The shout for ceasefire sounded far away, even in the barking voice of the Sarge, the sounds muffled in Chris' ringing ears. Giving his head a shake, he slowly rose, rifle still held tight in his hands. It was unreal, they had been unscathed in that hailstorm of bullets. He got to his feet, he had used up an entire magazine and half of another. That left three spares and hell of a lot of jungle between now and whenever they would reach the river and a possible LZ. He watched a few of the others strip weapons and ammo from the cluster of dead so he moved to join them. As he stepped over the log that had saved his ass, he heard a slight rustle and he snapped his head around. Among the underbrush he saw the sandaled foot of a VC pushing away, belly crawling from the scene. Chris glanced over but the Sarge was busy policing the bodies for ammo so he followed. 

Chris pointed his weapon at the wounded man, he could see the leg of the Cong's black pajamas were soaked in blood as the man rolled over. He was well fucked, the white glisten of bone protruding from the man's shin and the odd twist of the lower leg proved that.

"Shit," the surfer muttered, pissed that he was still alive. They stared at each other, bright green eyes and dark slanted ones and Chris realized the man was more of a kid, probably about his age but it was hard to tell with the Vietnamese. He fingered the trigger of his M-16, thinking about Davis' orders to kill any wounded. This dude had to die, he thought, though it's not like he could run away with his leg broken in two. His hands trembled when he saw the guy reach up with his free hand toward his chest. Chris raised his gun but the VC shook his head and took out a chain that hung on his neck. 

"What?" he asked when the dying man jabbered at him in his sing song language. "Shut up, come on, man. I don't want to see that."

Chris held the muzzle of the gun near the man's head as he held up a locket with a faded picture of a pretty girl, likely the dude's girlfriend and he thought of his girlfriend waiting back home. So this Chuck had a sweetheart, didn't they all? Gritting his teeth, he shook his head again, taking a deep breath as he put the muzzle of the rifle close. The wounded Cong reached up feebly as if his hand would stop the bullet. He could not leave him alive, broken leg or no. He could tell his backup where they went or maybe shoot at them. Who knew? Maybe he was the one that shot their chopper down and killed the pilots and crew, killed his buddies Jefferson and Anders. Chris had not allowed himself to think of them and he felt tears sting his eyes. Now was not the time. Glancing over the long grass he could hear the others getting ready to leave. He knew if he asked, the Sarge would do it for him but it was a coward's way out. And his dad at told him not to be a coward. For once he would do what his dad told him.

"Fuck it," he breathed out, "Sorry, Charlie."

Chris fired a single bullet into the man's forehead and he fell back, still clutching the photo. He left him there, picking up an AK 47 and two extra mags he found on another body. Rubbing his eyes under his glasses, he realized he had been crying and he flushed red with embarrassment. No one of the others seemed that upset. Chris covered it up, muttering about bark flying in his eyes as he rejoined them. 

Spotting Davis, he ducked his head, watching where he stepped, "Good to go, Sarge. Prick didn't get touched."