SFC Davis watched his men gather the guns and ammunition with quiet pride as he idly snapped at a can of Cope. They'd performed perfectly, from Derricks and his suppressing fire up to the new guy who'd jumped onto the flanking team without complaint. He smiled to himself, the gesture not quite reaching his eyes, then dug a generous pinch of tobacco from the can and shoved it unceremoniously into his lower lip. 

"Good work, killers," he said, maneuvering the tobacco into position with his tongue and tucking the can away before joining them in their work. Moments later he’d collected an AK and several magazines for himself, tucking the mags into his cargo pockets. He still had a few magazines for his M16, but more rounds was a burden he was happy to carry. 

[i]"Good to go, Sarge. Prick didn't get touched."[/i]

Ryan looked over at Hoffman and nodded, reaching out to slap him on the shoulder.

“Good. Nice shootin’ there, Private.” He gestured to the rest of his men. “That goes for all of you. Well done. Keep fightin’ like this and we’ll get home just fine. Saw worse shit in Korea; these Cong ain’t got shit on Chinese troops. We can handle ‘em.”
 
As he stooped to check another body Ryan caught a flash of Army-issue green, peeking from behind a tree, and he swore as he recognized the second of the new arrivals to his little band of survivors. The big medic lay face down. Ryan grimaced as he turned the body over; a bullet had pierced the front of the big man’s helmet, deforming before it entered his skull. There was a fist-sized hole in the back of his head.

“Son of a bitch…” Ryan sighed, hanging his head, then reached into the man’s fatigues and fished out his dogtags, snapping the chain and tucking them into his breast pocket. He wished they could recover the body, but that simply wasn’t feasible. A dead man was heavy, especially one as big as this, and it would slow them down. He quickly gathered the man’s ammunition and grenades, and paused for a moment looking at his rifle. Everyone already had weapons, and bringing another one would just mean one more thing to carry. At the same time, he was loathe to leave it behind where it would help the enemy. Ryan settled for removing the bolt, shoving it into his pack, then picked up the doc’s med bag and looped it over one shoulder.

He stood and turned to his men.

“Doc’s dead,” he said simply, his voice subdued. He tossed his gear on the ground in front of the men, keeping a magazine and grenade for himself. “Share this out. I’ll carry his bag. Trap a Cong or two, if you like, but leave the doc’s body alone. I won’t blow apart one of our dead, not even to kill a few Vietnamese.”

Ryan spit a thick stream of tobacco juice onto the ground and turned away, leaving his men to it. He let them work for a few moments more, brooding in silence, then waved them over.

“Alright. We need to get a move on.” He nodded at the other tall newcomer, the Irishman. “I’m Sergeant First Class Davis. Welcome to the shit show. The others you can get acquainted with on the move, we ain’t got time for introductions. Good work pitching in when the shit was hot, though. The rest of you; we’re heading the same direction we were before. Gotta find that river, and try to locate a village or something else we can pinpoint our location off of. I’ll take point this round. Barnes, Derricks, Hoffman, put yourselves in the middle like last time. Pope, you take the rear with the new cat and Dodgers. Hoffman, I want you making calls every few minutes. Scan through the frequencies, try and get us in touch with anyone American. Then sound off to me if somebody picks up. Fall in, and let’s move ‘em out.”

Without another word, Ryan set off into the jungle. He moved quickly but carefully, eyes sweeping for hidden dangers.