Short Story

Since I am not getting a lot of feedback from my workgroup in creative writing, I am posting my story here to see if I can get some critiques elsewhere. This is a true story. Please let me know what you think.

Friendly Fire

John Fields and I have been together since grade school. Inseparable since childhood, we’ve joined at the hip like Siamese twins. Back home in California he lived across the street from me throughout our childhood; our parents still live there on that same, unchanging inner city cul-de-sac. We even enlisted into the Army together. We finished basic training 6 months before my 20th birthday. The night we graduated we sat together upon my bunk, legs crossed Indian style and facing each other.

We each pulled out a razor sharp knife that had been freshly cleaned and drug in across each of our palms, one at a time. I held out my hand and John clasped it tightly. We pressed our cut palms together, held them tightly and declared our blood oath to each other, and to God himself in the dead of the night. Our oath echoed through the barracks and hung in the air, the pronounced words heavily laden with loyalty “My brother, my brother, in life and death. We will make it out of Vietnam. To come back home together or never.” The next day we shipped out, to the bowels of hell itself. The Ho Chi Minh Trail waited eagerly to greet us, greedily anticipating the fresh new men that would soon be sent to suckle from its breast of death.

I have two dog tags that hang from a cold silver chain around my neck. My name glimmers in response to the moon on the embossed tag, Charles Bright it reads. My social security number befriends my name on the next line, followed by my blood type and religion. These lifeless pieces of metal will be my identification if I die in this satanistic version of Eden. I can hear the loud thumping of my chest in my ears so loud I swear that the booming of my panic will be heard by the Viet Cong. I can smell my own fear as the sweat rolls down my face, or are they tears? Can a body sweat tears?

The Captain’s orders sent us to this foxhole off to the side of the Ho Chi Minh Trail. We are less than a klick away from the boarder of Laos. We have been under heavy fire all day and now into sunset. The beautiful sunsets of gold and red are amazingly deceptive. A sense of peace comes with the setting sun, but it is an illusion. Death comes with the setting sun in Vietnam. The Viet Cong wait for the cloak of night to hide themselves. They know this landscape like the back of their hand while we are the strangers and unwelcome. I haven’t slept in at least 24 hours and my body is complaining to me through the dull aching in my bones. Everything hurts, even my hair hurts. I bury my face in the mud as bullets race past my head. Those crazy bullets that scream as they fly through the air keep me so jumpy. I feel as though I could jump right out of my own skin.

The black of night surrounds us, engulfing all that can be seen. Ignited Napalm scorches the sky in colors of red and orange. American soldiers are blown in all directions, littering the floor with their charred flesh. The screams of young soldiers are deafening to the ears as their lungs erupt in their bodies. John and I crouch down low in a foxhole trying desperately to blend our bodies into the thick cocoon of mud that encases us. John bent his head, touching his chin to his chest. I could barely hear him with all the heavy gun fire overhead. “Charlie” he hissed through clenched teeth, “Are we gonna die here?” “I dunno man” I quipped. My eyes darted back and forth, watching men run like scurrying rats. The image before me was in perfect harmony with my racing thoughts.

John angled his body in my direction, “Charlie, get to my left man”. John reaches his right arm across my back and clenches my right shoulder, tugging me as he speaks. I pull my rifle closer to me and tuck the base under my left arm. Before I can utter a word, John begins to slither his body over mine like a snake. John’s right boot digs into my left ankle as he tries to get his footing and throw his body over. I smear the mud away from my eyes with the backside of my right hand, trying to clear my vision from the sludge that had taken refuge there. John’s weight falls upon my back as his face buries itself in my uniform.

John's body lay across my back, his body motionless on top of me as I squirm underneath him. “John get off me man, move your ass” I yell as I gasp for breath. John doesn't respond, doesn't answer. I tuck my legs underneath me and haul myself up onto my knees. I lift my back straight up and John rolls down my body like a sack of uncooked rice. I turn to face him as fear creeps up my spine in cold icy waves.

John’s body lay distorted in the mud at my feet. The skin of his face portrays an etching of surprise as he stares at me with lifeless eyes. Dead. Death poures from his head in red waves underneath his brown locks of hair, flowing to the earth like an erupting volcano. I try to scream but there is only silence. I look right. I look left. Realization attackes me like a jilted lover, beating me with what has actually happened. I feel the sledgehammer that blasts me in my stomach with no mercy as I gasp for air. There is no oxygen left of the planet for me to breathe. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the billowing smoke coming from the barrel of my gun. It is my gun. My fault. I blink at the stinging tears that prick at my eyes. My mouth gapes open as my jaw drops.

John’s lightless eyes keep staring at me. I turn my head to the left once more to see the smoke rise from the barrel and drift up into my nose All I can smell is that smoke from my gun and the strong stink of blood all around me. God sends no wind to cleanse the air and save my senses from my sin. The sin of friendly fire.