Prince of Peace by James Carroll Page A

operating on instinct, like a natural driving for the basket. He didn't know from one instant to the next what the moves would be, but he was in such perfect control of himself that even Pace, sensing Maguire's innate competence, was able to come back from the edge of panic.
    They were crouched low, descending the slope easily, each with his rifle and his pair of grenades slapping against his field jacket. The morning light was bright already, but the sun was not above the hills yet and a broad shadow stretched across the ravine that separated the two hilltops. Pace followed the contour line toward an outcropping of rock that would give him shelter, while Maguire plunged directly across the undulations of the rough terrain. When he reached a thatch of waist-high brush in the crease of the gully, he stopped and hid. He could count the Chinese, even in their crude camouflage—more than twenty—but he could no longer see the plateau where the wounded GIs lay. He couldn't see the helicopters either, but he could hear them approaching from beyond the hilltop. All at once he felt he'd made a terrible mistake. He'd surrendered his position on high ground and now was below the enemy. They had every advantage. But the high ground hadn't been in rifle range. He caught Pace's eye and waved him on. Pace's reluctance to leave his cover was obvious, but Maguire stared at him until he set out again. They angled up the hill behind the Chinese as the yapping sounds of the choppers grew louder. The Chinese heard the helicopters too, of course, and, obviously hoping to snare one or both of them, they began climbing toward the pinnacle with abandon, no longer creeping stealthily or taking care to crouch. Instead of slaughtering a few wounded, their glory could be the destruction of the dreaded American machines.
    Maguire and Pace threw their grenades within seconds of each other. The explosions, coming out of nowhere and without the prelude of the artillery whine, stunned the rearmost Chinese, as if the earth itself had burst against them. The two Americans threw again, and by the time that second pair of grenades exploded, every Red on the hill had stopped. They never expected the enemy from behind.
    The grenades killed or wounded a handful and the nearest Chinese took cover. Only those approaching the crest of the hill resumed running and, silhouetted against the sky, they were the ones Maguire and Pace chose as targets. The GIs were riflemen. This was what they'd trained to do, and they concentrated on lining up their sights and squeezing their triggers. They fired successive volleys, and the frontline Chinese began to fall.
    A cloud of dust spilled over the ridge; the choppers were landing.
    The Chinese patrol was under cover now, and some of its members had begun to fire back at Maguire and Pace, but against the shadow of the valley they presented obscure targets. Nevertheless Maguire fell prone behind a mound of dirt. He replaced the magazine of his carbine and pressed off several quick rounds. When he looked over at Pace it was like seeing a man about to walk off a cliff. Pace was still standing bolt upright and shooting his weapon efficiently, aiming carefully each time he pulled the trigger, as if he were on the firing range. Maguire wanted to yell "Get down!" but Pace wouldn't have heard him. Maguire resumed firing too; it was all he could do. Had Pace snapped? Or was it only his determination to show Maguire that he was not chickenshit? Maguire knew already that the big lunk was going to be hit, and that filled him with nausea and with guilt.
    Like an apparition in a cloud the first chopper appeared above the lip of the ridge, lifting off unsteadily in a great roar, but instead of gaining altitude it jerked down along the curve of the hill toward Maguire. The second helicopter swooped up and immediately away.
    Now the Chinese all over the hill began firing at the chopper instead of at Maguire and Pace, but the wash from the