As the echoes died down from the report of gunfire and grenades, one of which he was guilty of, Elijah made sure he was reloaded, then glanced around. Seeing no more movement, he shuddered a bit. Scooting around, he peered into the gory mess that was the cockpit then sighed. "Guess we don't have to scuttle the chopper. The radio is down, and nothing else looks like it's salvageable," he reported. Gingerly he searched the bodies and pulled a couple pistol mags from them, slipping them into a pocket. 

Pulling off his ALICE pack, he opened the top flap and pulled out his boonie hat and put it on. With his pack ratcheted back down he squinted a little. For the moment, he wasn't giving much thought to the situation. It was just another day in Charlie's outhouse. The whole thing was a shit sandwich as far as he was concerned. His hands were shaking a bit, but he felt exhilarated, alive and ready for more. "What's the play, Sergeant. Think we got time to scavenge or we just gonna book it?"

The jungle would be crawling with VC. That much was certain, but he also knew if they just picked a direction and ran for it, they wouldn't get very far. If they stayed at the crash site playing with their dicks for too long, the VC would swarm them like ants, and then it wouldn't matter how many grenades and ammo they had. Right now they had a fair bit of gear strapped to them, but it wouldn't last. The dead, of course, had more. That was why he'd taken a couple mags from the pilots for his pistol. Already he was thinking about putting a grenade in his pocket... just in case it looked like he might wind up in Charlie's hands. One last present from Uncle Sam, right?  Not right now though. Thing's weren't nearly that bad.