Toms head broke the surface, the momentum of the rapid ascent ballon ripping him torso and up out of the water and casting him rag doll to the side. From a glance it might have looked like he was trying to imitate a breaching whale. His hands grasped out at nothing to steady himself in the water and his mouth gaped for breath, instinctively he grasped the sides of the mask and twist-tore it off and away. The first gasp of fresh salted air hit the bottom of his lungs and he coughed and sputtered into the water, helmet bobbing lazily besides him, still attached by the air-hose. He took a moment between gagging coughs to scan around in the darkness and find the coast guard ship.
The night was still going strong, the clouds still hung low and heavy from the nor’easter that borne them, occasional distant flashes of lighting snaked across the sky for a moment. Stars were trying to sift through the low ceiling, the night breeze tasted sweet. Off at about a hundred meters, the coast guard vessel drifted idly. From the deck Tom could see three spotlights scanning the water, searching for anything to surface. His upper body leaned forward to begin swimming when he suddenly felt his guts jolt violently up into his spine.
Paul felt his head collide with something dense.
The heavy plastic and aluminum respirator mask seemed to buckle and crush the top of his head and he saw stars. His arms flailed off to the sides and the buoyancy of his equipment kept him looking like a half passed out kid on a pool noodle. Paul thought he could see stars, then was sure he could see stars, and then felt very weak. Tom resurfaced beside him, his abdomen sore and aching in a dull pulsing sort of pain, his eyes raced to his brothers. Paul felt himself being shaken and tried to keep his eyes open but he felt so sleepy and his head hurt so much, all he wanted was a little rest.
Tom saw past his brothers head to the “E” reading on his air tanks. In a fury Tom grasped both sides of Pauls mask and tried to wrench it free without luck. He planted his knee into the side of Pauls rigging and tried to twist it away, but it was useless, the helmet respirator was damaged and jammed in place. Panicking and without any options left, Tom barked out for help and grabbed his brothers drag collar with one hand while back stroking with other. His abdomen screeched in pain at once. Teeth flashed in defiance of the agony and he peddled his legs to give him every bit of strength he could use to pull his brothers limp body to the boat.
With each grasping motion into the water, Tom could hear Parkers words coming from a far off place in his head. The searching spotlights had all centered on the approaching brothers. Parkers voice grew louder and far back in Toms mind old memories rushed into the forefront.
The jungle was a cruel and careless place. The rains would rot clothes off bodies. The leeches would drop from trees onto any exposed skin. The smells would betray locations of ambushes if carried on the winds in the wrong way. Vietnam was a hard place. It was day six of a week long patrol into the bush to seek and destroy Viet Cong fighters. The entire excursion felt like chasing ghost stories; for many of the new kids they were beginning to think the whole war was just wandering around the jungles and being sweaty. Veterans knew better.
The winds shifted. The K9 at the front of the patrol stiffened, nose and tail outstretched in the alert, her handler knelt next to her and squinted into the green foliage ahead before hissing for the column to halt. Quietly, 50 boys from no name parts of the US laid into the mud leaving detailed imprints of their bodies. A young and terrified lieutenant Cole crouch walked up to the lead squad and peered into the bush. Moments passed and the whisper worked down the line, “guns up”.
Bounding up from the middle of the platoon came the gigantic 18 year old Tom from Maine, M60 bouncing across his chest, cradled closely to his heart. The boy slammed himself down into the muck beside his 22 year old sergeant, both of them gazing expectantly into the bush. The older Marine with “Parker” stenciled into the back of his helmet cover, slowly reached a black hand forward pointing to a felled tree, silently directing attention. Tom followed the point and spied a deep shadow beneath heavy timber resting lengthwise. Carefully, the pair crept forward body length by body length. When sergeant Parker was sure they were in the right spot he signaled for Tom to push out the M60 bipod and shoulder the light machine gun. A twig just out of sight ahead snapped.
The world ripped itself apart.
Bullets passing within a few feet of ears makes a loud cracking noise, the result of a rapidly collapsing air pocket its the wake. There was a volley many bullets fired squarely at the pair. Tom instinctively pushed his face into the mud for cover but immediately felt Parkers hand grasp the visor of his helmet and pull his face upright.
“Shoot back, asshole.” If Parker had been angry at Tom he hadn’t shown it. Dutifully and with all the discipline he could muster the young white kid from Maine, an all state wrestling champ, began squeezing the trigger and sending streaking red and yellow tracers into the shadow beneath the felled tree. Parker was the chief and Cole was the captain in the platoon. The only black sergeant Tom had ever met. The platoon sergeant was one part wise man and one part slave driver, hounding the boys to keep up, being the fussy mom if they didn’t fill their canteens with enough water before patrol.
Parker and Tom had gotten along quickly, both coming from hard frontier backgrounds, Tom from timberlands in the norther and Parker from orange groves in the south. Hard work and few words were all the value they carried to show their worth and Parker had quickly grown to rely on Tom’s strength to haul the M60 quickly in a brawl. The sergeant was greatful for the young man’s focus.
Behind the pair, Cole had rallied and organized the rest of the platoon in a sweep that moved out fast and laid waste to the Viet Cong machine gun from a flank. The chaos had lasted three minutes, nearly two thousand rounds had been fired. Tom looked down at the hissing and ticking M60, reminded of a freshly turned-off engine, and kissed the cheek rest before turning to look at Parker and laugh. Parkers face was straight down in the mud, still taking cover.
Tom gave a cautious nudge and nothing happened. Pushing Parker over to his back exposed a single heavy stain that spread steadily over his olive drab shirt. Tom shouted for the corpsman, the Marines’ medic. Parkers wide brown eyes stared emptily into the canopy high above, color draining from his lips. Struggling against the weight of his M60 and hauling his sergeant, Tom scrambled backwards, scooping Parker up under the arms. As Parker was hoisted up in Toms wide arms the sergeant from Seffner Florida, who had grown up in the Jim Crow south and answered the call when his country drafted him, spoke his last words softest and closed his eyes for good. Tom only stopped shouting for the corpsman long enough to hear his sergeants final orders.
“Take care of the boys, Gerrier. Get them back home and out of this. Don’t let your brother into this shit…keep him going…”
Tom groaned with every straining muscle he could, hauling Paul toward the Coast Guard cutter. He had told Cole before they set out that he made a promise. He would keep it or he would tell Parker why he couldn’t.