One Price

We were on patrol, moving along the narrow path near Cerro El Pital. The jungle was thick, and the air was close.

There was a stream, not much more than a trickle. It was ankle-deep, fifteen feet across.

We crossed and came up behind a hut. The Skipper signaled to stop.

He crouched and called one of the grunts over. “Go check it out.”

The grunt went in. A minute passed. The man came out and walked straight to the Skipper.

He broke a rule. You keep fifteen, twenty feet in the open. He got too close.

As he spoke, he looked back. He saw something above the doorframe. A wire. An antenna.

He pointed before thinking. That was the second rule. Never point. It shows direction. It shows authority.

Then the gunfire came.

A round took him in the back. The Skipper went down–chest wound.

A grenade launcher cracked from the other side of the hut. The other column had made contact.

The grunt was on the ground, calling out. “Corpsman.”

I ran.

“The Skipper,” he said.

He knew.

I dragged the Skipper’s body into the ditch as the AKs started again, chewing the hut to pieces. The grunt, on his knees, took a round in the thigh.

I grabbed him and pulled him into the ditch. Blood was pumping. I tied a tourniquet tight. He was shaking. I kept talking to him, singing cadence songs. I don’t know if it helped.

Then someone was yelling—choppers.

“It’s time,” I said.

It hovered, not landing. Fifty feet away. Hauling and inside, I climbed in after. We lifted off, overweight and full of wounded.

Two days later, I checked Sick Call.

He was gone.

I went back to work. Another patrol. Another trip outside the wire.