First Light

It happened one night at oh-dark-thirty. I was asleep in my room on the top floor of a Philippine-style barracks when the sirens went off. I swung my legs out and reached for my trousers. An officer raced past my open door. “We’ve got incoming,” he shouted. “Get out of here now!” I jumped off the bed and made a dash for the nearest bunker. The two-story barracks lay in a line near the camp’s rear perimeter. Behind them, a row of sandbag shelters—one for each barracks. I headed for the closest one. Search lights and illumination rounds lit up the camp. People ran everywhere. I was one of the last men to reach the bunker. It was already full. I had to settle for a space near the open entrance. About two dozen men huddled in the bunker; and like me, most wore only their skivvie shorts. I’m the last one in. The bunker was dark and stone-quiet. It had rained the past several days, so I stood there knee-deep in water. A whiff of sulfur caught the breeze and mixed with the odor of wet wood and canvas. “Isn’t there suppose to be water snakes in these bunkers?” someone in the back said. It wasn’t meant as a joke. No one answered. We just waited as the seconds ticked off. I hate snakes. I peered out just as an illumination round burst overhead and parachuted softly to the ground. Armed men ran to perimeter defensive positions in the eerie orange glare. Then came short bursts of automatic fire. I couldn’t pinpoint the location. “Ours?” the guy next to me asked. “I think so. I don’t know for sure.” I put my right hand on my holster. It was gone! I had left my .38-caliber pistol and spare ammo clips sitting on the chair next to my bed. “Shit!” “What?” “I left my gun behind.” “Don’t worry. I don’t think anyone’s armed.” Maybe not in the bunker, but they sure as hell were outside. Though, at that moment, I wasn’t so much worried about my defenselessness as I was the pilferage value of my weapon. On my way into Da Nang, an Air Force customs official had offered me “good money” for my sidearm. My .38 was much favored over the heavier, standard issue .45-caliber automatic. It had more street value. I felt accountable for my weapon, and I didn’t like the thought of losing it. We stood there waiting … in the water … with the snakes. Tat-tat … tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. Pop-pop-pop. “Enemy in the wire,” from somewhere down the line. The night sky came ablaze with illumination. An M-16 went to full automatic, close. Another spewed tracers off to the left. “A lot of rock ‛n’ roll going on now,” said the man behind me. I reached deep down searching for courage or fear, finding neither. I so wanted to be a part of this—to belong. But I felt nothing. Then the light began to fade. Four silhouettes in the distance moved left-to-right. “He was kidding about the snakes, right?” someone whispered. “What if—” “Shut the fuck up, man!” another said. Tat-tat-tat … pop-pop-pop. My friend’s face reemerged from the darkness. “Can you see anything?” he asked. “No.” What’s the chance of someone tossing a grenade in here? Ten percent, twenty percent … fifty percent? Will I even see it coming in? Maybe. Just then, two shadowy figures darted past our bunker. My friend shrank back into the shadows. What the hell. “Who’s that?” “Charlie.”