Target, page 24
Banks was at Bradley’s side when the colonel turned. The sergeant squinted up: the sun was almost obscured beyond the overhanging foliage. “It’ll be darker when the others get here; they’ll be less able to see things than we were.”
Bradley nodded, pleased with the concern. While the men were reassembling their packs, he radioed the map position of the river and the tree crossing, giving a warning of the crocodile infestation.
Bradley had determined on 1600 as camp-setting time, so he occupied the interval insisting that the soldiers with him identify edible fauna and water-producing plants which might be useful in the event of severe survival conditions. The advance unit contacted him fifteen minutes before the designated time, giving him the location of the camp site, and Bradley arrived ahead of time. It was an excellent site, a high rock outcrop to give them back cover and matted, almost impenetrable jungle on two sides. The men waited, expecting praise. Instead Bradley harangued them for leaving the trail at the river edge, glad of the opportunity to show some annoyance; he’d balanced the demands of an arduous day with politeness and now it was time to swing the pendulum again, let them know that he was harder-assed than any of them and would not put up with any bullshit.
They were approaching the outermost edge of the marshes and the ground was soft and spongy underfoot. By cats-cradling a series of linking lines, they were able to erect hammocks which would keep them dry and safe from snakes. It was almost dark when the rear guard arrived: Bradley had posted camp guards, of course, and was pleased that one recognized the other and that neither had the advantage of surprise.
“A problem,” announced the first soldier, immediately after he entered the camp. Promulka, remembered Bradley: third generation Pole, from the steel area of Pittsburg. If a difficulty were to arise with the Russians, Promulka would be in the forefront, he guessed.
“What?”
“A nesting crocodile.”
“What happened?”
“Attacked just before we got across the clearing,” said the second man. His name was Sweetman, Bradley knew. Silver and purple heart in Vietnam and arrived home in Kansas to find his wife in bed with his brother. He’d broken both her legs as well as those of the man.
“We had to kill it,” said Promulka, “Short burst — I don’t think anyone would have heard.”
“What about the carcass?” demanded Bradley.
“Opened it up and put it into the river,” said Sweetman. “We saw the other crocodiles attack.”
“So unless the noise was heard, we’re OK?”
“We think so,” said Sweetman. “We waited around for about an hour after we crossed. There was nothing.”
Bradley nodded, accepting the report. It created an uncertainty and he was a man who did not like uncertainties. But he was a realist, too. It was the only setback, so far. And hardly even a setback: he had little cause for concern.
“We didn’t locate the mess tins,” said Promulko, unthinkingly adding to Bradley’s confidence.
“Let’s hope we can conceal them as successfully tonight,” said the colonel.
Denied the use of any light, they had to eat and assemble their bedrolls before nightfall. They used the self-heating tins again, lamb this time, buried them and then prepared to rest. Bradley established a three-hour guard rota. The mosquitoes were already swarming, so those who were to remain out of their sleeping bags put on the special head and hand nets, in addition to the repellant that they smeared on every exposed part of their bodies. Those getting into the hammocks covered their skins as well and then assembled over their sleeping bags the second mosquito nets with which they were equipped, long gauze strips that encased them like cocoons. They were impossible to zip without trapping some of the insects and for almost an hour after they had settled down, there was the sound of shifting, grunting men trying to kill something that had got inside the netting.
They were highly trained professionals, engaged on an operation and so none of them slept in the accepted sense of the word. Those unaffected by the changes were aware anyway of every guard rotation and of every jungle movement of anything larger than a bird or a monkey. It didn’t rain, but the deepening coldness of the night after the heat of the day caused a build-up of condensation, so there was the constant drip and splash of water from the leaves and the vines. Towards dawn there was a sudden death scream of an animal, and everyone was immediately alert; Bradley counted six safety catches being released, but he guessed he had miscounted; there should have been more. It was another predawn, cold food rising. Everyone was very wet and showed signs of the insect attacks during the night; Logan had a bite at the very tip of his nose and the swelling gave him a strange, almost clownlike appearance.
Bradley knew that their progress would not be as good as on the previous day. The approaching swamps meant they had to be cautious of water snakes and crocodiles and also of the lake Africans, who lived from the contents of the water. The swamp grass and reeds were very high, taller than a man, and false-bottomed; what appeared to be firm ground was often just matted roots, with maybe a foot of water beneath. Although they were groping along, it was more arduous than the force marching. The reeds seemed to blanket the heat about them and the insects swarmed around them in clouding mists of flying things: Bradley felt a sting near his left eye and realized after a few moments that the lid was swelling closed. He kept squinting anxiously behind, aware of the marked path they were creating but unable to disguise it as they had on firmer ground.
He wanted to call a halt, but knew it would be pointless just to stop and stand knee deep in water. So he urged them on, towards any one of the islands that the maps had marked as uninhabited. It was nearly midday before they got to one. Bradley was suddenly aware, above the reeds, of a scrappy tree-line, and gestured for caution. The Africans sometimes grazed their stock on the islands and occasionally a cattle-minder or a goathered camped alongside. He sent Sweetman to reconnoiter. The rest stood patiently in the water, seeming vaguely self-conscious, as if aware how odd they looked. Because they were so still they heard the splash. It was Banks who saw the snake first, first as he had been the one to see the crocodile. He pointed, without speaking. It was S-bending through the water, at an angle which would bring it very close to the soldier at the rear — Promulka, Bradley saw. The Pole waited, the M-15 ready.
“Knife,” ordered Bradley softly, to Banks who was standing behind him. The sergeant passed the message down the line. Without taking his eyes from the approaching snake, Promulka slung the rifle and unsheathed his knife from alongside the pack. Bradley knew the weight would unbalance the man, making it difficult for him to move quickly enough. Promulka spread his free hand, ready to make the grab. And then the snake changed course. It probably wouldn’t have, but Sweetman returned from the island and as he moved through the water he created a rippled wash which caught the snake and deflected it sideways, so that it passed two feet beyond where Promulka stood ready, and disappeared into the reeds. There were no theatrical gestures of relief from any of the unit.
“Dry,” reported Sweetman. “Lot of mosquitoes but nothing else to worry us. Not a great deal of cover. Saw some evidence of defoliation.”
They pushed on, bending low as they began finding the rising, drier ground, so that they would not appear as moving objects above the skyline. It was a squat nipple of land, at its peak hardly more than six feet above the water; during the rains it would be submerged, Bradley knew. The acacia were stunted bushes but they provided cover. The group examined the ground more thoroughly than Sweetman had done, making sure it was safe before settling themselves. They automatically removed their boots and socks, dried their feet and then powdered them against infection. Bradley allowed cigarettes to burn the leeches off their legs and went from man to man, examining the insect bites. Jordan, a Marine who came from the Bronx and was among the oldest of the unit, had a badly swollen face. By some odd irony, the other worst affected was the youngest, a man named Krantz. Bradley’s vision was obscured because of the bite over his eye, so from the medical kit he broke out three histamine injections. He gave one each to Jordan and Krantz, then administered one to himself to reduce the swelling. With the pack still open before him, Bradley counted the twenty inoculations left. Banks carried a duplicate supply: Bradley knew he had underestimated the insect problem and hoped what they had would be sufficient.
He sat, waiting for the drug to take effect and ease the tightness from his skin. The sun was almost directly overhead, thrusting down upon them, but because they were still wet the discomfort was not an immediate problem. Bradley checked their compass position against his map, estimating that they were about four miles from the meet-up point. Midday he saw, from his watch. It wouldn’t be easy, arriving on time. Aware of the colonel’s eye difficulty, Banks was using the field-glasses.
“Cattle on another island, about two miles away,” he said. “No sign of any Africans with them. Way over by the horizon there appears to be a group of fishermen. They’re too far away to see us. Defoliation on the shore-line to the west.”
He lowered the glasses, looking to Bradley. “Known pleasanter places,” he said.
“They’re holding up well,” praised Bradley, looking at the soldiers spread out in the sun; their combat uniforms were drying in cardboard-like, filth-covered stiffness.
“Still early days,” said the sergeant cautiously. “I wonder if the Russians have had it easier.”
“Certainly drier,” said Bradley. He raised his voice, to the other soldiers. “Eat now. We’re moving out in thirty minutes.”
There was movement among the men for their ration packs.
Banks nodded in the direction of the fishermen it was not possible to see with the naked eye. “There won’t be a shortage of food, once we establish a camp,” he said.
“Food isn’t my concern when we establish camp,” said Bradley.
“It isn’t going to be easy, is it?” said Banks.
“I meant what I said,” warned Bradley. He looked again towards the soldiers: they’d all finished eating and were assembling their packs. “Don’t let them forget for a moment that we’re going to be the better group.”
“I won’t let them forget,” promised Banks.
A fog of insects swirled about them when they pushed back into the reeds, seemingly unaffected by the repellant they smeared on themselves. Krantz put his head-net on and looked like an armed beekeeper. Things moved and splashed in the grasses around them; snakes became a common sight, none near enough to cause any concern. Once Banks jerked away from what he thought to be a crocodile; it revolved at the sudden movement, proving to be a bulk of wood. The smell of the mud they disturbed rose about them, a stink of rot and decay.
To gain speed, Bradley ventured to the very edge of the swamp, to the harder ground, sending Sweetman and Logan ahead to scout for any African settlements. Despite the easier going, they were still half a mile short of the coordinate at the scheduled meeting time. Bradley tried to suppress his annoyance, recognizing it as irrational. Most commanders would have boasted at such an achievement, he knew.
The vanguard halted at the compass bearing he had given them, and by the time the main body caught up they had located a waterpool. It was almost stagnant, scummed over the top and clustered with water-flowers. They cleared it as much as they could, stripped and washed themselves in the brackish water. Because of the insect bites, Bradley decreed battery-operated electric rather than wet razors, not wanting to risk infection in even the smallest cut or abrasion. They changed their uniforms and repacked, standing while Bradley checked the webbing. It took fifteen minutes.
Bradley moved the unit out in the same formation that he had employed on the acclimatization march: vanguard, rear guard and main body between.
“If they’re there, I want to surprise them,” he ordered flatly. “Let’s start as we intend to continue.”
It was another exercise, but this time there was a different determination. They were alert to everything, easing their way through the matted undergrowth with hardly any disturbance, using hand signals to communicate, to reduce noise to the minimum.
A hundred yards short of the coordinate they stopped completely, to allow Logan and Sweetman, who were in the lead, to scout the terrain thoroughly. It was a thick, overgrown area of jungle, creepers and vines latticed overhead, making the forest floor twilight dark. Giant fern and broad-leafed sucker plants grew taller than a man, and the birds and monkeys blurred among them, their colors muted by the gloom.
It was Sweetman who came back. “It’s very thick,” he said. “And dark. But it looks as if we got here first.”
Bradley re-checked the compass reading, to ensure he had the correct location. “Let’s move up and dig in,” he said. There wasn’t any annoyance now — just satisfaction.
It was so dark that Bradley was almost upon Logan before he saw the soldier.
“Bitch of a place,” said Logan.
Bradley was turning to the rest of the group when the movement came. It happened so quickly that Bradley later realized they must have practiced the ambush several times to perfect the timing. The Russians just seemed to appear, so unexpectedly that Bradley jumped, involuntarily. They had dug in on three sides, covering the trenches with the topsoil that had been lifted with the care of a gardener cutting turf. The emplacements were expertly positioned, putting Bradley’s team in the middle of a triangular field of fire. None of them would have survived the initial burst, Bradley accepted.
Sharakov emerged from the trench to Bradley’s right; his combat fatigues were glued with mud and his face was filthy.
“You’re dead,” said the Russian. He was smiling, very pleased with the trap.
Bradley was glad of the semi-darkness: it would prevent the Russian from detecting the redness of anger suffusing his face.
“Bang! Bang!”
Sharakov jerked around at the shouts. Banks and Promulka, who had formed the rear guard, were lolling against trees either side of the approach path, M-16 rifles crooked in their arms.
“So are you,” Bradley said, to Sharakov.
The Russian’s smile was gone when he turned back to Bradley.
“A draw,” judged Bradley. But it shouldn’t have been; they hadn’t been good enough.
Lucille looked up from the magazine every time someone entered the common room, even though Paul had followed up the telephone call to the duty nurse with a short note of apology for missing the visit. It was an article she wanted to read, about child care, but her eyes kept sliding over the words without understanding and at last she put it aside, accepting that it would be impossible. Without something in her hands, she began to feel self-conscious. After a few minutes she got up, walked slowly from the communal area and started going towards her room. There was an intersection before her door, the corridor leading to the main exit. Without any positive intention, she turned down it, just able to detect the gate-house through the open doors. As she left the hospital block and felt the gravel of the driveway under foot, she began to walk more purposefully, as if she were eager to get to some destination.
“Mrs. Peterson.”
She stopped instantly, her body held in an attitude of guilt. She didn’t look around.
“Mrs. Peterson.”
She moved, reluctantly. Dr. Harrap stood about ten feet away.
“I was just going for a walk,” said the woman defensively.
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t leaving.”
Harrap didn’t say anything.
“I didn’t have any visitors today,” said Lucille — there was a petulance in her voice.
“Your son warned you. Wrote a letter even.”
“Everyone else had visitors.”
“He’s had to go away on a trip. You know that.”
“I’m lonely.”
“You’re the only person who can really help yourself, Mrs. Peterson. We can only show you the way — you’ve got to want to do it.”
“Just a walk,” she insisted.
“Shall we go back inside now?”
She hesitated, and for a moment the doctor was unsure whether she was going to defy him. Then, her feet scuffing through the gravel, she started moving slowly back towards the building.
A thousand miles away, Paul got off the airport bus in Wichita Falls, squinting at the Texas sunlight; men really did wear stetsons and heeled boots, he saw. He hurried out of the depot, Beth’s letter in his hand. Please God, let her still be here, he thought.
