[i]“Good. Nice shootin’ there, Private.”[/i]

Chris jerked his head in a nod at the Sergeant’s praise. For a moment he thought that Davis meant his execution of the wounded VC but he realized he meant in the firefight. Breathing out, he relaxed slightly, the young private watching the others gather the goods. God, he wanted a cigarette, even better one of the joints he had secreted among the menthol Kools. Mellowing out sounded good after the mad rush of adrenaline but they still had a long way to go. As he took a drink from his canteen he heard the Sarge’s announcement of the Doc’s death. 

He sighed, putting away his water to resist drinking it all. Chris looked at the body of the big man, it seemed so much more real than the scattered corpses of the enemy. Poor dude bought it. Chris felt a moment of relief, that it had not been him. No bullet had his name on it during that fight. Taking off his helmet, he rubbed a hand through his sweaty hair. Glancing at the others he could see the strain in their faces but he was glad to be with them. Everyone seemed to have their shit wired tight and he was the most cherry of them all. With Davis leading them, they could make it out of this green hell, maybe even by the end of the day. 

At the orders, he fell in line behind Davis, grateful to finally be allowed to use the radio. With a grin, he set his helmet back in place, hooking the M-16 over his shoulder as he began to check frequencies. Static hissed and clicked but nothing was caught, it could be the jungle. Chris fussed with the antenna while he walked, but none of the presets worked.

“Bummer,” he said, hearing nothing he could zero in on as he checked the channels. “Might be outta range, Sarge. Or too low.”

Chris had a long range antenna and could attach it though it would make him a nice target. It had a range of 18 miles and could deal with the elevation better than the standard short range. His battery was still good and he kept spares in an ammo can. The handset always worried him though, the surfer kept it wrapped in plastic, rubberbanded at the bottom to keep the moisture out of the sensitive microphone. Listening to the squeaks and white noise, Chris reached back to get the long antenna out.