The new SMG had some sort of green finish on it, and a dead simple safety; you pulled the bolt back and snugged it up into a slot for it. The whole thing was a damn tube, everything real simple. Light and handy.

He had plenty of magazines for it via the supply services of zapped Charlie, and that's what counted. When the Sarge announced that one of their own was zapped and to share out the guy's equipment, he just watched with impassive eyes -- seen a motherfucker wasted in the bush once, and he'd probably see it again before he damn well died. He wanted a Newport, but this was Charlie's bad bush, and he'd heard legends about how the Cong could smell that smoke from a long way off. It probably didn't matter with the gunpowder going, but Barnes found that he was fuckin' well quitting here. All around was Charlie's bush, and he could feel the eyes on the back of his neck. Green everywhere, big ass hills and Charlie. If he weren't fighting for his life, he could grow to appreciate the scenery-- this was something you couldn't get in the goddamn Bronx. It was just too bad that it was Uncle Sam's tour and the guides had AK-47's.

When the Sarge said to trap a Cong, he got the feeling that he was speaking directly to Buck, who had learned how to do that. He didn't waste his own grenades, and used the Russian type the Cong carried instead. There wasn't all the time in the world, but he carefully set it up so the men with the most gear still on them were trapped, making recovering the equipment perilous.

Even so, there was a moment to make an observation to Bobby, quietly, "Yo man, all these VC man, it's only a matter of time before they get wise to us and really start to pile on the numbers." 

Buck didn't have to like their chances in this situation, he just had to keep doing whatever he could to try and make it out alive. Life was sweet, and he didn't want to die in Charlie's fuckin' bush in goddamn Vietnam with boom-boom time on R&R in Subic so close he could taste it.