The chopper lay in the field of elephant grass, the smell of aviation fuel and cordite filled John’s nose as he regained his faculties. Aside from him, the Pilot and Kilgore were all that remained. Kilgore’s voice came from above, where the door of the Huey laid wide open.
“Hey there hero, get a leg on, we gotta get movin’,” the drawl of the Kentuckian rang, his face was a dirty black- haired angel. John grabbed his CAR- 15 and his gear and climbed out of the wreck.
“Now what?” the Pilot yelled, pulling the .45 from his holster and nervously looking around.
“Miller, you got smoke?” Kilgore yelled more than asked.
“Red smoke out!” John replied, pulling the pin and hucking the canister into the clearing.
“Red Rider, this is Outlaw 2-7, need emergency evac over!” Kilgore screamed into the radio. The static filled the silence. “Red Rider, this is Outlaw 2-7 for E and E over!”
“Kilgore look,” John pointed to the hole in the transceiver.
“Oh Come on, damn Charles and the rest of those commie bastards, Miller, pull that sixty off, we are about to be popular,” Kilgore pulled a thermite bomb and set it in the hole in the radio. John had already started to pull the M60 off the pintle when the crackle of the chopper receiver was heard.
“Outlaw 2-7, this is Red Rider. We are 2 mikes from your position, hang tight,” The radio crackled before catching fire. John looked over to the jungle and started seeing movement. He harkened back to watching his sister’s ant farm and thinking of the little tunnels teeming with life. Only now the life was about to start shooting.
The first round pinged from the hull of the chopper, which caused John to abandon his salvage and take position. Kilgore and the Pilot dropped down into the elephant grass, as John hopped down and nearly landed on Kilgore. The wood line erupted in a hail of gunfire as the sounds of incoming choppers pulled into the valley. The first slick landed and offloaded four others dressed like John. His eyes caught Lombardi just as Lombardi opened fire with a modded RPD machine gun. Harper, next to Lombardi, started to run over to the three men as John and Kilgore opened fire.
“Shit fire, you seemed to piss off the whole NVA man,” Harper said “Me and Lombardi are gonna take the pilot, you two take the next slick with Franks and Buford,”
“Aww does this mean we aint goin steady?” Kilgore joked. A green tracer left a burning hole where Harper’s temple had been. Suddenly, darkness took John and all he heard was ambient noise. ‘This is Arc Light, danger close’.
The aroma of the Colombian blend coffee seeped into the brown sunlight through the motel blinds. John snapped back to the reality of the spartan motel room. His jacket draped over the chair sitting in the corner acted as the ghost of what was to come. It was almost a decade after Vietnam, and over a decade since he’d been home to visit family. Lost in the autonomic movement of pouring the coffee until the burning sensation hit his hand snapped him back to the here and now. It always did.
His thoughts in the last few days dwelt on his team, Dan Franks, Gary Buford, Tony Lombardi, Wayne Kilgore, and Roy Harper. There were others, Montagnards, South Vietnamese Army Rangers, all of whom he could see with the vividness of a movie screen. The sting of the coffee lapping up on his skin jerked him back, a sign of his hands shaking again. John set the cup down and took a seat adjacent to the bed. He wiped his hands then his eyes, tears coming loose until a stream began to pour from each corner. The voice of Harper and Lombardi rang, disembodied in the echoing silence of the room. The memory passed like a thunderstorm, as he noticed the clock ticked away. An hour passed before he decided to stand again and get dressed, shaken but back to reality.
It was around seven thirty in the morning when John stepped out of the room, dressed in the faded denim jeans complimented with an untucked plaid flannel shirt, and a pair of brown harness boots. His leather jacket with a denim vest stretched as he paid for the room to the terrified morning clerk. The look was like the stripes of a coral snake to the wise, stay away and mind your business. He was a teddy bear however, smiling and attempting a joke with the clerk before heading to the bobbed Harley in the parking lot.
The motorcycle started up with a cacophony as it revved when John pulled on to the highway. His mind became more alert the farther north he went. In Vietnam, he had a team, guns, ammunition, radios, the whole works. Going into Cambodia in ’68 was easier than the ride from Texas to his parent’s home in St. Charles Illinois. He revved the engine harder, driving like he was being chased by the hounds of hell on his rear tires. Weaving between the cars on the road, he was only four hours away from his destiny. His eyes watching for police and slow-moving vehicles on the road heightened his nerves.
Somewhere around Joliet he pulled into a service station and everything in his body cried out to keep going east and head to the mountains. Literally anywhere else but the quaint quiet of the Midwest. ‘Anywhere but here man’ a voice echoed in his mind.
“Hey long hair, hold up a minute!” a voice called out over the sound of the pump. A man in coveralls came ambling to John. His heart fluttered, he reached into his pocket and grabbed a roll of quarters and readied for a fight.
“What you want?” John asked, waiting for the smell of ozone before the fight.
“Easy there fella, just noticed you’re from Texas, wonderin’ if you got a bit lost is all,”
“Heading up to St. Charles to see some family, then I’ll be on my way,” John relaxed his grip on the quarters and dropped his shoulders.
“Ahh, well best of luck to you, careful when you get around Aurora, Smokies are all over the place,” The old man turned and walked back to the entrance to the station leaving John to himself. That same feeling of dread washed over him like it had before so many times in the jungle. And this time, he was alone.
John finished pumping gas and walked into the station to pay for what he owed. The portly attendant stood chatting with two other men in coveralls near the counter. John felt exposed as they all looked at him walking toward the counter, causing his heart to leap to his throat. He pulled a wallet out of his back pocket and pulled out three dollars.
“Pump said two fourteen,” John said quietly.
“You’ll have to speak up sonny, I can’t hear too good,” The attendant replied
“Paying for gas,” John said louder, placing the money on the counter.
“Can’t tell if it’s a woman or a man,” one of the men in coveralls said
“More man than you’ve ever been geezer,” John said, turning to the cigarette machine, buying a pack of Camels.
“Now listen here hippy, we don’t like your kind around here,” the man replied, closing the distance. John pulled the cigarettes from the machine and pocketed them as he stepped out of the door. He didn’t look back, just running out to his motorcycle. The station attendant had held the man back, buying him time to get back out on the road. Before John could really think clearly again, he was already back on the highway heading north towards Aurora. The adrenaline rush started to wane, and John began to feel the fatigue. The sign for St. Charles passed him, his destiny only moments away.