He follows the luminous dial of his compass southeast towards the river. He’s been moving for a couple of hours. They have to have found the guard by now. This close to Uncle Ho’s road, a known American recon in the vicinity brings risk of bombers and ambush. They like their privacy out here. He finally allows himself some rest in a broken tree trunk after checking it closely for snakes and other nasties. Sitting in its rotted center, he wonders for the hundredth time why he got into this line of work. He’s a long way from Oregon.
As he sat he recalled the portly man sitting across the table in the small town bar 2 years before. Having just graduated college he had no idea what to do with his life. His big-bellied host was pushing beers his direction while telling him about this unit they wanted to start, and that he was the diamond in the rough they were looking for. Several beers later they climbed into his car and headed west. On arrival the next day, in front of a ragged Arizona barracks that was to be his home, he began acquiring the harsh disciplines of combat and evasion. He was to be the rabbit in a world populated with hounds.
The clandestine life was souring pretty fast for him. Young and looking for escape, he had no strong family ties and had little in the way of prospects. Just another misfit, made to order for cold war cannon fodder, spending his last days lying on his belly in neutral corners of Southeast Asia that were impolitic for military recon. His current situation undermined his earlier romance with the lifestyle he had been promised.
Another hour and the valley shadows lightened from the coming sunrise, and steamy mists could be seen above the forest canopy. The sun wouldn’t last. Already he could see the weather moving in. Rain was his friend. It was hard to believe he would have any trouble getting to the river at this point. But he knew his pursuers. The harsh reality was that he was on their turf and he didn’t kid himself about NVA capability. Being in Cambodia didn’t help much either. The Khmer and NVA were uneasy buddies. The Khmer didn’t like anybody. It’s not unlikely they were his real pursuers, having been tipped off by the NVA who had flushed him.
They would probably try to head him off in the clearing ahead, at least 1 or 2 klicks away. He was considering this when he heard the first faint thud. Hitting the dirt near a tree he buried his face in the forest litter as he felt the mortar hit a few hundred meters away. Like herders, they would walk the mortars toward him in the direction he had intended to go, herding him to the clearing in the valley below. It meant they were probably in position there waiting for him. Others would be following the barrage, driving him into the ambush. He would have to keep to the trees and cliffs to the east to have any chance at all. He gathered himself up and began running east to the steeper end of the valley. Staying in cover he would have a fighting chance to work his way out to the river.
The mortar fire kept moving in his direction. It’s possible they watched the trees for flushing birds, but it was uncanny how the mortars followed him. When he moved more easterly it followed. It made him a little panicky as he moved, and he had to remind himself to go slow. He fought the urge to run and took care where he stepped, and scanned ahead before he moved. At times he crawled slowly on his stomach through brush, stopping every few moments to check his surroundings and listen. Inevitably he began to hear them coming.
They were excellent trackers and, however young, effective soldiers. Too long without sleep, he was exhausted and felt trapped in spite of his efforts. Running a little he eased around a stand of trees then froze. A group of Khmer soldiers moved along a small clearing and passed along the south and to his right. He checked the rifle. Gun shots would bring the entire army. Wait, watch and evade. It was a big jungle. He slowly took a northeasterly path, working behind the group, staying in the shadows and checking the way more carefully. Then, turning, walked off a cliff.
V
When Alex awoke the weather was cloudy, edgy with rain. He dressed and ate some left over chili with eggs for breakfast, then pulled on his waders and grabbed his gear. He quickly tidied the camp then was off down the road watching the water from the river bank. An hour into his walk the bank cut left into a familiar back eddy. Large trout were here and experience said they may be induced to take a fly even from the bottom of the eddy. They were greedy little buggers. The fly was a local caddis variation he had tied, along with a dropper carrying a small pheasant-tail nymph.
Watching the foam at the back of the pool where it intersects the river’s current, he casts to its edge. The fly moves right into the foam and swirls around a bit. Once out of sight, he judges its actions on faith. The line suddenly straightens. He sets the hook and the Hardy reel begins to sing. Feeling the usual mixture of thrill and angst, Alex whips up his courage as one poised on the cusp of losing or winning.
The trout is heavy and dives deep. Rod pumping hard, Alex eases up on the pressure to give him some room and he runs some more. So far he hasn’t seen him; he can only feel his weight in the current. Working the rod left, then right, he slowly moves nearer, then makes another break. More angst; but so far, so good. 6x tippet has its limits and Alex knows the longer this goes the shorter its life.
Sun breaks out of the clouds. Its heat on his neck feels good, just like the breeze that freshens on its heels. The trout has started to tire. Pulling it closer, Alex reaches for it. It is spent. A short struggle, then his palm cups it and lifts it from the water. A rainbow, about 18 inches or so, lies in his hand. Heavy in the belly and wide-eyed in anticipation of Alex’s next step. Removing the hook, the trout lies in his hand as he puts it back in the water. After some encouragement it leaves and heads for the bottom of the pool.
The rest of the day is fishless. He chalks it up to the changing weather. The sun has warmed things up considerably as he makes his way back to camp. It’s hot and he’s sweating heavily as he strips off his waders and stands next to the truck in his shorts. Walking gingerly across the grass he wades into the creek and settles slowly into the icy water, soaking his head and lying back as the wind cools his chest and face. Not far away he hears a splashy rise. He smiles, and rising up, walks back to the tent and dries off. With a change to dry clothes he swings by the truck and pulls the scotch bottle out of its box. Pouring three fingers into a cup, he sits in the shade to think and listen to the river.
VI
The fall was short and while he grunted loudly as he hit the rocks and brush below he did not think he cried out. As he lay stunned he slowly began the act of surveying himself for injury. Reaching down his right leg his hand found it straight, but sticky with blood. A small branch from a sapling had pushed itself through his calf. Feeling nauseous and faint he pulled the knife from his sheath and cut through the branch poking out of his leg. As it came away he nearly screamed, and he could feel the first shiver of shock approaching as he dragged himself under the cliff. He pulled himself up against a rock and began removing the branch. Looking the wound over he reached for the butt of the branch and marshalling his will…pulled. Surprisingly, there wasn’t that much blood. He had some bandages in his rucksack and after dusting sulfa into the dressing stuffed gauze into both holes. He wrapped it as best he could and by the time he was finished he was too weak to do more. He passed out under the cliff.
It was evening when he came to. He could hear noise around him and knew they were still looking for him. The leg was stiff and movement at this point was going to be a challenge. He looked for the rifle, but had lost it in the fall. Giving up, he slowly pushed himself deeper under the shelf of the cliff face. He prayed there would be no snakes. It began to rain again, and for all of his misery he blessed the noise and water that would mask his passing. They would have to give up soon.
Lying there, he thought about the last few days and how things had gone to crap so soon. A night insertion by C-119 led to a hard landing, but was otherwise uneventful. He had a pistol and his rucksack with rations for about 3 days. More supplies were cached up a ravine near a trail. He would have supplies enough to make the pre-designated pick up. A boat would come twice. 3 days from now in case things got too hot then another 3 days later. After the second visit he would be on his own. After that he would be dead.
The whole mission had gone south when he moved into position overlooking a village. He spent the day watching their activities and towards the evening began to hear commotion in the huts. Not long after there were screams, and he saw fire and hand grenades exploding. The Khmer were busy. They had their version of the communist ideology and were working hard to outdo the North Vietnamese in installing radical social change. As usual, social change appeared to require less people and the cultivation of victims had begun in the village below. Khmer soldiers, little more than children, ran around with fixed bayonets looking to wiggle the blade in somebody’s innards. He watched as they butchered women and children by the burning fires of the huts below. He moved back and had covered about a klick through the forest when he walked into view of soldiers humping bags and bikes through the forest. Pinned between them and the village, he dropped, hoping he wasn’t seen. It had been stupid going into the village. He was here to monitor NVA movement, not check out the Khmer Rouge meat market.
Staying low, he watched as they wandered on to his trail, then found his cache. They got excited then and sent out runners. Some Khmer soldiers appeared; maybe from the village. At that point he realized that he had to move to the rendezvous point before they cut him off. He moved to the back of the village and edged into a hut that had been partially burned out. He would wait and watch their movements. After some time he decided his path would skirt the perimeter of the camp and, having seen the cigarette of the guard, he decided on his route as it began to rain.
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Price: $6.95 for each issue
The Premiere issue is ready for shipping & the Fall 2008 issue will be available September 1st.
