THERE BE DRAGONS

by Peter Hallett

  Jacobs and Stephens duck-walked from the jungle to Diaz. They both knelt behind him and Diaz pointed up the trail. They saw the animal.

  “That, LT, is the Vietnamese domesticated buffalo,” said Stephens.

  “So, we’re close to the village?” asked Jacobs.

  “No doubt. Do you smell that?” asked Stephens.

  “I smell something. Not sure what it is,” said Jacobs.

  “That’s camphorwood and the scent of dirty gook. The dinks use the wood for cooking fires,” said Stephens.

  “I see smoke up that hill. The village must be on the high ground,” said Diaz.

  “I can see something else now,” Stephens said. “Just beyond the buffalo. It’s a silhouette of a man. He’s leaning on a hoe. Must be a peasant.”

  “I guess it’s a good sign he hasn’t run off to warn the others in the village about us, right?” asked Jacobs.

  “Maybe, LT. Or maybe he doesn’t see us. Either way, never let your guard down around these people. They might be civilians but they’re still zipper-heads,” said Stephens.

  “I’ll be sure to not do, Stephens,” said Jacobs with a nod. “Okay Diaz, start us up the hill.”

  Diaz stood and started the walk up the trail. He kept to one side of it, near the jungle’s edge. Jacobs and Stephens followed on as the rest of the men started to emerge from the tree

  line.

  First was Cage with Maxwell.

  Maxwell took pictures of the buffalo ahead.

  “Don’t get in the way up there,” Cage said to him.

  “Don’t worry. You won’t even know I’m here.”

  Jackson was next out, the M-60 rested on his shoulder.

  Teacher jogged to his side. Teacher’s arm was now out of the sling but his sleeve had been cut off. He had bandages over the bullet wound.

  “Does it hurt to run, with your injured shoulder and all?” Jackson asked.

  “Not if I’m careful and don’t stomp too hard. You got a smoke, Jackson?”

  Jackson removed one from the pack on his helmet.

  Teacher took it, lit it, and inhaled. “You know, I didn’t smoke before I got here.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that from heaps of guys,” said Jackson.

  “Did you smoke before getting here?”

  “If you ever meet my mom, I didn’t smoke before, I don’t smoke now.”

  “You’re a very naughty boy, Jackson.”

  “Terrible.”

  The Doc waved the smoke that came over Teacher’s shoulder from his face and coughed. “Could you direct that smoke somewhere else, Private?”

  “Yeah, sure, Doc. I’ll somehow harness the power of the wind and change its direction for you.” Teacher looked to Jackson, they smiled. Then he took another drag and made sure the smoke blew in the Doc’s direction.

  “Very mature, Teacher. You really are a grade-A asshole,” said Doc.

  Buttons joined the Doc. “Give him a break,” he said towards Teacher.

  “You his boyfriend now, Buttons?” asked Teacher.

  “Just cut him some slack. Or maybe if you get shot up, the Doc won’t be so fast to rush to help you.”

  Teacher turned around and blew smoke in Buttons’s face. He stopped Buttons and the Doc from walking forward by placing his shotgun across their chests. “Don’t say stuff like that. Don’t joke about stuff like that. Okay, Buttons?”

  “Or what?” asked Buttons. Nerves affected his voice’s pitch. It went higher than usual.

  “Or maybe I’ll miss the enemy with my 12-gauge and hit you by mistake. Then your boyfriend can give you mouth to mouth.”

  Smith brushed by Teacher and made sure he made contact with his wounded arm.

  Teacher turned to see the back of Smith as he walked up the trail. “Watch it. You hit my bad arm, asshole.”

  “I know,” said Smith.

  Stephens walked back down the trail. He passed by Smith and gave him a stern look. He stopped at Teacher, Doc, and Buttons.

  “Will you ladies shut up and move? Jacobs is getting sick of the noise you’re making. I don’t blame him. It’s beginning to annoy me too. And you don’t wanna do that. Stay focused, all of you. We’re entering the rats’ cage here.” Stephens turned and left.

  The men started walking up the trail again. They kept quiet.

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” Jacobs said once Stephens was back by him.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  They reached the top of the hill.

  The civilian was still leant on his hoe. He had watched their entire approach and hadn’t moved an inch. He was old, painfully thin, and wore the black pajama-type clothes. He looked Diaz in the eye as the private neared him.

  Diaz said something to the old man in Vietnamese and nodded at him. The man said nothing back, nor did he return the gesture.

  Jacobs walked passed the old man. “I get the feel of the reaper from him,” he said to Stephens. “Something is off. That man is scary somehow. His silence and stillness are unsettling. He doesn’t seem intimidated by foreign soldiers.”

  “You’re right. I sense something is wrong too,” said Stephens. “I bet they’re hiding something.”

  In the village, the squads fanned out through the thatched hooches and passed by more civilians.

  Some of the villagers ignored the soldiers and continued their daily routine, while others just stood still and watched.

  Diaz almost tripped over a small child who was running around. The child’s mother snatched the kid away and held him to her leg. Diaz smiled to them and said something else in Vietnamese.

  Some of the buildings had been reinforced with rusted American C ration boxes. Each hooch had a tall pottery jar full of water by its entrance. The village smelt of rotten fish.

  Jacobs could hear the panicked babbling of Vietnamese children and women and the grunts of pigs and cackles of hens all around him. “Search the village,” he said as he came to a stop at its center. “See what they’re hiding.”

  Diaz went and stood by the LT. “You noticed anything?”

  “Yeah,” said Jacobs. “No younger men, only older ones and women, and kids.”“Got a family bunker here, LT!” shouted Stephens. He was in a hooch. “I found it on the floor. It’s been dug under a dirt mound and the entrance has been covered with round woven baskets. They use these to protect the occupants from marauders of all nationalities … or to hide NVA swine.”

  He pushed the baskets aside with the barrel of his CAR-15.

  Jacobs heard cries flood out from inside the bunker.

  Stephens knelt and peered in the hole. “Okay, get out, now!” he shouted in.

  Nothing happened.

  “Diaz, get over here and flush these rats out,” ordered Stephens.

  Diaz got over and knelt in position by Stephens. He shouted the orders in Vietnamese.

  Some hands appeared in the hole. They showed they were unarmed.

  Diaz and Stephens stood up as a woman and two small children exited.

  “Diaz, take these into the center of the village. Round all the villagers up there,” said Stephens.

  “Yes, Sergeant.” Diaz led the woman and children from the hooch.

  The woman was still crying as shouted at Diaz in foreign, begging.

  Stephens removed a Willie Pete from his webbing. He pulled the pin, threw it in the hole, turned and jogged out the building. The Willie Pete exploded.

  “LT! Sarge!” called Jackson, who stood waist deep in a hole. Around the hole were rice urns that he had pulled from it.

  Jacobs and Stephens moved to stand over the hole and look down at Jackson.

  “Seems like oodles worth of rice,” said Jackson as he pointed at the urns.

  “Yeah, too much,” said Stephens. “Enough to feed a slope army. Open up the floor under your feet.”

  Jackson pounded his boot down into the wood he stood on. He broke through and removed the smashed pieces from the hole. They landed near the urns.

  Under
the floor was a storage compartment. It was covered in bamboo and plastic waterproofing.

  Jackson pulled the protective top off.

  They saw AKs, SKS carbines, RPG launchers, and bundles of fresh NVA uniforms.

  “Okay, Jackson. Create an inventory, let’s report this find,” said Jacobs. “Then we rig this stuff for demo.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jacobs and Stephens walked from Jackson and back to the center of the village.

  They saw Smith and Teacher as they kept the villagers under control with pokes from their rifles when they had moved too far from the cluster of people. Diaz still spoke to the woman they had pulled from the bunker. She had stopped crying but now the children took up the slack. Maxwell circled the whole scene, taking pictures with his camera.

  “Buttons, go help Jackson,” ordered Stephens.

  The RTO sighed and walked reluctantly to do so.

  “LT, ” continued Stephens, “once Jackson is done, we burn the village. These people are helping the enemy.”

  “Don’t worry, I understand that, Sergeant.”

  “But you still look confused.”

  “I’m not confused by what we must do but by the fact they’re helping the enemy. We’re here fighting and dying for these people. It doesn’t make sense.”

  A small child that carried a can of Coke, which he held out in front of him, walked to the Doc. “GI, drink?” asked the child.

  The Doc smiled and went to take the can.

  As he took it, the young boy removed his hands from the soda and a grenade fell to the ground from the bottom of it.

  No pin.

  The kid ran off.

  Jacobs saw the grenade roll to the Doc’s feet.

  Doc’s eyes went wide and he turned to run.

  The grenade exploded and so did the Doc.

  Jacobs and Stephens ducked down and raised their rifles.

  “What the hell just happened?” shouted Stephens.

  Teacher stood in shock, “Some kid gave the Doc a booby-trapped drink.”

  “Which kid?” asked Stephens as he ran towards the villagers, his rifle sweeping over them.

  “I don’t know,” said Teacher. “Does it matter? Shoot them all, Sarge.”

  Stephens stopped just in front of the villagers and looked through his rifle’s sight. “Ask them who did this, Diaz. Ask them which kid and who gave him the grenade.”

  Jacobs and Jackson ran to stand at either side of Stephens.

  Buttons walked towards the crowd. He stepped over chunks of the Doc.

  Diaz looked to the LT before he spoke.

  Jacobs nodded. Gave him the go ahead.

  Diaz asked the questions.

  He got back responses, lots of them, from many civilians that screamed in his face.

  “Well?” asked Stephens. His grip tightened on his rifle.

  “I’m getting loads of stuff screamed at me! They say they don’t know the kid. No one is saying who gave him the grenade. Some are saying the kid is from another village. It’s hard to make out most of it,” said Diaz.

  “They’re lying.” Stephens spoke through gritted teeth. His knuckles had gone white.

  “What can I do about that?” said Diaz.

  An old man ran from the crowd.

  Stephens saw him and turned his rifle in that direction. He shot the runaway in the back. The villager fell to the dirt. Stephens swung his CAR-15 back at the group. They cried and screamed.

  “That’s it, Sarge. Let’s avenge Doc! Plug all the gook motherf—” Teacher screeched.

  “Keep your mouth shut, Teacher,” ordered Jacobs.

  “Ask them the questions again, Diaz,” said Stephens.

  “What for? They won’t speak now. You’ve got them hysterical,” said Diaz.

  Click.

  Stephens turned back to the dead villager. He saw Maxwell had taken a picture of the body. Stephens lowered his rifle and started to march towards the reporter.

  Maxwell turned to have his face meet the butt of the CAR-15. He fell to the ground, his nose bleeding. It was now bent at an odd angle. Broken for sure.

  Stephens raised his weapon to strike Maxwell again.

  Jacobs grabbed it as he brought it down.

  “Let go, LT.”

  “Have you forgot I’m in charge?” shouted Jacobs.

  “No, but you really need to let go of my rifle.”

  “Are you going to calm down?”

  “Stop fighting it, Jacobs,” started Stephens, “stop fighting the feeling. You can feel the hate in you as much as me. They killed one of our own. They deserve to die. Do as a god would do. Punish these dinks.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” said Maxwell as he wiped the blood from his face.

  “Shut up!” Jacobs and Stephens shouted in unison.

  “Now … let go of my rifle, LT.”

  Bang.

  They turned back to see Teacher had shot a villager, the woman who had been pulled from the bunker.

  Blood from her was soaking into Diaz’s uniform.

  Her children were hugging onto her fallen body among the dust that had been kicked up.

  As Teacher racked the shotgun and expelled the empty cartridge, Diaz charged.

  He tackled Teacher to the ground. Both their weapons fell from them with the impact.

  Diaz mounted Teacher and punched down at him. Left then right, then the same again.

  Teacher had his hands up to cover his face but the blows still got through.

  Jacobs let go of Stephens’s weapon and ran towards the fight.

  Smith stood over the two soldiers as they brawled. He looked like he didn’t know what to do.

  Jacobs grabbed ahold of Diaz by the scruff of his neck and threw him off Teacher.

  Diaz fell on his butt, got to his feet, and started towards Teacher again.

  Stephens held Diaz back. The sergeant was too strong for Diaz to get by.

  He held Diaz back until he had calmed himself and picked up his rifle.

  Teacher got up. “You asshole, Diaz. I’m on your side.”

  “You can’t kill innocent people, Teacher!” Diaz screamed back.

  “Why not? And they ain’t innocent. They’re gooks. And they’re helping the enemy.”

  Jacobs hit Teacher in the gut with his rifle.

  Teacher bent over. The wind was gone from him.

  “Everyone, calm down. That’s an order,” Jacobs said as he turned to look at Stephens and Diaz.

  Diaz nodded at the LT.

  Stephens just looked Jacobs dead in the eye.

  Click.

  They all turned to see Maxwell had taken a picture of them.

  Stephens raised his rifle to his shoulder. “You’ve dug your own grave, reporter. And I’m happy to push you in it.”

  Maxwell gulped.

  Then the thunder came.

  The dragon swooped down.

  Its feet grabbed ahold of Maxwell’s face and the claws dug in. They took off into the air as Maxwell screamed, his legs kicking desperately.

  “You gotta be shitting me,” said Teacher to no one.

  The wind from the flap of the dragon’s wings had taken the helmet off of Jacobs’s head.

  The villagers ran down the trail and across the rice paddy away from the dragon. Some looked over their shoulders every once in a while to check the beast wasn’t following them.

  None of the platoon tried to stop the villagers. They looked on, in shock, at the creature.

  Stephens fired a three-round burst at the dragon.

  He missed.

  “Damn it!” he said as he hit himself in the face out of frustration. He appeared to have settled his anger with the self-harm. He took aim again. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth.

  He fired.

  This time he hit the target. The dragon lost some altitude.

  Maxwell’s hands tried to break the grip the animal had on his face. He held the claws with his fingers and tried to pull free. I
t didn’t work. Blood continued to pour over his pained expression.

  Stephens fired once more. Again the bullets from the burst hit the target and the dragon dropped even lower.

  “Don’t just stand there. Fire!” Stephens screamed at the platoon.

  “What is that thing?” asked Teacher.

  “We can’t all shoot. We might hit Maxwell,” Cage said.

  Jacobs went and stood by Stephens. He took aim with the sergeant and fired. Together they had managed to hit the beast once more. It fell even lower.

  Maxwell lost his grip on the claws from the sudden jolt. As the dragon started upwards again, he got back to work on them.

  The LT and Stephens lowered their aim and fired once more. They hit the dragon in its legs.

  It released its grip on Maxwell and the reporter fell from the dragon, down through the thatched roof of one of the hooches. The impact was hard and the thud was easily heard.

  Jacobs could see his body through the open doorway. There was no movement. He was dead for sure. Jacobs swallowed.

  “Now! Shoot it down!” Stephens hollered.

  The entire platoon brought their weapons to their shoulders.

  A hail of bullets hit the dragon. It shrieked in agony, changed its trajectory and dove towards the men.

  Jackson let out a war cry; he put as much pressure on the trigger of his M-60 as possible. His bullets tore into the face of the dragon.

  The dragon lost control and crashed into the dirt of the village. It had landed in a heap ahead of the platoon. It wasn’t moving and was covered in blood.

  The men started to reload their rifles. Empty magazines fell to the ground with a clatter. New mags got clipped into place and rounds were chambered.

  “Cage,” said Jacobs. “Check that thing is dead.”

  Cage took a deep breath and started to walk forward. He kept his M-16 ready. The Blooper was slung over his shoulder. He checked its position briefly with a quick feel around his back.

  Thunder returned.

  Two dragons swooped down from the rear of the platoon.

  One took ahold of Jacobs by the shoulders and lifted him into the air. He lost his rifle. It fell and hit Smith on the head. Smith stumbled to one knee.

  The other dragon took ahold of Buttons. It grabbed onto his radio and lifted him from the ground. The jolt of the attack also made him lose grip of his rifle. It flew somewhere into the village.