Sharpshooter by Chris Lynch

he says down low as he begins delicately unpicking limbs from limbs, feet from mouths, noses from eyes.
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    â€œCorporal Lightfoot,” I say as we near the end, the meeting point with the lieutenant.
    â€œYes, Private Bucyk?”
    We are talking as softly as the puffing, dead Vietnamese summer air now. We are doing it without even trying because we couldn’t possibly do anything more strenuous.
    â€œMy guy is starting to smell really bad.”
    â€œI am sure he feels the same about you.”
    Dusk is coming down quickly, and we can just barely see Lt. Systrom and Pvt. Kuns at the side of the trail in the distance. By my count I have shifted this man, this poor, worthy fighter, from one shoulder to the other thirty times. With the four of us ambulatory and the three of them along for the ride, we have each had periodic breaks, yet this has turned out to be backbreaking stuff. Especially with the requirement to stay on watch all the way down the road in case we missed anything the first time or anything new has popped up. Just keeping weapons at the ready is grueling in itself.
    I can see the lieutenant’s scowl from fifty yards. It adds to the weight of the casualty to the point that I just about fall down at the boss’s feet when we meet.
    â€œWhat’s this?” Lt. Systrom asks, and his look doesn’t suggest any answer is the right answer. “You had a duty. And picking up locals, however unfortunate those locals might be, was not part of that duty. So I ask again, why did I send out four men and get seven in return?”
    Lightfoot does not waste words in his answer, reducing it, in fact, to just the very basics.
    â€œMontagnards, sir.”
    The way he is leaning up on his toes and forward, Systrom looks like he has a strong response prepared. Then he retracts.
    He stares at Lightfoot, nods, and pulls up the radio.
    We continue the heavy march, back toward our landing spot as the lieutenant calls for our ride.
    As we lift the last body, then the last of ourselves into the same bullet-holed fiberglass boat that got us here, I feel practically boneless myself. I stumble into a seat next to Lightfoot as the boat motors out onto the river. I look around at everybody looking the same as me. Though not as much as me.
    I am a rookie and feel it.
    â€œLightfoot?” I say into the corporal’s ear. “What’s Montagnards?”
    â€œOur friends,” he says.
    â€œOkay … right. Lightfoot …?”
    â€œShhhh,” he says, and pushes my face away. But gently.
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    Now I know.
    I thought I knew fear, but now I know it.
    I thought I knew horror, but now I know it.
    I thought I knew tired … holy smokes, I thought I knew tired….
    â€œPrivate Bucyk,” Lt. Systrom says from behind me as I’m just about into the mess for some dinner.
    â€œYes, sir?” I say, turning and saluting.
    â€œI just wanted to check in and see how you thought operations went today. Your first real action. It’s not like they tell you it’s going to be, is it?”
    â€œNot even close, sir. If they told me it was going to be like today on my first day, well, I just would have thought they were pulling my leg.”
    â€œRight, well, now you know. Truth is, pretty much every one of your days is going to be a lot like today.”
    I gulp. I know he can hear me gulp. That can’t stop me from gulping again.
    â€œSorry, kid, I should have been more specific. I meant my day today. I lay motionless as a hibernating turtle, covered in leaves on the top of a hill, all day long. Never saw anything to shoot at. Hardly even blinked. That starlight scope, by the way, gets awfully tiresome on the ol’ peep eye after a while.”
    â€œI … would imagine it does, sir.”
    I would also imagine he is telling me this stuff for a reason, but I cannot for the life of me figure out what that reason might be.
    â€œI bet you’re hungry,”