see come leaping at a person, snarling and foaming at the jaws.
The troops could not drink any of the water found in the Tri-states. Dr. Chase had infected it with everything from cholera to forms of anthrax.
There were no finely drawn battle lines in this war; no safe sectors. The Rebels didn’t retreat in any given direction, leaving that area clean. They would pull back, then go left or right and circle around, coming up behind government troops to harass and confuse them, or to slit a throat or two. For the Rebels knew the territory, and they had, for nine years, been training for this. And they were experts at their jobs.
The bloody climax came when the government troops could not even remotely think of taking prisoners; they could not risk a Rebel of any age or sex getting close to them. Then the directive came down the chain of command: total extermination.
For many, this was the first time for actual combat. The first time to taste the highs and lows of war. And there are highs in combat. The first time to take a human life; and all the training in the world will not prepare a person for that moment.
Sometimes in combat, the mind will click off, and a soldier will do the necessary things to survive without realizing he is doing them, or remembering afterward. Rote training takes over.
Fire until you hear the ping or plop of the firing pin striking nothing. Make an easy, practiced roll to one side; quickly slam home a fresh clip; resume firing position, always aiming for the thickest part of the enemy’s body, between neck and waist.
Your weapon is jammed. Clear it. Cuss it. Grab one from a dead buddy. Fire through the tears and the sweat and the dirt.
Sometimes a soldier will fire his weapon until it’s empty and will never reload, so caught up in the heat and the horror of combat is he. Pull the trigger over and over; feel the imaginary slam of the butt against the shoulder; kill the enemy with nonbullets.
The yammering, banging metal against metal makes it difficult to think. So you don’t. The screaming, the awful howling of the wounded and the yelling of the combatants blend into a solid roaring cacophony in your head. An hour becomes a minute; a minute is eternity. God! will it never end? No! don’t let it end; the high is terrific, kind of like a woman moaning beneath you, reaching the climax.
One soon learns the truth: you didn’t climax, you shit your pants.
When did it start raining red? Thick red.
Suddenly, you become indestructible.
A man is crawling on his hands and knees, gathering up his guts, trying to stuff them back into the gaping hole in his belly. He falls on his face, shivers, then screams and dies. Good. At least that shut the son of a bitch up. His guts are steaming in the cool air.
There is the enemy. Shoot him. Bring the rifle to your shoulder, sight him in—God! it’s a
The thought comes to you: how long has it been since you had any pussy?
Shit, man! What a time to be thinking of that!
Turn to say something to your best buddy, just a yard from you in a ditch. Discover that what you thought was red rain is really blood. A lot of blood. He’s still alive, but the blood is really gushing out… in long spurts. You want to be sick, but here is no place to be sick; not enough time to be sick. Besides, you’d have to lie in it. You smell the stink of shit. Realize it’s your shit—in your pants.
Your eyes smart from the smoke of battle and the sting of sweat. Wipe your face and dig at your eyes with shaky hands. You’d better get your shit together, ‘cause here comes the enemy, almost on top of you.
There is that dude from Bravo Company, the one you never really liked ‘cause he used to brag about all the pussy he got. He won’t get any more. Took a slug right between the eyes; all that yuk leaking out.
Abruptly, too quickly, the enemy is all around you and you’re mixing it hand-to-hand. This is stupid! The enemy looks just like you. His mouth is open, his eyes are wide with a combination of fear and excitement, and he is dirty and smells bad. Just for the smallest of a split second your eyes meet. Each brain sends the same message: This guy is going to kill me!
You’re off your knees (How did I get on my knees? What the fuck was I, praying?) and out of the ditch. Your legs support you. Shaky, but you’re going to be all right. You’re going to make it. You’re going to live!
Squeeze the trigger. Goddamn it! the weapon’s empty. Slam the butt of your rifle into his balls and he screams and doubles over, puking. Bring the butt down hard on his neck, hear the neck pop. He’s through. A fresh clip in the weapon. Shoot him to be sure he’s dead.
You turn in a crouch, trying to suck air into your lungs; can’t get enough air. There is another Rebel…. He’s just killed… what’s his name? Guy from third platoon. You notice the strangest things: the Rebel needs a shave. Rush over to him while his back is turned. But it’s almost like slow-motion. Force your bayonet into his back, feeling the hard resistance as the blade pushes through muscle and passes bone. It’s not as easy as in the movies. It’s always so clean and glorious in the movies. Don’t remember fixing the bayonet on the lug. What difference does it make? The Rebel is screaming and jerking and twisting in pain. Oh, shit! The blade is stuck in his back. Christ! Pull the trigger and blast the blade free.
How in the hell did you get on the ground, flat on your back? Am I O.K.? Feel yourself with your hands—timid hands. Jesus, don’t let my balls be gone.
“Get up, you yellow son of a bitch!” a sergeant is yelling. Is he yelling at me? Damn, Sarge, I didn’t get down here deliberately. The sergeant takes a slug in the back. Musta gone right through the spine; he falls funny. You can’t remember his name.
Get to your feet to face the enemy. What is this, a replay? You just did this.
Some guys have captured a woman Rebel; pulling the pants off her. Aw, come on, guys! She’s screaming something while they rape her. That’s not right. We’re not animals, guys.
“Want some pussy, Jake?”
They’re talkin’ to you, stupid. “No.”
Someone is screaming. A Rebel.
“Beg, you mother-fucker!” someone tells him.
“Go to hell!” The Rebel shouts his reply.
The old man has said no prisoners. So the Reb is shot. But he didn’t have to be shot there. He’s screaming.
Look around you. Is it over? Yeah—almost. HolyMotherofGodJesusFuckingChristAlmighty: look at the bodies. All the blood and shit. Oh, God—the sergeant is walking around the area, shooting the wounded Rebs in the head. Someone tells you your squad leader is dead. You were a corporal; now you’re a sergeant. Battlefield promotion. Somehow it doesn’t seem like much of a big deal. You want to say: “But I don’t want it!” Then suddenly there is a .45 in your hand and you’re stepping through the gore and the pain and the moaning and the .45 is jumping in your hand, ending the screaming.
No prisoners.
On either side.
That woman Reb is still screaming. They’re hurting her. “Fuck her up the ass!” someone shouts, laughing. “Get a little brown on your pole.”
You walk away from the sight and sounds. You could stop them; you’re a sergeant; but you don’t want to lose face with the men, not this early in your promotion. What the hell? She’s only a Rebel. The enemy.
Now the enemy is dead as you walk through the near-quiet battleground. But that woman is still screaming way back there, across the meadow. Wish to hell she’d shut up.
A Rebel is still alive, shot hard in the chest. He’s looking up at you, defiance in his eyes. You shoot him in the head.
Look… don’t blame me. I’m just following orders.
Now, all the enemy is dead, and it’s too quiet. Somebody say something. But everybody you look at averts their eyes. Guys are breathing too hard; somebody tosses his breakfast, puking on the ground. Someone else is
