaining momentum. He waded after the figure, slow as a bad dream, then flung his helmet aside and dove in unencumbered. Ten, fifteen strokes, and he had hold of the boot again. He clawed at belt, equipment, anything. The body seemed determined to head for the distant China Sea but, cursing and choking, Allen managed to get the senseless weight turned faceup.
    Streak.
    Allen hawked the mud from his throat and