"Sir, are you sure about this?" Pvt. Reynolds asked doubtfully as 2^nd Lt. Bryan Laurel tugged a Viet Cong uniform over his head.
"Completely," Bryan answered, settling the woven coolie hat over his head, hiding his strawberry- blond curls and bright blue eyes. "The Cong can't afford to lose too many more men. We'll have an ambush set."
The six privates fell in behind their leader, pretending to march a POW back towards their little camp. Reynolds and Hall were hacking branches aside - none of the men liked being stuck in the middle of this jungle. They were out of their element, thrown into this obscene parody of a game of cat and mouse. There were cries of alarm when a group of Cong sprang up out of the tallgrass, guns trained on the six marines.
"Drop your guns!" Hall yelled, M16 coming up, cocked and ready to fire. One of the Cong began to yell out in Vietnamese. The six soldiers blinked in surprise when Bryan replied in the same language.
The Cong and the Second Lieutenant began to banter back and forth, leaving the marines more and more confused.
Bryan let out a wild cry and broke free from Reynolds' grip, landing on the nearest Cong and knocking him down.
"Fight!" Hall yelled and let loose a few rounds. The Cong were screaming in confusion as Bryan attacked them as 'one of their own'. Reynolds drew his knife and lunged, stabbing viciously, ignoring the warm stickiness of blood spilling onto his hands.
Wild cries rang out through the trees, Americans and Vietnamese alike shrieking for help.
"Lieutenant!" Hall yelled. "Your gun!"
"I'm fine," Bryan grunted. His hat had been knocked off, and he was fighting hand to hand. He was snapped necks and crushing ribs, tossing corpses aside like they were ragdolls.
"Let's head back to camp," he ordered, drawing a hand across his sweat- and blood-streaked brow.
Reynolds nodded, gripping his rifle, hands white-knuckled, and began to lope through the trees. He wanted to get back to the camp, wanted a reconnection to civilization, if only for the sake of his own sanity. There was a cry, and he turned, even against his body's desire to flee. Hall had stumbled, leg caught in a wayward root. Reynolds turned around and grabbed his arm, pulling.
"C'mon, Hall," Reynolds gasped.
Hall shook his head, and that's when Reynolds saw the dark stain blossoming across the back of his shirt.
"Leave me," Hall breathed. "Grab my tags and go."
Reynolds shook his head, but Hall's eyes were so pleading that he had to obey. Never disrespect a dying man's wishes...
A hand clamped over his wrist when he reached out. Reynolds looked up and met Bryan's blue eyes.
"Go," he ordered, and scooped up Hall. Reynolds blinked, then turned and ran. Glancing back, he saw Bryan loping along gracefully with Hall over his shoulder. They sprinted into the camp as guards sprang into action, M16's blazing and Viet Cong falling all around. Reynolds waited anxiously, hovering over Bryan as the superior officer lowered Hall to a cot, tearing off his shirt and checking over the bullet wound.
"Go out and guard," Bryan ordered, but Reynolds didn't move. Hall was silent, lying facedown at his feet, seemingly dead.
"That's an order, soldier!" Bryan barked, and Reynolds snapped off a salute before scurrying out of the tent. Bryan unsheathed his blade and cut the bullet out quickly, tossing metal aside and pressing his hand against the wound to stop the flow. Hall's body lifted suddenly as he drew in a breath.
Bryan stood up, and helped the dazed man to his feet, handing him his shirt.
Hall blinked, shrugging on his shirt. "I was shot, I was bleeding.."
Bryan smiled gently. "Come on, soldier." They headed out to the fight.
Reynolds smiled when they joined the other five marines.